Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam (5 page)

She got in the car and drove home and phoned Mrs Bloxby. ‘You can give Charles my number and address and tell him if he’s at a loose end, I’ve got a spare room.’

‘I’ll tell him. How are those mysterious lights?’

‘The locals believe they are fairies.’

‘How interesting! You’re in the Breckland area of Norfolk, aren’t you?’

‘Am I?’

‘Yes, I looked it up on the map. Very old part. There are tumuli and old flint quarries called Grimes Graves. Old places often make people superstitious. I think it’s something in the soil.’

‘Well, I don’t believe in fairies. Probably kids.’

‘Children? Got a lot of them in the village?’

‘Come to think of it, I haven’t seen one.’

‘Good hunting. Alf’s just come home.’

Alf was the vicar, who did not approve of Agatha Raisin.

‘Right, talk to you soon.’ Agatha said goodbye and rang off. Then she felt petty. She had only wanted Charles to come to throw a baronet in Tolly’s vulgar face.

Then she noticed two Calor gas heaters tucked at the side of the hall. She was beginning to think that all these tales of a grim winter were probably exaggerations and hoped she hadn’t made a fuss about nothing.

She took a look in the back garden. Barry was mowing the lawn. It was a bit too late to put through a load of washing and hang it out. She wondered what the weather forecast was. She had not switched on the television set or the radio since her arrival.

Barry waved through the window to her and left. Agatha decided to try that book again. She wrote the title, ‘Death at the Manor’. She had been to the manor, so that was a start. She would start by describing Lucy and Tolly and their vulgar drawing-room and go on from there.

To her surprise, she had managed to write four pages before the doorbell rang. Amy stood on the doorstep. ‘I came to say how sorry I am that I didn’t tell you I worked for the estate agents. But you see, if anything was wrong, I thought you would blame me.’

‘Come in,’ Agatha said reluctantly. She saved what she had written and switched off the computer.

‘Oh, I’ve interrupted your writing,’ said Amy. ‘You must be furious with me.’

‘Not at all. Come through to the kitchen.’ Agatha squinted at her watch. Six-thirty in the evening. ‘Do you want some dinner? I haven’t eaten.’

‘If you’re sure . . .’

‘No, it’s frozen Marks’s stuff. Sit down. Don’t you have dinner with your husband?’

‘Jerry’s in the pub.’ Amy’s eyes filled with tears.

‘Oh, dear. The beautiful Mrs Wilden?’

‘Yes.’ Amy took out a small square of handkerchief and blew her nose fiercely. ‘She’s taken away all our husbands. Harriet wants her tarred and feathered.’

Agatha fished out a bottle of Gordon’s gin she had brought with her. ‘Drink?’

‘Please.’

Agatha made two large gin and tonics. Then she took out two frozen packets of lasagne and put the first one in the microwave, and when that was done, put in the second, then gave the first an extra twirl.

She served the meals and then, sitting down opposite Amy, asked, ‘What does your husband do?’

‘He works for a seed company just outside Norwich.’

‘And is he having an affair with Mrs Wilden?’

‘Oh, no.’

‘Then what’s the problem?’

‘It’s just that he goes to the pub every night, and so does Henry Freemantle and Peter Dart.’

‘Harriet’s and Polly’s husbands, too?’

‘Yes.’ Amy gave a dismal sniff and poked at her lasagne.

‘And all they do is go to look at the fair Mrs Wilden?’

Amy nodded.

‘And does she encourage them?’

‘I don’t think Rosie Wilden has to do anything special. She just is.’

‘So why don’t you and Harriet and Polly go to the pub?’

‘We couldn’t do that!’

‘Why?’ asked Agatha patiently.

‘It’s an old-fashioned village. They don’t mind women in the pub at lunch-time, but they’re frowned on in the evening.’

‘I’ve never heard anything more ridiculous. I’ll phone Polly and Harriet. We’ll all go.’

‘The husbands will be furious.’

‘Time they were.’

Agatha went through to the phone, which was on a small table in the hall. She called through to Amy, ‘What are their phone numbers?’

Amy gave the numbers but then started to protest. Agatha ignored her. She phoned Harriet first and said curtly that Amy was crying her eyes out, so she was taking her to the pub, and did Harriet want to come and bring Polly.

There was a silence and then Harriet said harshly, ‘Do you know what you are doing?’

‘Well, yes. I don’t see why you should all be stuck at home while your husbands are in the pub. Into battle, Harriet.’

