Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam

by M C Beaton

  "Let's hope it doesn't snow here. That's all we need. I wonder how Lizzie is getting on. She'll have gone to that flat in Norwich. Will she have enough to live on?"

  "She can always get a job. Do you remember the captain said something about her wanting to be a secretary? If she's got shorthand and typing, she should get a job easily, despite her age."

  "Maybe not. It's all -computers these days. Let's not stay away too long."

  "You're worried about your cats. Don't be. They're warm and fed and they've got each other for company."

  As they approached the entrance to the manor-house drive, Charles said, "Let's get out and walk."

  "Why?" grumbled Agatha. "It's freezing and I've walked enough for one day."

  "If the police are about, I don't want them asking me any more questions. At the first sight of a uniform, we're off."

  Still grumbling, Agatha got out of the car. They set off up the drive. "There's a road that leads off into the estate before we reach the house. The gamekeeper's cottage is probably along there," said Charles. "I wonder if Lucy's having a shoot. Waste of good birds if she's not. Pheasant all over the place."

  "I don't think Lucy's the type to have any interest in country sports at all."

  "She could charge good money for it. Look, there's someone over there."

  A man was sitting at the wheel of a Land Rover, smoking a cigarette. Charles approached him. "Do you know where we can find Paul Redfern's cottage?"

  "Follow this road round that bend and you'll come to the cottage on your right."

  "Thanks," said Charles. "Do you work here?"

  "I do the maintenance," he said laconically.

  "Police up at the house?"

  "They were earlier but they've left."

  Charles thanked him and he and Agatha walked on. Sleety rain began to sting their faces. "I wish we hadn't walked," mourned Agatha. "It's a long way back."

  "If he's a friendly chap, we'll ask him to give us a lift to the gates. So here's the bend. Tolly must have spent some good money on this estate. It's well-maintained. Ah, here's the cottage. Funny how many of these estate cottages are mock Tudor. There's smoke coming out of the chimney. Good sign."

  Charles knocked at the cottage door.

  There was no reply. Night was falling fast and the rain was thicker and steadier. The wind suddenly dropped. There was no other sound but the rain pattering on the leaves of a laurel bush by the door.

  "I think we've had a journey for nothing," said Agatha.

  "I hate to think we've come all this way for nothing." Charles knocked at the door again. It slowly creaked open.

  They looked at each other and then at the open doorway.

  "Let's snoop," said Charles cheerfully "At least we'll be out of the rain."

  "I don't think ..." began Agatha, but Charles was already walking inside.

  She followed him into a minuscule hall. Charles opened a door to his right. Then he closed it again. "Don't look, Aggie. I'm going to be sick." He rushed outside.

  But Agatha, overcome by curiosity, opened that door. What was left of the gamekeeper lay slumped in an armchair. Most of his head had been blown away.

  Agatha clutched on to the side of the door. Then somehow she got herself outside. Charles was standing with his white face turned up to the falling rain.

  Agatha sat down suddenly on the doorstep. She fumbled in her handbag for her mobile phone and called the emergency services and asked for the police and ambulance, wondering later why she had bothered to ask for an ambulance when there was nothing more could be done for Paul Redfern.

  James Lacey switched on the six-o'clock news. The pound was strengthening, the Government was being called upon to reduce interest rates, some fat Scottish member of the Cabinet was saying the Government knew what they were doing and James reached for the remote control to switch it off when suddenly the news changed to Norfolk. "Sir Charles Fraith and Mrs. Agatha Raisin were taken to police headquarters today to help police with their inquiries. Police have stressed that no charges have been made." Then there was a shot of Charles and Agatha. Charles's arm was protectively around Agatha's shoulders. They looked very much of a couple. James then switched off the television set and stared at the wall opposite. He felt angry and lonely.

  Questions, questions and more questions. Then back to police headquarters to make their statements. Agatha and Charles were hungry and tired and very much shaken up by the time they were allowed back to their motel. They had picked up a pizza on the road to the motel and they ate that in silence.

  At last Agatha said, "Why him?"

