Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryham

again.’
    ‘We’ll do all we can to help,’ said Agatha.
    Lucy gave a little shrug. ‘I don’t see what you can do. But thanks anyway. I’m sorry I haven’t offered you anything, but I’m a bit busy at the moment, so . . .’
    Agatha and Charles rose to their feet. ‘Find your own way out?’ Lucy remained seated.
    They said goodbye and walked out to the car.
    ‘What now?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘The solicitors in Norwich.’
    ‘They won’t tell us anything.’
    ‘They might – that is, if the Tomley part of the business is the one I went to school with.’
    The city of Norwich was shrouded in mist, slowly thickening into fog. ‘Hope it doesn’t get worse than this or we’ll need to stay the night here,’ said Charles. ‘Do you know, the fairies have disappeared. No more petty theft.’
    ‘That’s true. Do you think someone stole the petty stuff and flashed lights around to make everyone frightened as a blind, when all the time he really meant to steal the Stubbs?’
    ‘Could be. But there’s something about the petty thefts which smacks of the work of children. We never saw Mrs Jackson’s children, apart from the gardener.’
    ‘And that’s a mystery,’ said Agatha as Charles eased into the car park. ‘How on earth did a woman like that manage to get married two times?’
    ‘No accounting for taste.’ Charles flashed her a wicked look. ‘Is there, Aggie?’
    ‘Stop calling me Aggie and let’s find this solicitor.’
    The solicitors’ offices were in a pleasant old sixteenth-century flint building in a courtyard off Lower Goat Lane. ‘Let’s hope it’s the Tomley I knew and that he’s here and not in court,’ said Charles.
    He gave his card to a motherly looking receptionist. She smiled at them, told them to wait, and said she would see if Mr Tomley was available.
    They sat down in comfortable leather armchairs in front of a low table covered in glossy magazines.
    The receptionist returned, smiled again, and said, ‘Mr Tomley is on the phone. Will you wait? He should only be a few moments.’
    Agatha picked up a magazine about country houses and flicked through it. The offices were very quiet, protected from the sound of traffic by the courtyard outside. Her eyelids began to droop and soon she was fast asleep.
    She awoke with a jerk half an hour later. Charles was shaking her by the shoulder. ‘Come along, Aggie. We’re going for a drink. This is Tommers.’
    Agatha stood up and blinked blearily and focused on a plump, well-tailored man with a red shiny face and thick grey hair. ‘You should have woken me, Charles,’ she admonished.
    ‘You haven’t missed anything,’ said Charles cheerfully, ‘and you look so beautiful when you sleep, snoring gently and with your mouth hanging open.’
    ‘And you make noises like a dog hunting rabbits in your sleep. Whoop, whoop, shiver, whoop,’ said Agatha nastily.
    Then she blushed as Tristan Tomley surveyed both of them with bright-eyed interest.
    ‘Let’s go,’ said Charles, his good humour unabated. ‘Where’s the pub, Tommers?’
    ‘Round the corner. The Goat and Boots.’
    As they walked out into the freezing, foggy air, Tommers said, ‘I doubt if the pair of you will get back tonight. Fog’s bad. I feel in my bones it’s going to be a bad winter.’
    The pub was relatively quiet. They took their drinks to a corner table. ‘Well, Charles,’ said Tommers, ‘what’s this all about? Or did you come the whole way here to reminisce about our school-days?’
    ‘Not quite. You see, I’m staying with Agg–Agatha in Fryfam.’
    ‘Aha. The Trumpington-James murder. Why should you be interested?’
    ‘We like to solve mysteries,’ said Charles. ‘Wanted to ask you about the will.’
    ‘I don’t mind telling you about that. All straightforward. Everything goes to the wife.’
    Agatha had then what she considered as being a sudden flash of intuition. ‘Aha,’ she said, her bearlike eyes boring into the lawyer’s. ‘But what about the other will?’
    ‘What other will?’
    Agatha leaned forward eagerly. ‘The one Tolly was threatening to make just before he was killed. The one in which he cut out his wife and left the money to . . . someone else!’
    Tommers surveyed her with amusement. ‘You mean like in books?’ He burst out laughing. ‘Nothing so sinister. Only one will and no threats of cutting the wife out. I say, Charles. Do you remember old Stuffy?’
    Agatha relapsed into gloom as the reminiscence went