Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryham

all over the kitchen floor.
    ‘You bitch,’ she hissed. ‘How did you find out? It’s that Jackson woman, isn’t it?’
    Agatha stared at her in amazement. A steely wind outside rattled the bare dry branches of a tree against the window. Somewhere a dog barked and children laughed. The mysterious Jackson children?
    ‘Sit down,’ said Agatha. ‘Look, I’ll help you mop up. I was teasing you. I didn’t know. But I want to know now. But come to think of it, I don’t need to know who it is unless it’s Tolly.’
    Amy slumped down at the kitchen table, her feet in a pool of water.
    ‘I may as well tell you. It’s got nothing to do with any of this. It’s Mr Bryman.’
    ‘Your boss, the estate agent?’ asked Agatha, amazed as she thought of the damp and unlovely Mr Bryman. ‘Where does this affair take place? Here, when Jerry’s away?’
    ‘No, Cecil – that’s Mr Bryman – said it was too dangerous. In the office on a quiet day.’
    Where? Agatha wanted to ask. On the desk? Behind the filing cabinets? The mind boggled.
    ‘You won’t say anything,’ pleaded Amy. ‘It’s just a bit of fun.’
    ‘No, but where does Mrs Jackson come into all this?’
    ‘She found out. She used to clean the office one morning a week. But she came in one evening and caught us at it. She said she had to call at the school in the morning because one of her kids was in trouble, so she’d decided to do it the night before. She has a key, of course.’
    ‘I’m beginning to think Mrs Jackson has keys to places all over the village,’ said Agatha. ‘Here, let me help you mop up this water.’
    ‘It’s all right. I’ll do it.’
    ‘So what did Mrs Jackson say?’
    ‘Nothing then. But she dropped in when Cecil was out one day. She began to hint that it would be awful if my husband knew. I don’t know whether she meant to blackmail me or not, but just in case, I said, “You’d best be careful what you say, I’ve got the tape recorder running, and if you blackmail me I’m going straight to the police.” I hadn’t got the tape recorder running, but she didn’t know that. She got very flustered and said she couldn’t understand why I could think such an evil thing. She was a God-fearing woman, and yak, yak, yak. Oh, God, there’s Jerry back. You’d better go. He’s never forgiven you for that evening in the pub.’
    ‘I’m off.’ Agatha smiled weakly at Jerry as he came into the kitchen and he responded with a glare.
    As she walked across the village green, her mind was buzzing with ideas. Must tell Charles. Promising not to tell anyone didn’t include Charles.
    Somehow, the solution to both murders was there in the back of her head. It was only a matter of looking at things differently.

Chapter Eight

    Charles was lying on the sofa with the cats on his lap when Agatha burst into the sitting-room. ‘I think I’ve got something,’ cried Agatha, ‘but I don’t know what it is.’
    Charles gently placed the cats on the floor and swung his legs down and sat up.
    ‘Sit down, Aggie, take off your coat, and stop your eyes bulging and I’ll get you a drink.’
    Agatha sat down on the sofa. Charles handed her a gin and tonic and then poured a whisky and water for himself. ‘Begin at the beginning,’ said Charles. ‘What did Amy say to get you so excited?’
    Agatha carefully recounted everything she had found out. ‘Now that is interesting,’ said Charles. ‘Not about her affair, which doesn’t bear thinking about, but about Mrs Jackson. Let’s say Mrs Jackson is a blackmailer. Who does she blackmail?’
    ‘Lucy,’ said Agatha. ‘Back to square one. And yet, I’ve a feeling we’ve been looking at things the wrong way round.’
    ‘Could be. Mrs Jackson witnesses the new will. She tells Lucy. Forget for a moment about Lucy’s alibi. She subsequently blackmails Lucy.’
    ‘So what’s that got to do with Paul Redfern?’
    ‘I don’t know. Stop asking awkward questions and let me think.’
    They went over it and over it without getting any farther.
    At last, they decided to eat and have an early night. But Agatha found she could not sleep. How odd, that affair of Amy’s. Agatha began to wonder if she, Agatha, was one of those romantic prudes, always living in dreams. Maybe it wasn’t just the young who could indulge in casual sex without conscience. But perhaps Amy was in love with her Cecil.
    Her thoughts turned to Lucy. Lucy had suspected her husband was having an affair with Rosie