Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryham

Agatha’s story and the murder. ‘I shouldn’t have laughed,’ she said contritely. ‘I mean, it’s not at all funny. That poor man. Why did I laugh, Alf?’
    He sighed. ‘We’re like the police and the press, we deal with so many sad cases that sometimes inappropriate laughter is our way of coping with things. Shouldn’t you be on your way to see Mrs Marble?’
    ‘Yes, I’m just going.’ Alf was right, thought Mrs Bloxby, as she walked through the village. Take Mrs Marble, for instance. The poor woman was dying of cancer. But she was querulous, bitter and demanding. She had made out a new will, cutting out her daughter and grandchildren and leaving all her money to a cats’ home. Mrs Bloxby had tried in vain to get her to make a more reasonable will. Occasional jokes with her husband about the terrible Mrs Marble enabled her to go on calling on her, and doing what she could to help. Humour was a necessary weapon against the pains and tribulations of life.

Chapter Five

    Agatha tossed and turned all night, wondering what to do. Part of her longed to rush back to Carsely and get her cottage ready, to visit the beautician, the hairdresser, the dress shops, to prepare for James’s arrival. The sensible part of her mind told her that it would be a waste of time. She and James would never be friends again.
    Around dawn, she suddenly fell into a heavy sleep and did not wake until ten in the morning. She got out of bed, amazed that the police had not been hammering on the door. She put on a dressing-gown and trailed down to the kitchen.
    Charles was sitting at the kitchen table, newspapers spread out in front of him.
    ‘Anything interesting?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Oh, yes. The Radical Voice . Front page. “The Fairies of Fryfam.”’
    ‘God. They’ll lynch me in this village. I would have thought the other papers would have been beating on the door.’
    ‘They were. You were fast asleep. I expected the onslaught, so I drove both our cars at dawn out of the village and hid them in a side road and didn’t answer the door. They assumed we had both fled.’
    ‘Should I read it?’
    ‘Gerry’s precious prose? No, better not.’
    ‘Let me see it.’ Agatha sat down opposite him and seized The Radical Voice . The first awful sight that met her eyes was a coloured photograph of herself and Charles. Charles looked dapper and amused. But she! The camera had cruelly accentuated every line on her face. ‘Is that grey hairs?’ she asked, peering closely at the photograph.
    ‘You’ve got a few grey roots,’ said Charles.
    Agatha read the article with growing dismay. It would be clear to everyone in the village that Agatha Raisin had babbled about the fairies, and at great length. Now she definitely had a good excuse to go home.
    ‘They’ll lynch me,’ she said. ‘I was going back to Carsely anyway. Better go home today.’
    ‘James home?’
    Agatha blushed angrily. His eyes searched her face. ‘But he’s coming home. Last night after that phone call from Mrs Bloxby, you were elated one minute and fidgety and miserable the next. We’ve talked about this before. A friend of mind went to a very good therapist in Harley Street for your problem.’
    ‘I don’t have a problem.’
    ‘Oh, yes, you do. You are a grown woman who is obsessing over a cold man. Before you go back to Carsely, which you should not do until we discover a bit more about this murder, you should go to this therapist first. Just think how free you would feel if you didn’t care, Agatha. Think of facing James again and not caring . How long is it since you had any fun with James? No, don’t yell at me off the top of your head. Think!’
    Agatha said, ‘I don’t like to be bullied.’
    ‘You don’t like a sensible suggestion either. Promise me you’ll at least try this therapist.’
    ‘Anything to shut you up. Where’s Mrs Jackson?’
    ‘I called on her at her cottage and told her not to come until tomorrow.’
    ‘We can’t hide in here all day.’
    ‘No, we’ll walk a back route to the cars, take yours and go to Norwich, where you will get your hair done.’
    ‘I s’pose,’ grumbled Agatha. ‘I’d better have some breakfast.’
    ‘By which you mean two cups of coffee and three cigarettes. The coffee’s ready in the pot and your cigarettes are on the table.’
    ‘What on earth is Hand going to say about these fairies? He’ll say I’ve been holding out on him.’
    ‘He’ll know about the lights. I can’t see