corduroys and red tie. 'Have you heard about the murder?'
'Yes,' said Agatha before Charles could say anything. 'We were the last people to see Tolly Trumpington- James alive.'
'Really!' His eyes lit up. He pulled out a notebook. 'If I can just get your name?'
'Mrs. Agatha Raisin.'
'Age?'
'Forty-five,' lied Agatha, ignoring Charles's snort of laughter.
'And you, sir?'
'This is Sir Charles Fraith,' said Agatha quickly, knowing that Charles would not use his title and Agatha was out to impress.
'Age?'
'Thirty-two,' said Charles maliciously. He was, in fact, in his forties.
'And you have lived here, how long?'
'Only a few days,' said Agatha. 'Sir Charles is my house guest.'
'What brought you to Fryfam?'
'Just a whim. I'd never been to Norfolk before. I've only been here a short while. As a matter of fact, when it to comes to crime-'
But the reporter interrupted her impatiently. 'So tell me how Mr. Trumpington-James seemed to you when you saw him.'
'Bit fussed over the robbery of his Stubbs. Police all over the place. I'd had tea with himself and his wife two days before.'
'And how did they seem? A happy couple?'
Agatha was not prepared to tell the press about Lucy's sus picions and so she said, 'I couldn't really judge. Their cleaner, a Mrs. Jackson, lives behind the garage. She could tell you more than I could.'
Gerry cast a longing look towards the pub. His faithless photographer was in there. He was wondering if he could winkle him out without alerting the others. But for the moment he persevered, asking Agatha what the manor looked like inside, had Tolly been very rich and so on. Then he said, 'I'll just go and see this Mrs. Jackson. Where do you both live when you're not in Fryfam?'
They gave their home addresses. As he was about to leave, Agatha said, 'Oh, have you heard about the fairies?'
Gerry, who had been closing his notebook, opened it again and stared at her. 'Fairies?'
Agatha could hear Polly's voice asking her not to say anything, but her desire to shine was greater than any loyalty to the women of Fryfam. She told Gerry about the mysterious lights and the petty thefts, ending up in the grand theft of the Stubbs. When she had finally finished, Gerry's face was red with excitement. 'Where do you live? I mean, in Fryfam?'
'Lavender Cottage, over there in Pucks Lane.'
'I'll call on you with a photographer if I may.'
'We're going out,' said Charles.
'But if you can make it quick,' put in Agatha. If she got her picture in the newspaper, then James, wherever he was, might see it.
'So you're thirty-two,' jeered Agatha as she and Charles walked off.
'Well, if you're forty-five, sweetie, I'm definitely thirty-two.'
Agatha could feel herself ageing by the minute as they walked home, like She when the Eternal Flame didn't work any more. She was grumpy and guilty because she had told the reporter about the fairies.
Gerry sidled into the pub. The reporters and photographers were all swapping tall tales of their own adventures, and in the middle of the noisiest group was his photographer, Jimmy Henshaw. He was just wondering how to get Jimmy away from the group when the pub door opened and a television crew entered. The newspaper reporters, who all affected to despise television and yet were secretly longing to see their faces on the screen, surged forward to surround the newcomers. Gerry caught Jimmy by the arm and whispered, 'I've got a great story. Meet me outside.'
Gerry went outside again and chewed his thumb nervously, watching the pub door. Just when he thought Jimmy was never going to emerge, the photographer appeared, lugging his camera case.
'This had better be good,' he said sulkily. Rapidly Gerry outlined the story of the fairies.
'Great,' said Jimmy. 'Let's go and see these people.'
Agatha had not expected them so soon and had therefore had not had time to apply that thick layer of make-up, so necessary when being photographed by the press if one did not want to appear ten years older. And she was still wearing her flat shoes. But she led them down the garden and pointed to the place where she had seen the mysterious lights.
'Don't point,' said the cameraman sharply. 'Looks so damn amateur when people point. Just stand there, Agatha, by that tree, next to Charlie. No, don't smile.'
When they had left, Agatha groaned, 'Why did I ever tell that reporter about the fairies?'
'Wanted glory?' suggested Charles. 'Come on, let's get out of this village and find somewhere to eat.'
At last, seated over a late lunch at a roadside pub on the way to Norwich, Charles said, 'What I'm wondering about is this. You seem eager to believe that Rosie is innocent, that Lucy made up all that about Tolly having an affair with her. What if it was all true? What if Tolly planned to run away with Rosie? Lucy somehow nips back from London, slits Tolly's throat, and rushes back.'
'I've a feeling it will be proved she was in London all the time,' said Agatha. 'Now if it were in a book, she would turn out to be a motorcycle fiend or had a friend with a private helicopter. Anyway, all she really wanted from Tolly was Tolly's money, I'm sure of that. If he did run away with Rosie, then all she had to do was divorce him and live happily ever after off the alimony.'
'But why would anyone else want to kill him?'
'Maybe the hunt got tired of him.'
'Joke. But the hunt could be a good start. We'll find out the name of the master and go and see him.'
'How will we do that?'
'Anyone will tell us. Framp will tell us. Have you got a mobile phone?'
'Yes.' Agatha produced one from her handbag. Charles phoned directory inquiries and got the number of the Fryfam police station. He then phoned Framp and asked for the name of the master.
Framp was obviously asking why he wanted to know, for Agatha heard Charles say that he might be staying on longer than expected and would like a bit of hunting. Then Charles made writing motions and Agatha produced a pen and small notebook from her bag. Charles wrote busily, then thanked Framp and rang off.
'Here we are. Captain Tommy Findlay, The Beeches, Breakham, and Breakham is that village we drove through, not far from Fryfam. Drink up your coffee and let's go see him.'
Agatha was aware, as Charles drove her away from the pub, of the mobile phone resting in her handbag. She had a sudden longing to telephone Mrs. Bloxby, but Charles would listen and so she couldn't talk about James. She felt a wave of homesickness, a longing for her own home. She was glad she had brought her cats and wished she had thought to buy them a little treat, like fresh fish.
She worried about that reporter, Gerry. He had predictably said he didn't like cats. Men usually said they didn't like cats but then went on to brag about their own cat, which was somehow an exception to the rule.
Maybe the newspaper wouldn't publish his story. Maybe he was such a failure that they would take their news from one of the agencies and ignore his.
'Here we are,' said Charles, turning up a lane bordered by high hedges. He drove past a farm, through a farmyard, over a cattle grid and so to a square eighteenth-century house.
'Maybe we should have phoned first,' said Agatha.
She started to get out of the car and then retreated back inside and slammed the door as three dogs, one Jack Russell, one Irish setter, and one Border collie, rushed barking towards them.
But Charles was out of the car and patting the dogs and talking to them. 'Come on, Aggie,' he shouted. 'They won't eat you.'
Agatha got out and hurried up to Charles as the dogs sniffed about her. Charles rang the bell. I hope no one's at home, thought Agatha, pushing away the collie, which had thrust its nose up her skirt. The door was opened by a
