Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryham

factual account. The old Agatha would have bragged and told a highly embroidered story. He did not know that most of Agatha’s mind was on James.
    ‘Anyway, I’d better get back on duty,’ he said. ‘It’s good to have you back. We’ll maybe have dinner next week?’
    ‘Lovely. Give me a ring.’
    Agatha waved him goodbye and then carried her dirty laundry down to the washing machine in the kitchen. Again the doorbell went. She was half inclined not to answer it. But she went and opened the door.
    James Lacey stood there, looking down at her.
    Agatha blinked. She had imagined him there so many times that at first she thought if she blinked very hard he would disappear and the figure would reappear as someone ordinary, like the postman.
    ‘Any chance of coffee, Agatha?’ asked James. ‘Have you something in your eye?’
    ‘No, I’m fine. Come in. Melissa’s looking for you.’
    ‘Oh, that tiresome woman.’
    ‘Could you put the kettle on, James? I’m going upstairs for a minute.’
    Agatha dived into her bedroom and made up her face carefully and brushed her thick hair until it shone.
    Then she went downstairs. James was standing with his back to her, spooning coffee into two mugs.
    He turned round. Oh, that smile! ‘So what’s all this murder and mayhem you’ve been involved in?’
    So Agatha sat down and told her story again.
    James handed her a mug of coffee and then sat down opposite her and stretched out his long legs. When she had finished, he said, ‘You and Charles seem to be close.’
    ‘Oh, no,’ protested Agatha. ‘Just friends.’
    ‘You weren’t just friends in Cyprus.’
    ‘That was a one-off,’ said Agatha, blushing. ‘I was upset and you were being so awful to me.’ She felt suddenly miserable. James looked angry. Soon he would get up and walk out and that would be that.
    ‘I wanted to go over to Norfolk, but Mrs Bloxby told me that you and Charles were an item.’
    ‘She wouldn’t say that!’ Agatha looked amazed. ‘She couldn’t have said that. Not Mrs Bloxby!’
    ‘Come to think of it, she just implied it.’
    ‘There’s nothing there and never will be. What’s it to you, anyway?’
    ‘I planned to take you out for a romantic dinner and say this, but what the hell, here goes. Agatha Raisin, will you marry me?’
    Agatha clutched at the kitchen table for support. ‘Have I heard you properly? Do you want to marry me?’
    ‘Yes.’
    ‘Why?’
    He looked irritated. ‘Because life is very dull without you and I have bores like Melissa preying on me.’
    The little bit of common sense that was left in Agatha’s mind was shouting to her that he had not said anything about love. She ignored it.
    ‘Yes, okay,’ she said. ‘When?’
    ‘After Christmas. January sometime. I’ll run over to the registry office in Mircester and fix things up.’
    ‘Don’t you want a church wedding?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Not really.’
    ‘Oh, all right, then.’
    James got to his feet. ‘I’ll pick you up for dinner at eight.’
    ‘Yes.’
    He kissed the top of her head and left.
    Agatha sat in a daze.
    After all the waiting and longing, here it was at last. She had to tell someone. The doorbell went again.
    Melissa Sheppard stood there, again. ‘Someone told me that James came in here,’ she said.
    ‘Yes, he was here.’ Happiness lit up Agatha’s face. ‘We’re going to be married.’
    ‘What! That’s not possible.’
    ‘Why, may I ask?’
    ‘He’s been sleeping with me.’
    ‘Just go away!’ Agatha banged the door in her face. Her hands were trembling. No, she would not confront James about Melissa. He was marrying Agatha Raisin and that was that. Nothing and no one was going to stop that. She tried to settle down to housekeeping but found she could not. She phoned Charles.
    ‘I’m going to cancel that therapist,’ she said. ‘James and I are getting married.’
    ‘Mistake, darling. He’ll try to turn you into a Lizzie and he won’t be able to, so the pair of you will fight like cat and dog.’
    ‘Rubbish. I’ve a good mind not to invite you to the wedding.’
    ‘I wouldn’t miss it for worlds. I like a good funeral.’
    Fuming, Agatha hung up on him. Then she thought, Mrs Bloxby, dear Mrs Bloxby would wish her well.
    She put on her coat and marched off to the vicarage. ‘What’s the matter?’ asked Mrs Bloxby, opening the door to her. ‘You look upset. Come in.’
    ‘I’m the happiest woman in the world,’ said Agatha firmly.
    ‘Why is