Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryham

Tolly holding back that bit of information when Hand was investigating the theft of the Stubbs.’
    The day was quiet and misty, a grey, dreamy landscape. They set out looking to right and left to make sure no reporter was lurking in the bushes. Charles had warned her to wear her wellingtons and carry her shoes, for the way he took her led over a stile at the end of Pucks Lane and across a field of stubble.
    They climbed over another stile and into a lane to where he had parked the cars at the end of it. Agatha removed her muddy boots and put on her shoes. She drove off slowly through the mist and on to the main road. ‘We can’t hide out forever,’ she said.
    ‘Give it another day and you won’t be the only one to have talked about fairies. In fact, I’ll bet you if we watch the news when we get back, some of them will be standing in front of a camera talking happily about the little people. It always amazes me how people will refuse to talk to newspaper reporters and yet welcome a television crew into their homes.’
    ‘We’ll have lunch in Norwich first,’ said Agatha, ‘and then I’ll leave you to entertain yourself while I find a hairdresser.’
    Charles waited by Agatha’s car in a car park in Norwich. They had arranged to meet at five o’clock. The mist had lifted and late sun was shining down. Then he saw Agatha coming towards him and smiled. Her thick hair was once more a glossy brown. Her face had been skilfully made up. She was wearing a new jacket and skirt in a soft heathery tweed. Her excellent legs were encased in fine tights, ending in a new pair of court shoes. Agatha, reflected Charles, would never be a beauty, but she carried with her a strong aura of sexual magnetism of which she was entirely unaware.
    ‘You clean up a treat,’ he said. ‘Let’s see if we can get back in time for the six o’clock news.’
    ‘Do I have to struggle across that muddy field again?’
    ‘No, deadline time’s over for the newspapers and they’ll all be in the pub. Drop me at my car and then we’ll both drive home.’
    Agatha was dying to phone Mrs Bloxby again, to ask more about James’s return. But the cottage was small and Charles would hear her and then he would start nagging her about that therapist again.
    Agatha had a leisurely bath that evening, creamed her face, put on her night-dress and went into her bedroom. Charles was lying on her bed with his hands clasped behind his head.
    ‘What are you doing there?’ demanded Agatha.
    ‘I thought we might . . .’
    ‘No. Absolutely not.’
    ‘Not even a cuddle?’
    ‘No.’
    He sighed and swung his legs out of bed and then made for the door. ‘Saving yourself for James?’ he jeered.
    ‘Just go away!’ shouted Agatha and slammed the door behind him.
    She had slept with Charles before, only to find out that he had gone off romancing some other female the day after. Agatha got into bed and lay staring at the ceiling. To take her mind off the imminent return of James, she began to turn what she knew about Tolly’s murder over in her mind, and the more she thought about it, the stranger it seemed. She began to think that the theft of the Stubbs might not have anything to do with the murder. So concentrate on the murder alone. Lucy was the only suspect. Agatha was sure that Lucy had been telling the truth when she had suspected Tolly was having an affair. Based on what? Rose perfume and the fact that Tolly had washed the sheets. But Rosie Wilden, Agatha was sure, had been telling the truth. But surely rose perfume could be used by anyone.
    The best thing would be to wait until the fuss died down and then try to see Lucy. Charles had been right about one thing – the evening television news had featured many of the locals, including Harriet, talking about the fairies.
    By the next day, Agatha began to wonder if the fuss would ever die down. And for the following week, the village of Fryfam was under a sort of siege. ‘You did this,’ Polly shouted at Agatha when she met her crossing the village green. Because of the fairies, not only tourists but weirdos had descended on the village. And then came the New Age travellers, that scourge of the countryside, with their savage dogs and dirty children, their broken-down trailers and trucks camped on the village green. They were finally routed by the police and left in a haze of filthy exhaust, leaving the village green like a tip and not a duck left on the pond because they had eaten the lot.
    So