Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryham

the bar. A strong waft of rose perfume heralded the arrival of Rosie Wilden in a cream wool dress which complemented the creaminess of her complexion and the vivid blue of her eyes.
    Charles leaned over the bar and began to flirt. First he affected astonishment that such rare beauty could be found behind the bar of a village pub. Then he began to ask her about herself. It was when he got around to asking her if she ever had a night off that Agatha called crossly, ‘What about my drink, Charles?’
    ‘Right,’ he called back but without turning around. ‘That’ll be a gin and tonic and a half of bitter.’
    Then he fumbled in his jacket. ‘I’m afraid I’ve forgotten my wallet.’
    ‘That’s all right, sir. I’ll put it on the slate.’
    ‘No need for that. Aggie’ll pay. Aggie?’
    Agatha marched up to the bar and put the money on the counter. ‘Why don’t you come and join me, Charles?’ she demanded. ‘Or are you going to prop up the bar all night?’
    Charles sat down opposite her and said, ‘The way you go on sometimes, one would think we were married.’
    ‘Particularly when you never pay for anything.’
    ‘Well, she’s quite something.’
    Agatha felt all the irritation any woman feels when her escort praises some other woman. ‘I’d forgotten what you were like.’ Agatha sighed. ‘In fact, I’ve made a mistake coming here. I’m going back home next week.’
    ‘What, with fairies shining lights and a Stubbs stolen? Not like you. Where’s your curiosity?’
    ‘It first got washed away in the rain and then, when you said you’d forgotten your wallet, I realized your company was not going to alleviate the boredom.’
    ‘Nasty!’
    ‘But so true.’ The firelight flickered on Charles’s well-barbered neat features. Oh, why couldn’t it be James sitting opposite?
    The pub began to fill up. Agatha saw the three husbands come in, Henry, Jerry and Peter, minus wives.
    Jerry was complaining about PC Framp. ‘I’m glad that lazy hound of a copper has to stand out in the rain all night outside the manor. Mind you, it’s a case of bolting the stable door after the horse has fled. I hope he gets pneumonia. I’ve never forgiven him for that time he pulled me over on the Norwich road because one of my brake lights was out. He refused to let me drive on and I had to get a cab home.’
    ‘Yes, you told us . . . . many times,’ commented Peter Dart, leering at Rosie.
    ‘What a waste of champagne,’ said Agatha, half to herself. ‘I haven’t done any good there at all.’
    ‘What?’ asked Charles. ‘What are you muttering about?’
    ‘Those three men at the bar neglect their wives to come in here and goggle at Rosie. So I brought the wives in and threw a champagne party. They told me their husbands were going to find another pub, but there they are again. Do you think Rosie is really innocent? Do you think she flirts?’
    ‘I think when a woman looks like Rosie, she doesn’t need to flirt. And what are you doing interfering in village marriages? No wonder murders follow you around.’
    Agatha felt a spasm of dislike for Charles. ‘Let’s go,’ she said. ‘I’m bored.’
    They had a supper of microwaved curry. Charles settled down to watch television. Agatha had forgotten that he had a tremendous appetite for rubbishy television. She said crossly that she was going to bed but he was watching a movie called Monsters of the Dark and did not hear her.
    Agatha went grumpily up to bed. She stared at her face in the bathroom mirror. The rain had washed all her make-up off. She felt old and unattractive. She had a leisurely bath. Then she climbed into bed, propped herself up on the pillows and looked through the selection of paperbacks she had placed on the bedside table. She had bought a selection of light reading. There was a large blockbuster which claimed to be, according to the blurb, ‘erotic and unput-downable’. Agatha flicked through it. Gucci labels and crumpled bedsheets. The next came under the category of chick-lit, or rather one of those women’s books, a romance clothed in a convoluted literary style. She discarded that. The next was an Aga saga, a novel set in a village where a well-heeled middle-aged woman found out her husband was unfaithful to her. Agatha was very much of her roots and found it hard to believe that anyone who had money in the bank could suffer in the same way as someone poor. She often felt her yearning for James was ridiculous. She put that