Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryham

reminder to keep your pants on next time.’
    ‘Oh, really? And who saved your life, you ungrateful cow?’
    ‘I s’pose . . .’ mumbled Agatha.
    ‘Glad to be going home?’
    ‘I am.’
    ‘James waiting for you?’
    ‘Let’s not talk about James.’
    ‘I think we should,’ said Charles. ‘Look, go and see that therapist I told you about.’
    ‘I don’t need a shrink.’
    ‘When it comes to James Lacey, you need your head straightened out.’
    ‘Don’t nag me. I’ll think about it.’
    The glass repair-man came in with the papers for Charles to sign and said he’d have the window fixed in a matter of minutes.
    ‘Time to go,’ said Charles at last. ‘I wonder if you would mind paying the bill, Aggie. I’m a bit short.’
    Agatha was weary by the time she turned down the winding country lane into Carsely. Somehow, she had pictured that in Carsely it would be warm and the sun would be shining, but night had already fallen and frost was glittering on the branches of the trees that spanned the road.
    She turned into Lilac Lane. There were lights on in James’s cottage and a suffocating feeling of excitement engulfed her. But fear of a cold reception kept her from stopping outside his cottage and rushing in to see him.
    Agatha had phoned her cleaner, Doris Simpson, to warn her of her return. When she let herself in, the cottage was warm. Doris had switched on the central heating. On the kitchen table was a casserole with a note of welcome from Mrs Bloxby.
    ‘Why did I ever leave?’ said Agatha aloud. She let the cats out of their boxes and then went out to get her suitcases.
    A tall blond woman was just leaving James’s cottage. This then must be Mrs Sheppard, thought Agatha sourly. The woman came towards her. ‘Welcome home,’ she said, ‘You must be Agatha Raisin. I’m Melissa Sheppard.’
    ‘Pleased to meet you,’ said Agatha, looking anything but pleased.
    ‘Can I give you a hand in with your luggage?’
    Agatha opened her mouth to say a fierce NO, but then changed her mind. She simply had to find out how close this woman was to James.
    ‘Very kind of you,’ she said instead.
    Melissa Sheppard was blond, forty-something, slim but not the siren Agatha had envisaged.
    ‘Just leave that case in the hall,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll unpack later. Coffee?’
    ‘If it’s not too much trouble.’
    ‘None at all. Come into the kitchen.’
    ‘I’ve just been calling on your neighbour,’ said Melissa. ‘I took him some of my sponge cakes. These bachelors don’t know how to look after themselves.’
    ‘I’ve always found James pretty self-sufficient,’ said Agatha, plugging in the kettle.
    ‘He told me you had investigated several crimes together. Too exciting! And you’ve been involved in another murder. “Poor old thing,” I said to James, but he said, “Don’t worry about Agatha, she’s formidable.”’ And Melissa gave a throaty laugh.
    ‘I’m suddenly very tired,’ said Agatha. ‘Do you mind if we leave coffee to another day?’
    ‘Not at all. I’m always at James’s, so we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.’
    Agatha saw her out and then slammed the door with unnecessary force behind her.
    Then she picked up the phone and dialled Charles’s number. When he came on the line, she said, ‘What’s the name of that therapist?’
    The following day, Agatha walked along to the vicarage. It was as cold as Fryfam. Perhaps people damned the weather in Norfolk in the hope of consoling themselves that winter in Britain was lousier somewhere else.
    Mrs Bloxby greeted Agatha with delight. ‘Come in. I am dying to hear all about your adventures.’
    Agatha settled happily into an armchair in the vicarage sitting-room in front of the log fire. ‘I’ll get tea,’ said Mrs Bloxby.
    Agatha had made an appointment with the therapist for the following week. She now dreamt of coming back to Carsely from a visit to the therapist cured of her obsession with James Lacey.
    Mrs Bloxby came in carrying a laden tea-tray. ‘The fruit-cake’s very good. It’s a present from Mrs Sheppard.’
    ‘Oh, her,’ said Agatha. ‘I met her last night. She seems to be setting her cap at James.’
    Mrs Bloxby’s conscience pricked her. She should tell Agatha that James felt he was being hounded day and night by Mrs Sheppard. But Mrs Bloxby knew how miserable James had made Agatha in the past. She also knew that James had initially ‘come on’ to Mrs Sheppard, as that nasty modern phrase so