Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryham

Raisin.’
    ‘Age?’
    ‘Forty-five,’ lied Agatha, ignoring Charles’s snort of laughter.
    ‘And you, sir?’
    ‘This is Sir Charles Fraith,’ said Agatha quickly, knowing that Charles would not use his title – and Agatha was out to impress.
    ‘Age?’
    ‘Thirty-two,’ said Charles maliciously. He was, in fact, in his forties.
    ‘And you have lived here, how long?’
    ‘Only a few days,’ said Agatha. ‘Sir Charles is my house guest.’
    ‘What brought you to Fryfam?’
    ‘Just a whim. I’d never been to Norfolk before. I’ve only been here a short while. As a matter of fact, when it comes to crime –’
    But the reporter interrupted her impatiently. ‘So tell me how Mr Trumpington-James seemed to you when you saw him.’
    ‘Bit fussed over the theft of his Stubbs. Police all over the place. I’d had tea with him and his wife two days before.’
    ‘And how did they seem? A happy couple?’
    Agatha was not prepared to tell the press about Lucy’s suspicions and so she said, ‘I couldn’t really judge. Their cleaner, a Mrs Jackson, lives behind the garage. She could tell you more than I could.’
    Gerry cast a longing look towards the pub. His faithless photographer was in there. He was wondering if he could winkle him out without alerting the others. But for the moment he persevered, asking Agatha what the manor looked like inside, had Tolly been very rich and so on. Then he said, ‘I’ll just go and see this Mrs Jackson. Where do you both live when you’re not in Fryfam?’
    They gave their home addresses. As he was about to leave, Agatha said, ‘Oh, have you heard about the fairies?’
    Gerry, who had been closing his notebook, opened it again and stared at her. ‘Fairies?’
    Agatha could hear Polly’s voice asking her not to say anything, but her desire to shine was greater than any loyalty to the women of Fryfam. She told Gerry about the mysterious lights and the petty thefts, ending up in the grand theft of the Stubbs. When she had finally finished, Gerry’s face was red with excitement. ‘Where do you live? I mean, in Fryfam?’
    ‘Lavender Cottage, over there in Pucks Lane.’
    ‘I’ll call on you with a photographer if I may.’
    ‘We’re going out,’ said Charles.
    ‘But if you can make it quick,’ put in Agatha. If she got her picture in the newspaper, then James, wherever he was, might see it.
    ‘So you’re thirty-two,’ jeered Agatha as she and Charles walked off.
    ‘Well, if you’re forty-five, sweetie, I’m definitely thirty-two.’
    Agatha could feel herself ageing by the minute as they walked home, like She when the Eternal Flame didn’t work any more. She was grumpy and guilty because she had told the reporter about the fairies.
    Gerry sidled into the pub. The reporters and photographers were all swapping tall tales of their own adventures, and in the middle of the noisiest group was his photographer, Jimmy Henshaw. He was just wondering how to get Jimmy away from the group when the pub door opened and a television crew entered. The newspaper reporters, who all affected to despise television and yet were secretly longing to see their faces on the screen, surged forward to surround the newcomers. Gerry caught Jimmy by the arm and whispered, ‘I’ve got a great story. Meet me outside.’
    Gerry went outside again and chewed his thumb nervously, watching the pub door. Just when he thought Jimmy was never going to emerge, the photographer appeared, lugging his camera case.
    ‘This had better be good,’ he said sulkily. Rapidly Gerry outlined the story of the fairies.
    ‘Great,’ said Jimmy. ‘Let’s go and see these people.’
    Agatha had not expected them so soon and had therefore not had time to apply that thick layer of make-up, so necessary when being photographed by the press if one did not want to appear ten years older. And she was still wearing her flat shoes. But she led them down the garden and pointed to the place where she had seen the mysterious lights.
    ‘Don’t point,’ said the cameraman sharply. ‘Looks so damn amateur when people point. Just stand there, Agatha, by that tree, next to Charlie. No, don’t smile.’
    When they had left, Agatha groaned, ‘Why did I ever tell that reporter about the fairies?’
    ‘Wanted glory?’ suggested Charles. ‘Come on, let’s get out of this village and find somewhere to eat.’
    At last, seated over a late lunch at a roadside pub on the way to Norwich, Charles said, ‘What I’m