Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryham

Diminished now by the grandeur of the spacious landscape, Agatha headed homewards, glad as she walked back up the hill again and found herself enclosed on either side by the whispering pine trees, the bleak immensity of the flatland behind her now blotted out. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she had not eaten anything.
    She was walking up to her cottage when she came across Lucy Trumpington-James. ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ she said abruptly. ‘What’s all this about your birthday party in the pub? You might have told me.’
    ‘Come in,’ said Agatha, leading the way up the garden path and remembering at the same time that her car was still parked outside the pub. She unlocked the door. ‘I’ll let you into a secret, Lucy. It wasn’t really my birthday. I was just trying to cheer up the local ladies. Their husbands had deserted them to gawk at the charms of Rosie Wilden.’
    Lucy followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘That trollop.’
    ‘Are you sure she’s a trollop? She seems kind. She can’t help it if she’s pretty.’
    ‘Oh, yeah? Well, I think she’s having an affair with Tolly.’
    ‘Have you asked him?’
    ‘Yes, but he denies it, of course.’
    ‘So what proof do you have?’
    ‘Rosie makes her own rose perfume. Sickly stuff. I came back from the hairdresser in Norwich and the smell of the stuff was in our bedroom, and Tolly had changed the bed and washed the sheets. When did Tolly ever wash sheets? He said some woman from the hunt committee had been round and had used our bathroom, which is off our bedroom, to repair her make-up. He pointed out that Rosie gives the perfume all round the village.’
    ‘And the sheets?’
    ‘He says this woman took a drink up with her and spilt some on the bed.’
    ‘Oh, dear.’
    ‘I asked for her name and he went into a fury and said I was always picking on him and he wants a divorce.’
    Agatha plugged in the electric coffee percolator. ‘But I mean, wouldn’t divorce be a good idea? Then you could move back to London.’
    ‘I need proof. I need good, solid proof that he’s been messing about and then I can take him to the cleaner’s.’
    ‘Don’t you have any money of your own?’
    ‘No.’ A bitter little no.
    ‘What did you do before you were married?’
    ‘I modelled. Not top-flight or even the second landing. Catalogue stuff, TV ads for sanitary towels, that sort of thing.’
    ‘How did you meet Tolly?’ Agatha lifted down two mugs and took out the milk and sugar.
    ‘At an Ideal Home Exhibition. Me and another model were hired to wear bath towels and decorate his stand. He took me out for dinner, and that was that.’
    Agatha poured two cups of coffee. ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar.’ She lit a cigarette.
    ‘Mind if I have one of those?’ asked Lucy.
    ‘Sure.’ Agatha pushed the packet forward. ‘I thought you didn’t smoke. Couldn’t see any ashtrays in that house of yours.’
    ‘Tolly won’t let me. He used to smoke sixty a day.’
    ‘Oh, one of those. How long have you been married?’
    ‘Five years.’
    ‘Five years? Were you married before?’
    ‘Not me.’ Lucy shrugged. ‘Always waiting for Mr Right. Anyway, the reason I called is this. I want you to get proof for me of his philandering. You said you were a detective. I’ve got some money squirrelled away. I’ll pay you.’
    ‘It’s not the sort of thing I like to do,’ said Agatha slowly. ‘Messy and dirty business.’
    Lucy surveyed her impatiently. ‘What else have you got to do in this God-alive place where they believe in fairies?’
    ‘I’m writing a book.’ Agatha had forgotten until then about her book. She was suddenly eager to get back to it.
    ‘Think about it,’ urged Lucy. ‘I’m desperate.’
    ‘I tell you what, I’ll ask around,’ said Agatha. ‘A few of the women here seem bitter about Rosie.’
    If I did a bit more investigating, thought Agatha, it would be good for the book. It’s based on this unlovely couple anyway.
    Her mind returned to the fairies. ‘Any children in this village?’ she asked.
    ‘A few. Not many young couples, so the others have children who are grown up and married and living elsewhere. There isn’t a council house estate here, so no young mothers. Betty Jackson, over in the cottage beyond the estate agent’s, has four, but like all kids these days, after they get bussed back from school, they’re usually stuck in front of the television set.’
    ‘I