  "Because he knew something," said Charles, "and now we may never know what that something was. I thought that maintenance man-Joe Simons-might have done it, but he'd been up at the houses, so the police say, just before we saw him, fixing taps. Let's go to bed and leave it all to the morning. You can use the bathroom first."

  Agatha soaked in a hot bath and then put on a long brushed nylon night-gown. She climbed into bed and picked up a book and tried to read to blot out the terrible sight of the dead gamekeeper.

  Charles, having washed, joined her in the bed. He picked up a paperback from his side of the bed and began to read as well. Then he heard a muffled sob and looked at Agatha. Tears were streaming down her face. "I want to go home," she sobbed.

  "Shhh, come here." He put his arms around her and held her close.

  Agatha began to kiss him in a frenzied way. A gentleman would not take advantage of a situation, said some dim voice of conscience in the back of Charles's head, but he too was frightened and rattled, and so he did.

  Agatha awoke in the morning and immediately the events of the night came flooding into her mind. She fished down at the bottom of the bed and retrieved her crumpled night-gown, pulled it over her head, and went off to the bathroom, feeling stiff and sore. Their love-making had been very energetic, almost as if they had been trying to thrash the horrors out of each other's minds.

  But when she returned to the bedroom, feeling embarrassed, Charles said calmly, "At last. I thought you were going to spend all day in there."

  He went into the bathroom. Agatha dressed in warm clothes. She fed the cats and checked their water bowls.

  When Charles joined her, Agatha was at first grateful that he made no reference to their activities of the night before but then began to feel rather cross, thinking that he might at least say something.

  But Charles, after making them coffee, said, "I think we should keep clear of Fryfam for a little. I think we should go and see if we can talk to Lizzie."

  "W7]h ?""

  "God knows. But she did have an affair with Tolly. She must know a lot about him. There must be something she can tell us."

  "All right," Agatha muttered, not looking at him.

  "I'm not going to be lovey-dovey with you, Agatha Raisin," said Charles. "But in your moments of passion, you might have the decency to remember my name."

  "What?"

  "'Oh, James, James,' " mocked Charles. "I'll see you in the car."

  Agatha felt herself blushing all over. If only she could just run away and forget about the whole thing.

  Lizzie Findlay was at home.

  She let them into a small neat flat. "How's Tommy?" she asked.

  "Tommy?" asked Agatha.

  "My husband."

  "I don't know," said Agatha. "Why?"

  "I can't help wondering how he's getting on without me," said Lizzie. "He can't cook, you know." She flashed a timid smile at Charles. "You men are so hopeless."

  "Charles cooks," said Agatha. "We keep wondering and wondering who killed Tolly-and now Paul Redfern."

  "It's a nightmare," said Lizzie. "Who would want to kill Paul?"

  "He might have known something. He might have been blackmailing someone," said Charles. "He witnessed that will."

  "It all comes back to Lucy," mourned Agatha. "Such a suitable subject."

  "But she's got an alibi. Tolly always said it suited Lucy
very well being married to him." Lizzie began to walk up and down the room. "He said when they'd had a row she would punish him by going out and buying something expensive. I said, why didn't he just stop her credit cards, take control of the money. Tommy never allowed me a credit card. Tolly sort of waffled on and said he would do something about it. I don't think near the end that Tolly cared for me at all. He just liked the excitement of cheating on his wife. And I'll tell you something else. At the last hunt dinner before he died, he entered with Lucy on his arm. She was wearing a Liz Hurley sort of gown, slit up both sides and with a plunging neckline. All the men were goggling, and do you know, I think Tolly was proud of her."

  "How are you managing for money?" asked Charles.

  "I have a little left from an inheritance and I've applied for a job in a supermarket. They take older people."

  "Did Tolly talk about enemies?"

  "No, he was too much of a people-pleaser in the country to annoy anyone."

  "What about his past life? Anything there?"

  She shook her head. "Not that he told me. I do hope Tommy's all right."

  "Why should you care about your husband?" asked Agatha curiously. "He seemed to have led you a dog's life."

  "It was a busy life," sighed Lizzie. "I seemed to have such a lot to do during the day. There was the cleaning and cooking and baking things for the church sales and so on. I'm not used to being idle. Perhaps if I get a job, things won't be so bad."