‘All right,’ said Harriet. ‘I’ll do it. Damn it. I’ll
do
it.’

‘See you both there in half an hour.’ Agatha rang off and returned to the kitchen.

‘Right, Amy,’ she said. ‘Upstairs with me. I’m going to make your face up.’

‘But I never wear make-up. Jerry doesn’t like me wearing make-up.’

‘I think your trouble is you always do what Jerry wants. Upstairs.’

Agatha deftly worked on Polly’s face – foundation cream, powder, blusher, mascara, eyeshadow and lipstick. ‘There!’ she said at last. ‘You look more like a human being.’

She jerked open her wardrobe door and took out a black dress. ‘Pop this on. What size of shoes do you wear?’

‘Fives. But –’

‘You need heels. Nothing like heels to give you confidence. Get a move on.’

Amy, used to bending to any will stronger than her own, meekly put on the little black dress and a pair of high-heeled shoes. Agatha put some gold jewellery round her neck. ‘Now, straighten your shoulders. Right. Great. Forward march!’

Harriet and Polly were waiting outside the pub. ‘You look glamorous, Amy,’ said Harriet. This was a wild exaggeration, but had the effect of making Amy smile with delight.

‘Here we go,’ said Agatha Raisin and pushed open the door.

Behind the bar, in the low, smoky room full of men, Rosie Wilden glowed like a jewel. She was wearing a soft white chiffon blouse with a plunging neckline.

Agatha found a table in a corner for her new friends. Silence had fallen at their entrance and the silence continued as Agatha walked to the bar and said to Rosie Wilden, ‘Have you any champagne?’

‘I do indeed, Mrs Raisin.’

‘Two bottles,’ ordered Agatha. ‘That’s for starters.’

‘Big occasion?’

‘Yes, my birthday,’ lied Agatha.

She returned through the still silent men to the table. ‘Our husbands are glaring at us,’ whispered Amy. ‘That’s the three of them, over at the bar.’

‘Good,’ said Agatha. ‘Now when the champagne arrives, I want you all to sing “Happy Birthday to You”.’

‘Is it your birthday?’ asked Polly.

‘No, but they don’t know that and you don’t want to look as if you’ve come in to check on them.’

Rosie Wilden came round the bar with a tray of glasses. Then she turned and shouted, ‘Barry, could you be a love and bring the bottles and ice bucket over here?’

Agatha’s gardener came up with the bottles and ice bucket. He was not overwhelmingly handsome, but, decided Agatha, he was the best-looking man in the pub. ‘Barry,’ cried Agatha. ‘Do join us. It’s my birthday.’

Barry grinned and shuffled his feet. ‘I’m with me two mates.’

‘Bring them over. We’d better have two more bottles, Mrs Wilden.’

Barry returned with his two friends and they crammed in round the table. Rosie deftly opened the first bottle. To Agatha’s delight, Barry, unprompted, began to sing ‘Happy Birthday to You’ in a strong baritone. He was joined by his friends, and then Harriet, Polly and Amy joined in.

‘You have a lovely voice, Barry,’ said Agatha. ‘Know anything else?’

Barry, who had been already well oiled before he started on the champagne, got to his feet and proceeded to give them an Elvis Presley impersonation, ‘Jailhouse Rock’, complete with gyrating hips and pretend guitar.

The three women, aware of their glaring husbands over by the bar, laughed and cheered. One of Barry’s friends, Mark, a weedy youth with a rolled-up cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, said, ‘Don’t half cheer the place up, a bit of a song. What about one of you ladies?’

To Agatha’s amusement, Polly, slightly red about the nose – must have had a few to bolster her, thought Agatha – rose to her feet and belted out ‘The Fishermen of England’, while they all drank steadily and more champagne appeared. The locals, hungry for a free drink, began to crowd round the table until the errant husbands were left isolated at the bar.

‘Why don’t those three join the party?’ shouted Agatha.

‘That’s our husbands,’ said Harriet.

‘Your
husbands!
’ Agatha affected amazement. ‘What on earth are they doing on their own? Do they come to ogle the barmaid?’

The three promptly came over but could not get near the table for the crowd. Agatha called for more songs and more champagne and kept the party going until Rosie called, ‘Time, gentlemen, please.’

They all crowded out into the night. ‘What a marvellous evening,’ said Agatha loudly. ‘See you here tomorrow night, girls?’

