Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryham

wondering about is this. You seem eager to believe that Rosie is innocent, that Lucy made up all that about Tolly having an affair with her. What if it was all true? What if Tolly planned to run away with Rosie? Lucy somehow nips back from London, slits Tolly’s throat, and rushes back.’
    ‘I’ve a feeling it will be proved she was in London all the time,’ said Agatha. ‘Now if it were in a book, she would turn out to be a motorcycle fiend or had a friend with a private helicopter. Anyway, all she really wanted from Tolly was Tolly’s money, I’m sure of that. If he did run away with Rosie, then all she had to do was divorce him and live happily ever after off the alimony.’
    ‘But why would anyone else want to kill him?’
    ‘Maybe the hunt got tired of him.’
    ‘Joke. But the hunt could be a good start. We’ll find out the name of the master and go and see him.’
    ‘How will we do that?’
    ‘Anyone will tell us. Framp will tell us. Have you got a mobile phone?’
    ‘Yes.’ Agatha produced one from her handbag. Charles phoned directory inquiries and got the number of the Fryfam police station. He then phoned Framp and asked for the name of the master.
    Framp was obviously asking why he wanted to know, for Agatha heard Charles say that he might be staying on longer than expected and would like a bit of hunting. Then Charles made writing motions and Agatha produced a pen and small notebook from her bag. Charles wrote busily, then thanked Framp and rang off.
    ‘Here we are. Captain Tommy Findlay, The Beeches, Breakham, and Breakham is that village we drove through, not far from Fryfam. Drink up your coffee and let’s go see him.’
    Agatha was aware, as Charles drove her away from the pub, of the mobile phone resting in her handbag. She had a sudden longing to telephone Mrs Bloxby, but Charles would listen and so she couldn’t talk about James. She felt a wave of homesickness, a longing for her own home. She was glad she had brought her cats and wished she had thought to buy them a little treat, like fresh fish.
    She worried about that reporter, Gerry. He had predictably said he didn’t like cats. Men usually said they didn’t like cats but then went on to brag about their own cat, which was somehow an exception to the rule.
    Maybe the newspaper wouldn’t publish his story. Maybe he was such a failure that they would take their news from one of the agencies and ignore his.
    ‘Here we are,’ said Charles, turning up a lane bordered by high hedges. He drove past a farm, through a farmyard, over a cattle grid and so to a square eighteenth-century house.
    ‘Maybe we should have phoned first,’ said Agatha.
    She started to get out of the car and then retreated back inside and slammed the door as three dogs, one Jack Russell, one Irish setter, and one Border collie, rushed barking towards them.
    But Charles was out of the car and patting the dogs and talking to them. ‘Come on, Aggie,’ he shouted. ‘They won’t eat you.’
    Agatha got out and hurried up to Charles as the dogs sniffed about her. Charles rang the bell. I hope no one’s at home, thought Agatha, pushing away the collie, which had thrust its nose up her skirt. The door was opened by a small faded woman in an apron. ‘Mrs Findlay?’ said Charles. ‘Is the captain at home?’
    She peered myopically at him. ‘If you’re collecting for something or selling something, it’s not a good time.’
    ‘Would you tell him Sir Charles Fraith wants to speak to him about getting some hunting?’
    ‘Of course, Sir Charles. Come in. I don’t see very well without my glasses.’ Charles walked in and Mrs Findlay shut the door in Agatha’s face. Agatha was just planning to kick the door when it opened again and Charles, with a broad grin on his face, said, ‘Come along.’
    ‘Stupid woman,’ grumbled Agatha. ‘Have I become invisible or something?’
    ‘She doesn’t see very well.’
    He led her into a dark hall where a flustered Mrs Findlay was waiting. ‘My husband’s in the study.’
    Captain Findlay was a very tall man. Agatha guessed he might be in his seventies but he looked fit, with a lean brown face, bright brown eyes and thick grey hair.
    The study was as dark as the hall and smelt strongly of wood-smoke and damp dog. There were oil paintings of hunts on the wall, rather dingy and, even to Agatha’s inexpert eye, badly executed.
    ‘Sit down,’ said the captain. ‘Get them some tea, Lizzie. Hop to it!’
    Agatha