Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryham

inbred peasants who’d believe anything.’
    ‘But I met the women’s group members. They seem intelligent.’
    ‘Yes, but they’re all from Fryfam, don’t you see? You’ve never spent a winter here, have you?’
    Agatha shook her head.
    ‘It’s so black and bleak and grim, you’ll end up believing in fairies yourself.’
    Lucy yawned again.
    Agatha rose to her feet. ‘I must go.’
    ‘Must you? Can you find your own way out?’
    ‘Sure. Perhaps you would like to have tea with me?’
    ‘Too kind. I’ll let you know.’
    Agatha hesitated in the hall, looking in her handbag for her car keys. ‘Wake up, Tolly,’ she heard Lucy say sharply. ‘She’s gone.’
    ‘Thank God for that. Another plain woman and not quite one of us.’
    ‘Not quite one of who ?’ demanded Lucy shrilly. ‘It’s because of your snobbery that we’re stuck in this dump.’
    Agatha walked quickly away, her face flaming. She had moved a long way away from the Birmingham slum of her upbringing, but at weak moments she thought that people could still sniff it out.
    She got in the car and drove home and phoned Mrs Bloxby. ‘You can give Charles my number and address and tell him if he’s at a loose end, I’ve got a spare room.’
    ‘I’ll tell him. How are those mysterious lights?’
    ‘The locals believe they are fairies.’
    ‘How interesting! You’re in the Breckland area of Norfolk, aren’t you?’
    ‘Am I?’
    ‘Yes, I looked it up on the map. Very old part. There are tumuli and old flint quarries called Grimes Graves. Old places often make people superstitious. I think it’s something in the soil.’
    ‘Well, I don’t believe in fairies. Probably kids.’
    ‘Children? Got a lot of them in the village?’
    ‘Come to think of it, I haven’t seen one.’
    ‘Good hunting. Alf’s just come home.’
    Alf was the vicar, who did not approve of Agatha Raisin.
    ‘Right, talk to you soon.’ Agatha said goodbye and rang off. Then she felt petty. She had only wanted Charles to come to throw a baronet in Tolly’s vulgar face.
    Then she noticed two Calor gas heaters tucked at the side of the hall. She was beginning to think that all these tales of a grim winter were probably exaggerations and hoped she hadn’t made a fuss about nothing.
    She took a look in the back garden. Barry was mowing the lawn. It was a bit too late to put through a load of washing and hang it out. She wondered what the weather forecast was. She had not switched on the television set or the radio since her arrival.
    Barry waved through the window to her and left. Agatha decided to try that book again. She wrote the title, ‘Death at the Manor’. She had been to the manor, so that was a start. She would start by describing Lucy and Tolly and their vulgar drawing-room and go on from there.
    To her surprise, she had managed to write four pages before the doorbell rang. Amy stood on the doorstep. ‘I came to say how sorry I am that I didn’t tell you I worked for the estate agents. But you see, if anything was wrong, I thought you would blame me.’
    ‘Come in,’ Agatha said reluctantly. She saved what she had written and switched off the computer.
    ‘Oh, I’ve interrupted your writing,’ said Amy. ‘You must be furious with me.’
    ‘Not at all. Come through to the kitchen.’ Agatha squinted at her watch. Six-thirty in the evening. ‘Do you want some dinner? I haven’t eaten.’
    ‘If you’re sure . . .’
    ‘No, it’s frozen Marks’s stuff. Sit down. Don’t you have dinner with your husband?’
    ‘Jerry’s in the pub.’ Amy’s eyes filled with tears.
    ‘Oh, dear. The beautiful Mrs Wilden?’
    ‘Yes.’ Amy took out a small square of handkerchief and blew her nose fiercely. ‘She’s taken away all our husbands. Harriet wants her tarred and feathered.’
    Agatha fished out a bottle of Gordon’s gin she had brought with her. ‘Drink?’
    ‘Please.’
    Agatha made two large gin and tonics. Then she took out two frozen packets of lasagne and put the first one in the microwave, and when that was done, put in the second, then gave the first an extra twirl.
    She served the meals and then, sitting down opposite Amy, asked, ‘What does your husband do?’
    ‘He works for a seed company just outside Norwich.’
    ‘And is he having an affair with Mrs Wilden?’
    ‘Oh, no.’
    ‘Then what’s the problem?’
    ‘It’s just that he goes to the pub every night, and so does Henry Freemantle and Peter Dart.’
    ‘Harriet’s