Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryham

Chapter One

    Agatha Raisin was selling up and leaving Carsely for good.
    Or rather, that had been the plan.
    She had already rented a cottage in the village of Fryfam in Norfolk. She had rented blind. She knew neither the village nor anywhere else in Norfolk. A fortune-teller had told her that her destiny lay in Norfolk. Her next door neighbour, the love of her life, James Lacey, had departed without saying goodbye and so she had decided to move to Norfolk and had chosen the village of Fryfam by sticking a pin in the map. A call to the Fryfam police station had put her in touch with a local estate agent, the cottage was rented, and all Agatha had to do was sell her own cottage and leave.
    But the problem lay in the people who came to view the house. Either the women were too attractive and Agatha was not going to have an attractive woman living next door to James, or they were sour and grumpy, and she did not want to inflict such people on the village.
    She was due to move into her rented Norfolk cottage at the beginning of October and it was now heading to the end of September. Bright-coloured autumn leaves swirled about the Cotswold lanes. It was an Indian summer of lazy mellow sunny days and misty nights. Never had Carsely seemed more beautiful. But Agatha was determined to get rid of her obsession for James Lacey. Fryfam was probably beautiful as well.
    Agatha was just stiffening up her weakening sinews when the doorbell rang. She opened the door. Two small round people stood there. ‘Good morning,’ said the woman brightly. ‘We are Mr and Mrs Baxter-Semper. We’ve come to view the house.’
    ‘You should have made an appointment with the estate agent,’ grumped Agatha.
    ‘Oh, but we saw the “For Sale” board outside.’
    ‘Come in,’ sighed Agatha. ‘Take a look around. You’ll find me in the kitchen if you have any questions.’
    She hunched over a cup of black coffee at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. Through the window, she could see her cats, Hodge and Boswell, playing in the garden. How nice to be a cat, thought Agatha bitterly. No hopeless love, no responsibility, no bills to pay, nothing else to do but wait to be fed and roll around in the sun.
    She could hear the couple moving about. Then she heard the sound of drawers being opened and closed.
    She went to the foot of the stairs and shouted up, ‘You’re supposed to be looking at the house , not poking among my knickers.’ There was a shocked silence. Then they both came downstairs. ‘We thought you might be leaving your furniture behind,’ said the woman defensively.
    ‘No, I’m putting it into storage,’ said Agatha wearily. ‘I’m renting in Norfolk until I find somewhere to buy.’
    Mrs Baxter-Semper looked past her.
    ‘Oh, is that the garden?’
    ‘Obviously,’ said Agatha, blowing smoke in her direction.
    ‘Look, Bob. We could knock down that kitchen wall and have a nice conservatory.’
    Oh, God, thought Agatha, one of those nasty white wood-and-glass excrescences sticking out of the back of my cottage.
    They stood before her as if expecting her to offer them tea or coffee.
    ‘I’ll show you out,’ said Agatha gruffly.
    As she shut the door behind them with a bang, she could hear Mrs Baxter-Semper saying, ‘What a rude woman!’
    ‘House is perfect for us, though,’ remarked the husband.
    Agatha picked up the phone and dialled the estate agents. ‘I’ve decided not to sell at the moment. Yes, this is Mrs Raisin. No, I don’t want to sell . Just take your board down.’
    When she replaced the receiver, she felt happier than she had done for some time. Nothing could be achieved by quitting Carsely.
    ‘So you have decided not to go to Norfolk?’ exclaimed Mrs Bloxby, the vicar’s wife, later that day. ‘I am so glad you aren’t leaving us.’
    ‘Oh, but I am going to Norfolk. May as well get a change for a bit. But I’ll be back.’
    The vicar’s wife was a pleasant-looking woman with grey hair and mild eyes. In her ladylike clothes of flat shoes, droopy tweed skirt, silk blouse and ancient cardigan, she looked the exact opposite of Agatha Raisin, a stocky figure with excellent legs in sheer stockings and sporting a short tailored skirt and jacket. Her glossy hair was cut in a chic bob and her bearlike eyes, unlike those of Mrs Bloxby, looked out at the world with a defensive, wary suspicion.
    Although they were close friends, they still often called each other by their second names – Mrs