  "Are you sure your husband didn't kill Tolly?"

  "He might have done it, but he wouldn't have killed Paul. He admired Paul. Said he was a first-class gamekeeper."

  Agatha studied Lizzie covertly. Could Lizzie have murdered Tolly? But it would take strength to creep up behind a man and slit his throat. Tolly must have heard some sound and come out of his bedroom to investigate. Still, one arm around his neck, pull his head back, and zip! She felt that underneath Lizzie's calm exterior were layers and layers of undiscovered territory.

  Lizzie saw Agatha watching her and said, "If you don't mind, I would rather you left. I'm rather busy."

  "Doing what?" asked Agatha.

  "Come on, Aggie," said Charles.

  "So what did you make of that?" asked Agatha when they were outside. "I suppose you fell for that meek-housewife routine."

  "On the contrary, I kept thinking she might make a good murderess."

  "I wondered about that. But it would have taken strength to bump off Tolly."

  "Did you see her arms and hands? She was wearing that short-sleeved blouse and she's got strong arms and hands. And if she killed Paul-well, I bet she knows how to use a shotgun."

  "I've not really had time to sit down and think it through," said Agatha.

  "What, like Poirot? Going to exercise the little grey cells, Aggie?"

  "Don't sneer," said Agatha. "Let's go back to the motel and try to work things out again."

  After a welcome from the cats, they sat down with sheets of paper. "Let's not talk," begged Agatha. "I think each of us should try on our own and then we'll compare notes."

  She wrote down everything they had found out, little though it was, and then re-read what she had written. She then glanced across at Charles. He was chewing the end of a pencil and scowling down at his notes. Agatha felt a sudden spasm of lust and then shuddered. Never again. There was something so demeaning about casual sex. Perhaps it was because she belonged to the wrong generation. Somewhere had read that young women didn't suffer from the same pangs of guilt and remorse. Affairs. Lizzie's affair with Tolly. Lucy had suspected something. If Lucy had found out, then she could have had grounds for divorce and get a good settlement, too. What was Lucy really like? Agatha had put her down as a bimbo. But people were never that simple. That was the bad habit of stereotyping people. It stopped one from looking underneath. Someone had feared her and Charles, someone had been worried that they might have found out something. But who could that have been? Nothing had been taken. There had been no attempt to make it look like a robbery. Which argued that someone had been very confident. No, that was wrong. A confident person wouldn't have been frightened enough to break in. And why leave the Stubbs with them?

  Agatha wrote LUCY in block capitals and stared at it. But Lucy had been away. All right. Indulge in a flight of fantasy. Lucy had learned about the will and had taken the Stubbs. Something tips her over the edge. Tolly wants a divorce. Okay, what would upset her about that, provided he offered a settlement? But what if she wanted it all?

  So she kills Tolly. But why Paul Redfern?

  "Got anything?" asked Charles.

  "Let's swap notes," said Agatha.

  She started to read Charles's neat script. He had written, "Why is Mrs. Jackson so loyal? Is Lucy paying her to keep her mouth shut? Blackmail? But Lucy couldn't have committed the murder."

  "Is that all?" asked Agatha.

  "Mmm? Wait a bit, till I read yours. You don't mention Lizzie or Captain Findlay."

  "That's because Lizzie said the captain admired Paul."

  "But I've got an interesting idea in blackmail. That would explain the return of the Stubbs."

  "I don't see why."

  "Look," said Charles, tapping Agatha's notes with his pencil. "Let's think about blackmail. Mrs. Jackson and Redfern know about that other will. They witnessed it. Say, Redfern tells Lucy. She nabs the painting. Something then happens to make her kill her husband. Up pops Redfern and says, `Unless you pay me, I'll talk about that other will.' I've got the loot, I don't need the painting, thinks Lucy, and I'm not going to be blackmailed, so she dumps it on us. Redfern then ups and says, `Pay up or I'll tell the police you stole that painting,' so she blasts him with a shotgun."

  "I wish she didn't have such a cast-iron alibi." Agatha suddenly thought of James. Why hadn't he phoned? Perhaps he was trying even now.

