Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryham

could be seen standing over a smoking oil drum burning leaves he had raked up from the grass.
    ‘Off duty,’ he called when they saw him.
    Undeterred, Charles went up to him. ‘You know Mrs Raisin here. I’m Charles Fraith.’
    ‘I heard of you. You were at the manor yesterday,’ said Framp. An erratic gust of wind sent smoke swirling into his eyes and he rubbed them with the back of one grimy hand.
    ‘I’m surprised a bright copper like you isn’t on the job,’ pursued Charles, ‘what with all this murder and robbery.’
    ‘Told to go about my regular duties,’ said Framp sulkily. ‘You would think it was my fault he was murdered. I was on duty all night outside that house and I never heard a sound. No one came or went.’
    ‘So who do you think did it?’
    ‘Let’s have a cup of tea.’ Framp gave the smouldering leaves a vicious poke with a rusty metal rod. Little tongues of flame licked round the leaves and more aromatic smoke filled the air.
    They followed him into his messy kitchen. A kettle was already simmering on an old iron stove. He put five tea-bags into a small teapot, stirred it up, and poured each of them mugs of black tea.
    He sat down wearily at the table. ‘You ask who did it? It’s the wife, for sure.’
    ‘But I gather she was in London,’ said Agatha.
    ‘So she says, and anyway, her alibi hasn’t been checked out yet and even if it is, her friends could lie for her.’
    ‘Why her?’ asked Charles.
    ‘She hated it here. Wanted to go to London. So she pinches the painting first, bumps him off, knowing she’ll inherit everything along with the insurance money. She can’t sell the painting, everyone will be on the look-out for it. Anyway, it was insured for a mint, so it’s worth more to her lost.’
    ‘I didn’t like Hand,’ said Agatha. ‘Unpleasant sort of man.’
    ‘Nobody likes him,’ said Framp gloomily. He stifled a yawn. ‘I’d better get some sleep.’
    ‘Where’s Lucy Trumpington-James at the moment?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Arriving by police car from London any time now.’
    ‘Mrs Jackson knows how to operate the burglar alarm, doesn’t she?’
    ‘Yes, but come on. She’s a villager and lived here all her life.’
    ‘Is there a Mr Jackson?’ asked Charles.
    ‘Yes, but he’s doing time in the Scrubs.’
    ‘Wormwood Scrubs? Prison?’
    ‘That’s the one.’
    ‘What for?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Robbery with violence. Beat a guard at a warehouse nearly to death. Got fifteen years. Not so much for beating the guard. This is Britain, after all. For stealing eighteen thousand pounds.’
    ‘When was this?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Two years ago.’
    ‘So that lets him out. Did they find the money?’
    ‘Yes; he wasn’t living with his wife at the time. They found the lot in a flat in Clapham in London.’
    ‘And was this his first crime?’
    ‘First major one. Before that, lots of petty stuff, car hijacking, that sort of thing.’
    ‘Where does Mrs Jackson live?’
    ‘Why?’ demanded Framp sharply.
    ‘I need a cleaner,’ said Agatha patiently, ‘and she’ll have spare time at the moment, with the police being all over the manor. By the way, does the manor house have a name?’
    ‘Reckon folks have always just called it the manor.’
    Charles took another sip of bitter black tea and repressed a shudder. ‘We’d better get on our way, Aggie.’
    ‘That what they call you?’ asked Framp with a momentary flash of humour. ‘You don’t look like an Aggie to me.’
    ‘It’s Agatha, actually.’ She threw a baleful look at Charles and then turned back to Framp. ‘So where does Mrs Jackson live?’
    ‘You know Short’s garage?’
    ‘We saw it yesterday.’
    ‘Well, her cottage is tucked in the back of that.’
    ‘Let’s get the car,’ pleaded Agatha once they were out on the road again.
    ‘Why not just go home and put on a pair of flat walking shoes? People might stop and talk to us on our way there. You can’t pick up gossip if you’re flashing past in a car.’
    ‘Oh, okay,’ said Agatha, although she felt that wearing flats made her look dumpy.
    When they set out again, Agatha began to wonder what villagers they were supposed to meet. The village green was deserted.
    They walked across it and down the street past the estate agent’s, where Amy could be seen crouched over a computer. Then Agatha saw Carrie Smiley and Polly Dart approaching and greeted them with ‘Isn’t it terrible about Tolly?’
    ‘Terrible,’ echoed