Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryham

Wilden. Only it wasn’t Rosie Wilden, it was Lizzie. But then Lucy had almost seemed to want to forget she had ever mentioned the subject. And why had Lucy asked her, Agatha, to investigate her husband in the first place – a woman, a stranger who only claimed to have had some success as a detective? A blind? Why?
    What if, just what if, Lucy was having an affair? Let’s turn it on its head. Lucy is having an affair. She wants the money and she wants to get away with her lover. She gets this lover to bump off her husband. First she hears about the will from Mrs Jackson and steals the Stubbs. Okay, so far, so good. What prompts her to get rid of it when the insurance money would add to what she’s going to get? And what about Paul Redfern? He was murdered after the will was found. Maybe he knew something. Maybe he’d decided to try a spot of blackmail himself.
    Agatha groaned and got out of bed. She went into Charles’s room and shook him awake.
    ‘Agatha,’ he said, smiling up at her. ‘I thought you would never ask.’
    ‘It’s not that, Charles. Look, I’m nearly on to something.’
    He sighed and got out of bed. ‘Let’s go downstairs and see what we can work out.’
    In the sitting-room, he piled logs on the red glow of ash in the hearth. ‘So let’s hear it,’ he said.
    Agatha went over her muddled thoughts, ending up with ‘So you see, if Lucy had a lover, it would all fall into place.’
    ‘I never liked that Jackson woman,’ said Charles. ‘Now if Lucy had a lover, the trouble is it could be a member of the hunt that we haven’t even thought about.’
    Agatha sat forward in the armchair. ‘Wait a bit. Hunt members would mostly have money. So Lucy could just divorce Tolly and marry her lover.’
    ‘Maybe he’s married already.’
    ‘Then there would be no point in murdering Tolly.’
    ‘True. So is it some village swain?’
    They looked at each other.
    ‘What about the gardener, Barry Jones?’ exclaimed Agatha. ‘And he’s Mrs Jackson’s son. Mrs Jackson goes on about how loving Lucy and Tolly were and yet by all accounts Lucy hated her. But if Lucy was having an affair with Barry Jones, her son, she would cover up for her. Barry married to the wealthy Lucy would mean money for Mrs Jackson. So let’s suppose that Paul Redfern knows something and tries to blackmail Lucy and she tells Mrs Jackson and Barry shoots him to keep him quiet. Should we phone the police?’
    ‘Come on, Aggie. They’d think we were mad. What proof have we that Barry was having an affair with Lucy?’
    ‘Someone must know in this village,’ said Agatha. ‘It’s such a little world. Barry worked as gardener up at the manor. They could have carried on an affair easily, what with Tolly being away a lot romancing Lizzie. Tolly spent a whole month with Lizzie. What excuse did he give Lucy, or did he just have a fling with Lizzie during the day and return at night?’
    Charles sighed. ‘There’s not much more we can do tonight. I tell you what. Let’s try to have a word with Rosie Wilden in the morning, before the pub opens. I bet she knows all the gossip.’
    Agatha awoke to a white morning. There had been a heavy frost the night before. Everything glittered in weak sunlight. Even the cobwebs on a bush outside the kitchen door were perfectly rimed in frost.
    The cottage felt like an icebox. Agatha lit the Calor gas heaters and put on a pot of coffee before waking Charles. She saw no reason why Charles should lie in bed long enough to wake up to a warm house. Agatha Raisin did not like to suffer alone.
    ‘It all seemed so logical last night,’ mourned Agatha. ‘Now it seems like a load of old rubbish.’
    ‘Never mind. We’ll check out Rosie, and we’ll eat a proper breakfast before we go.’
    They set out an hour later. The sun was now a small red eye of a disc high above, behind a thin layer of hazy cloud. ‘I don’t care how many more murders there are,’ said Charles. ‘I’m going to be home for Christmas.’
    ‘Christmas,’ echoed Agatha. ‘It looks like a Christmas card here already.’
    ‘I suppose if we knock at the front door of the pub, no one will answer,’ said Charles. ‘Rosie might think it’s some drunk. We’ll try the back.’
    They went along a passage at the side of the pub, through a gate, and into a back garden dotted with chairs and tables. ‘She must use the garden in the summer,’ said Agatha.
    There was a clattering of dishes from the kitchen. Charles knocked