The ‘girls’ were now flanked by their glaring husbands, but Harriet said gamely, ‘Same time, same place, Agatha.’

Agatha saw the lank figure of the village policeman crossing the green and decided to leave her car where it was. She walked home, somewhat unsteadily, let herself in and swallowed as much cold water as she could to try to stave off next morning’s hangover.

Next morning, she was awakened by a furious ringing of her doorbell. She put on a dressing-gown and struggled downstairs. The clock in the hall said eight o’clock.

She opened the door, blinking in the strong sunlight, and focused on the wrathful face of Henry Freemantle.

‘We want you to leave our wives alone,’ he said truculently.

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘That pub is for men.’

‘Apart from the delicious Rosie?’

He reddened. ‘I’m warning you.’

‘See this door?’ said Agatha. ‘Take a good, close look at it.’

She slammed it in his face.

What time-warp have I landed in, she thought angrily, but she felt hung over and shaken. Once more she toyed with the idea of packing up and going home. She fed the cats and let them out into the garden and went back to bed and immediately fell asleep, not waking until noon.

She showered and dressed, feeling much better. A good walk was what she needed. This glorious weather would not last forever.

She walked out on the road leading past the police station and the manor lodge. The air was sweet with the scent of pine. A hill wound upwards. She reached the top and paused in amazement. The road before her dipped down to flatland as far as the eye could see. An enormous sky stretched out over her head. She walked down and along the straight ribbon of road. She walked until she came to a broad lake bordered by reeds. A light breeze ruffled its glassy surface, which mirrored the small puffy clouds in the blue sky above. She sat down on a rock. Behind her, a stone plover called. Agatha did not know the name of the bird, only that the sound made her feel lonely and isolated.

But then the bird fell silent and after a time the loneliness ebbed, leaving her enfolded in a strange feeling of peace. She lit a cigarette and then promptly stubbed it out. Cigarettes tasted foul in fresh air. The old Agatha would have chucked the unsmoked cigarette into the lake. The new Agatha put it in her pocket, not wanting any passing duck to gobble it up.

A skein of geese flew far overhead. Agatha sat dreaming about not much in particular, soothed by the lapping of the water and the breeze rustling through the tall reeds.

At last she rose and stood up. She felt slightly stiff and all her ease left her. She was suddenly sharply aware of being middle-aged. Was it worth all the effort to keep age at bay with exercise and anti-wrinkle creams? There was always the temptation to let it all go, let the hair grow in grey, let the chin sag and come to terms with age.

She looked towards the horizon, shading her eyes. There was a black line of cloud and thin wisps were streaming out from it like the fingers of approaching winter. The air had become cold. Diminished now by the grandeur of the spacious landscape, Agatha headed homewards, glad as she walked back up the hill again and found herself enclosed on either side by the whispering pine trees, the bleak immensity of the flatland behind her now blotted out. Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she had not eaten anything.

She was walking up to her cottage when she came across Lucy Trumpington-James. ‘I’ve been looking for you,’ she said abruptly. ‘What’s all this about your birthday party in the pub? You might have told me.’

‘Come in,’ said Agatha, leading the way up the garden path and remembering at the same time that her car was still parked outside the pub. She unlocked the door. ‘I’ll let you into a secret, Lucy. It wasn’t really my birthday. I was just trying to cheer up the local ladies. Their husbands had deserted them to gawk at the charms of Rosie Wilden.’

Lucy followed her into the kitchen and sat down at the kitchen table. ‘That trollop.’

‘Are you sure she’s a trollop? She seems kind. She can’t help it if she’s pretty.’

‘Oh, yeah? Well, I think she’s having an affair with Tolly.’

‘Have you asked him?’

‘Yes, but he denies it, of course.’

‘So what proof do you have?’

‘Rosie makes her own rose perfume. Sickly stuff. I came back from the hairdresser in Norwich and the smell of the stuff was in our bedroom, and Tolly had changed the bed and washed the sheets. When did Tolly ever wash sheets? He said some woman from the hunt committee had been round and had used our bathroom, which is off our bedroom, to repair her make-up. He pointed out that Rosie gives the perfume all round the village.’

‘And the sheets?’

‘He says this woman took a drink up with her and spilt some on the bed.’

‘Oh, dear.’

‘I asked for her name and he went into a fury and said I was always picking on him and he wants a divorce.’

Agatha plugged in the electric coffee percolator. ‘But I mean, wouldn’t divorce be a good idea? Then you could move back to London.’