'Not necessary. It could mean the cuckolded huntsman,' said Charles.
'I wish it were all over,' sighed Harriet. 'First those danc ing lights, and now this. At least the village has stayed solid.'
'About what?' asked Agatha.
'The lights, of course. We don't want everyone saying we're some yokel nuts who believe in fairies.'
Charles looked quizzically at Agatha, who said rapidly, 'I think someone's bound to have said something. I mean, look at all the gossip that came out of the gamekeeper. Where does he live?'
'He's got a cottage on the estate. He's wondering what's going to happen to him now.'
There was a ring at the doorbell. 'I'll get it,' said Charles. He returned and said to Agatha, 'It's Hand and his sidekick. I've put them in the sitting-room.'
Agatha suppressed a groan. The three woman rose rapidly to their feet. 'We'd best be going. We've had enough of the police,' said Polly.
Reluctantly, Agatha went through to the sitting-room. With a sinking heart, she noticed Hand was clutching her manuscript.
'Just a few more questions, Mrs. Raisin. Do you not think it a remarkable coincidence that the owner of the manor in your book should have his throat cut and that Mr. Trumpington-James should be murdered in the same way?'
'Remarkable,' said Agatha wearily.
'Where were you on the night of the murder?'
'I went to the pub with Charles and we came back here.'
'I suppose you will vouch for him and he will vouch for you?'
'Yes, but look here. Neither of us knew the TrumpingtonJameses before we came here. What motive would we have?'
'Well, let's take you, for instance. We've been checking up on you. You seem to have been involved in a lot of murders and you are not shy of publicity. Let's say, you know the value of publicity. You ran a public relations firm before you took early retirement.'
'So where's this leading?' asked Agatha, wondering where Charles was and why he wasn't in the sitting- room, supporting her.
'The point is this.' Hand held up the manuscript. 'Now this is not well-written. But some publisher might offer a hefty sum for it because of the tie-in with the murder.'
'You potty man,' said Agatha furiously. 'Are you trying to say that I would come all the way to Norfolk to bump someone off just to get a book sold?'
'We are just examining all the angles.'
'Examine this! I do not know how to operate Tolly's burglar alarm, and whoever did must have murdered him, which leaves only Mrs. Jackson or Lucy.'
Hand looked at her with mournful eyes. 'If only it were as simple as that. Not only did Mrs. Jackson know the code, but the gamekeeper, the gardener and most of the hunt.'
'What?'
'Mr. Trumpington-Jones, after he had the burglar-alarm system installed, kept forgetting the code. He got drunk at a hunt dinner and kept telling everyone who would listen to write it down for him so they could remind him.'
'So what was the point of having a burglar-alarm system installed in the first place?'
'Oh, he evidently told his wife that they were all decent chaps around here. It was to protect him from city thieves, not local people.'
'I can't tell you anything further,' said Agatha. 'Like I said, that death in my book and the death of Tolly is sheer coinci dence. How on earth could I think that anyone in this day and age would use a cutthroat razor?' She looked sharply at Hand. 'It was his own razor, wasn't it?'
'I see no harm in telling you. No, it wasn't his own razor.'
'Oh, then, it should be easy to trace the owner. I read a Dorothy Sayers's detective story where-'
'Spare us,' said Hand nastily. 'You can still buy cutthroat razors at boot sales and in some antique shops.'
'It still strikes me as a daft idea. Why not just club him or poison him?'
'This way would be fast and deadly and quiet,' said Hand.
Where was Charles? 'Don't you want to question Sir Charles further?' asked Agatha.
'Not at the moment.' Hand rose to his feet.
'May I have my manuscript back?'
'We'll keep it for the moment. I assume you have a copy of this on your computer?'
'Yes, but-'
'So you won't be needing this. We'll be in touch.'
Charles was lurking in the hall when Agatha let the police out.
She was about to berate him for having left her alone with the police when the phone rang. She picked up the receiver. It was Mrs. Bloxby. 'I heard about the murder on television,' said the vicar's wife. 'Are you all right?'
'Yes, I'm fine. Charles is here, although,' added Agatha waspishly, 'he's not much help.'
Charles grinned and strolled off into the kitchen.
'So you'll be staying on for a bit?'
'I feel I have to. To see if I can solve the murder.'
'Why? You're not connected to anyone there.'
'The thing is this: I thought I'd try my hand at writing a detective story. This was before the murder.'
'But I don't see-'
'Listen!' said Agatha. 'I called the damned thing Death at the Manor and in the book the owner of the manor gets his throat cut with an open razor and bingo, the owner here goes and gets his throat cut with an open razor. And what's worse, I based the characters on those of Tolly Trumpington-James and his wife, so you see ... Are you laughing?' she demanded angrily as a stifled snort sounded down the phone.
Another snort and then chuckles. 'I'd better go,' said Agatha furiously.
'No, wait!' Mrs. Bloxby recovered herself. 'I've a bit of news.'
'What?' asked Agatha sulkily.
'I was passing James's cottage the other day and that girl he let use it was packing stuff into a car. She said she'd had a postcard from James, and James is expected back next week.'
Agatha felt as if she had been punched in the stomach.
Then she said slowly, 'I'll stay on for a bit, you know. The police are still asking me questions.'
'I'm sure they are,' said Mr. Bloxby with a giggle.
'Goodbye. I've got to go.' Agatha slammed down the phone and marched into the kitchen. 'You'll never believe it,' she stormed at Charles. 'I told Mrs. Bloxby about the mess I'd got into because I wrote that detective story and she laughed.'
'Think of it, Aggie,' said Charles. 'It's such a sort of Agatha Raisin thing to have done.'
'I don't see ... Oh, I suppose it is funny in way.' They both began to laugh helplessly. At last Agatha recovered and wiped her eyes. 'What a lot of ghouls we are. Poor Tolly. We shouldn't laugh. What are we to do now?'
'I think we should relax for what's left of the day and tackle Mrs. Jackson in the morning.'
The vicar of Carsely, Alf Bloxby, came into the room just as his wife was replacing the receiver. 'What was so funny?' he asked.
'That was Agatha Raisin.' She told him about the coincidence of Agatha's story and the murder. 'I shouldn't have laughed,' she said contritely. 'I mean, it's not at all funny. That poor man. Why did I laugh, Alf?'
He sighed. 'We're like the police and the press, we deal with so many sad cases that sometimes inappropriate laughter is our way of coping with things. Shouldn't you be on your way to see Mrs. Marble?'
'Yes, I'm just going.' Alf was right, thought Mrs. Bloxby, as she walked through the village. Take Mrs. Marble, for instance. The poor woman was dying of cancer. But she was querulous, bitter and demanding. She had made out a new will, cutting out her daughter and grandchildren and leaving all her money to a cat's home. Mrs. Bloxby
