Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryham

was as much in love with all this countryside business as he seems to have been, then we should spend some time talking with the gamekeeper. It’s too late to see him now. We’ll try tomorrow.’
    The doorbell rang. ‘What now?’ said Agatha, going to answer it. She came back followed by Hand.
    ‘We found all the stuff hidden in a shed at the back of Mrs Jackson’s cottage. Her kids took it,’ he said.
    ‘Who are they?’ asked Agatha. ‘I’ve never seen them.’
    ‘There’s four of the brats! Wayne, he’s four; Terry, six; Sharon, seven, and Harry, eight. They said it was a bit of a joke. They’d hitched up an old set of Christmas-tree lights to a battery. I don’t know how they got in your place, but they said a lot of people didn’t lock their doors, or there was a window left open.’
    ‘What about the Stubbs?’
    ‘They deny ever having been near the manor house. It doesn’t help us with the murderer, finding the Stubbs. Taking little objects is one thing, but taking a large painting is another.’
    He looked at them narrowly. ‘Have you two would-be detectives discovered anything?’
    ‘Nothing,’ chorused Agatha and Charles.
    ‘I’m warning you. We need every bit of information we can get. I need not remind you of what will happen to the pair of you if I find you have been obstructing the police in a murder investigation by not passing on valuable information.’
    ‘Anything else?’ asked Agatha sweetly.
    ‘Nothing for the moment,’ he said grimly.
    Agatha saw him out and then returned to Charles, looking uneasy.
    ‘Let’s hope Lizzie doesn’t suddenly decide to talk to the police after all.’
    ‘Just so long as she doesn’t say she talked to us first – and I don’t see why she should – we’ll be in the clear.’
    Agatha awoke the next morning and the first thought in her head was the forthcoming visit to the gamekeeper. The second thought was of James and she realized she was thinking about him less and less. Instead of being relieved that her obsession was fading, Agatha felt uneasy but did not understand why. The fact was that Agatha Raisin did not like to be left alone in the company of Agatha Raisin, and she obscurely sensed that without her obsession, there would be an emptiness in her brain, a cushion against reality. She rose and peeked round the door of Charles’s bedroom. He was fast asleep, lying neat and composed.
    Agatha went downstairs and dialled the Carsely vicarage number. The vicar answered. ‘Oh, it’s you, is it?’ he said grumpily. ‘Hang on.’ Agatha could hear him shouting, ‘It’s that Raisin woman on the phone.’
    Mrs Bloxby came on the line. ‘How are you getting on?’ she asked.
    ‘Not getting very far,’ said Agatha.
    ‘Charles still there?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘James isn’t back yet. He must have been delayed.’
    ‘That’s not why I was phoning,’ said Agatha defensively. ‘I just wondered how you were getting on.’
    ‘Pretty much the same as usual, and the pub stays the same as usual, you’ll be glad to know. We’ve got a new woman in the village, a widow, a Mrs Sheppard, very go-ahead. She headed the pub protest. I think she will be a useful addition to the ladies’ society. Very good at organizing things.’
    Agatha felt a sharp pang of jealousy. ‘Sounds a bit like a bossy boots to me,’ she commented sourly. ‘I can almost picture her. Tweed and support hose and permed hair.’
    ‘No, Mrs Sheppard is in her forties, blond, very smart. Great sense of humour. She’s opened a florist’s shop in Moreton and does the flowers for the church so beautifully.’
    I’ve got to get back, thought Agatha, before this harpy gets her hands on James.
    ‘I thought you would be back by now,’ she realized Mrs Bloxby was saying.
    ‘I’m a bit fed up with things here,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll probably be back by tom–’
    She broke off and gave a gasp.
    ‘What is it?’ demanded Mrs Bloxby. ‘Are you all right?’
    ‘Call you back.’ Agatha slowly replaced the phone. Through the half-open door, she could see the gilt edge of a picture frame.
    She walked into the kitchen. Propped against the kitchen table was an oil painting of a man holding a horse.
    ‘Charles!’ screamed Agatha.
    There was a muffled exclamation from upstairs. Then Charles could be heard hurrying down the stairs. He came into the kitchen. He was stark naked. ‘Blimey,’ he said. ‘The Stubbs.’
    ‘It is. Isn’t it?’
    He moved forward.