  "The heat from the press should be off by now," she said. "Let's go back to the cottage. Whatever clues we need are in Fryfam."

  Charles sighed. "I must admit, I'm tired of this motel room. But the press will still be snooping around. It's too hot a story for them to drop. We'll leave in the morning."

  Agatha felt nervous about going into the cottage when they got back. She stood outside until Charles had checked every room for either dead bodies or would-be assailants under the bed.

  Finding it was safe, Agatha let out the cats into the garden. Barry Jones was raking up leaves. "Hope you don't mind," he called. "I borrowed the key from Mrs. Jackson and let myself into the kitchen for a cup of tea."

  Agatha walked down the garden to join him. "Do you always call your mother Mrs. Jackson?"

  "Only to folks who don't know the score. It confuses people, us having different names."

  "What was your father like?"

  "Dunno. He scarpered right after I was born."

  "Chatting up the garden Adonis?" asked Charles when Agatha came back into the kitchen.

  "He is incredibly good-looking, isn't he?" said Agatha.

  "Now there's a real toy boy for you."

  "I might consider it," snapped Agatha. "What are we going to do now?"

  "I'm going to watch something stupid on television. If I keep thinking about it and thinking about it and thinking about it, I'll never get anywhere."

  Agatha retreated to her bedroom and shut the door. She waited until she could hear the sounds of the television set downstairs, then took out her mobile phone and called Mrs. Bloxby.

  "Oh, dear, what has been happening to you?"

  There was a ringing at the doorbell downstairs. "Wait a minute," said Agatha. She put her head round the bedroom door. "Press," came Charles's voice. "I'm not going to open it."

  Agatha retreated into the bedroom. "That was the press," she said to Mrs. Bloxby.

  "Is it not getting a little dangerous for you to be there?" asked Mrs. Bloxby. "You always stir things up and then someone tries to hurt you."

  "I'm safe for the moment, with the village crawling with police and press. How's
things in Carsely?"

  "Very quiet."

  "James getting on all right?"

  "Yes, he and that Mrs. Sheppard I told you about have struck up a friendship."

  "Oh, the pushy blonde."

  "Now, now, she's not at all pushy and very amusing. What's been happening? I saw you and Charles on the television news."

  Agatha told her all about the new will, Lizzie and the captain, and the dead end they had reached in looking for motives and suspects. Then she told her the whole business in detail from the beginning.

  Agatha ended up by saying, "We'll maybe have to look further. I mean, it could have been any member of the hunt, for all I know. And that Lizzie, I'm beginning to think she is a bit of a minx. She can't be all that downtrodden and crushed. She was even flirting with Charles."

  "And did that annoy you?"

  "Of course not. I'm not interested in Charles. Still, it was a bit odd."

  "How was the Stubbs left in your house? I mean, how did they get in?"

  "Charles forgot to lock up."

  "And the time before, when the place was searched? Any signs of a door or window being forced?"

  "No, someone must have had a key."

  "Does anyone who might be involved in this work at the estate agents'?"

  "Yes, Amy Worth. But it can't be her."

  "Why not?"

  "What motive?"

  "There seem to be a lot of secret passions in that village. Blame it on the awful Norfolk weather. Once the summer visitors leave, those women can have little else to do but make mischief. Satan finds some mischief for idle hands to do."

  "Quite. Still, you've got a point."

  "And doesn't that cleaner have a key?"

  "Yes, but she only got one recently."

  "But before the return of the Stubbs?"

  "I suppose so," said Agatha. "Anyway, thanks. You've given me some points to think about."

  "Any message for James?" asked Mrs. Bloxby, feeling contrite.

  "Doesn't seem much point now he's got that paragon of all the virtues to entertain him."

  James was sitting with Mrs. Sheppard in Carsely's pub, the Red Lion. Despite the chill of the day, she was wearing a sleeveless red chiffon dress. Her blond hair was smooth and shiny but she kept tossing it about like a model in a shampoo advertisement. James could feel himself becoming more and more bored. If only it were the prickly irritating Agatha Raisin opposite. Agatha could be infuriating, but she was never, ever boring.