had tried in vain to get her to make a more reasonable will. Occasional jokes with her husband about the terrible Mrs. Marble enabled her to go on calling on her, and doing what she could to help. Humour was a necessary weapon against the pains and tribulations of life.
FIVE
AGATHA tossed and turned all night, wondering what to do. Part of her longed to rush back to Carsely and get her cottage ready, to visit the beautician, the hairdresser, the dress shops, to prepare for James's arrival. The sensible part of her mind told her that it would be a waste of time. She and James would never be friends again.
Around dawn, she suddenly fell into a heavy sleep and did not wake until ten in the morning. She got out of bed, amazed that the police had not been hammering on the door. She put on a dressing-gown and trailed down to the kitchen.
Charles was sitting at the kitchen table, newspapers spread out in front of him.
'Anything interesting?' asked Agatha.
'Oh, yes. The Radical Voice. Front page. `The Fairies of Fryfam.',
'God. They'll lynch me in this village. I would have thought the other papers would have been beating on the door.'
'They were. You were fast asleep. I expected the onslaught, so I drove both our cars at dawn out of the village and hid them in a side road and didn't answer the door. They assumed we had both fled.'
'Should I read it?'
'Gerry's precious prose? No, better not.'
'Let me see it.' Agatha sat down opposite him and seized The Radical Voice. The first awful sight that met her eyes was a coloured photograph of herself and Charles. Charles looked dapper and amused. But she! The camera had cruelly accentuated every line on her face. 'Is that grey hairs?' she asked, peering closely at the photograph.
'You've got a few grey roots,' said Charles.
Agatha read the article with growing dismay. It would be clear to everyone in the village that Agatha Raisin had babbled about the fairies, and at great length. Now she definitely had a good excuse to go home.
'They'll lynch me,' she said. 'I was going back to Carsely anyway. Better go home today.'
'James home?'
Agatha blushed angrily. His eyes searched her face. 'But he's coming home. Last night after that phone call from Mrs. Bloxby, you were elated one minute and fidgety and miserable the next. We've talked about this before. A friend of mind went to a very good therapist in Harley Street for your problem.'
'I don't have a problem.'
'Oh, yes, you do. You are a grown woman who is obsessing over a cold man. Before you go back to Carsely, which you should not do until we discover a bit more about this murder, you should go to this therapist first. Just think how free you would feel if you didn't care, Agatha. Think of facing James again and not caring. How long is it since you had any fun with James? No, don't yell at me off the top of your head. Think!'
Agatha said, 'I don't like to be bullied.'
'You don't like a sensible suggestion either. Promise me you'll at least try this therapist.'
'Anything to shut you up. Where's Mrs. Jackson?'
'I called her at her cottage and told her not to come until tomorrow.'
'We can't hide in here all day.'
'No, we'll walk a back route to the cars, take yours and go to Norwich, where you will get your hair done.'
'I s'pose,' grumbled Agatha. 'I'd better have some breakfast.'
'By which you mean two cups of coffee and three cigarettes. The coffee's ready in the pot and your cigarettes are on the table.'
'What on earth is Hand going to say about these fairies? He'll say I've been holding out on him.'
'He'll know about the lights. I can't see Tolly holding back that bit of information when Hand was investigating the theft of the Stubbs.'
The day was quiet and misty, a grey, dreamy landscape. They set out looking to right and left to make sure no reporter was lurking in the bushes. Charles had warned her to wear her wellingtons and carry her shoes, for the way he took her led over a stile at the end of Pucks Lane and across a field of stubble.
They climbed over another stile and into a lane to where he had parked the cars at the end of it. Agatha removed her muddy boots and put on her shoes. She drove off slowly through the mist and onto the main road. 'We can't hide out forever,' she said.
'Give it another day and you won't be the only one to have talked about fairies. In fact, I'll bet you if we watch the news when we get back, some of them will be standing in front of a camera talking happily about the little people. It always amazes me how people will refuse to talk to newspaper reporters and yet welcome a television crew into their homes.'
'We'll have lunch in Norwich first,' said Agatha, 'and then I'll leave you to entertain yourself while I find a hairdresser.'
Charles waited by Agatha's car in a parking lot in Norwich. They had arranged to meet at five o'clock. The mist had lifted and a late sun was shining down. Then he saw Agatha coming towards him and smiled. Her thick hair was once more a glossy brown. Her face had been skillfully made up. She was wearing a new jacket and skirt in a soft heathery tweed. He excellent legs were encased in fine tights, ending in a new pair of court shoes. Agatha, reflected Charles, would never be a beauty, but she carried with her a strong aura of sexual magnetism of which she was entirely unaware.
'You clean up a treat,' he said. 'Let's see if we can get back in time for the six-o'clock news.'
'Do I have to struggle across that muddy field again?'
'No, deadline time's over for the newspapers and they'll all be in the pub. Drop me at my car and then we'll both drive home.'
Agatha was dying to phone Mrs. Bloxby again, to ask more about James's return. But the cottage was small and Charles would hear her and Charles would start nagging her about that therapist again.
Agatha had a leisurely bath that evening, creamed her face, put on her night-dress and went into her bedroom. Charles was lying on her bed with his hands clasped behind his head.
'What are you doing there?' demanded Agatha.
'I thought we might ...'
'No. Absolutely not.'
'Not even a cuddle?'
'No.'
He sighed and swung his legs out of bed and then made for the door. 'Saving yourself for James?' he jeered.
'Just go away!' shouted Agatha and slammed the door behind him.
She had slept with Charles before, only to find out that he had gone off romancing some other female the day after. Agatha got into bed and lay staring at the ceiling. To take her mind off the imminent return of James, she began to turn what she knew about Tolly's murder over in her mind, and the more she thought about it, the stranger it seemed. She began to think that the theft of the Stubbs might not have anything to do with the murder. So concentrate of the murder alone. Lucy was the only suspect. Agatha was sure that Lucy had been telling the truth when she had suspected Tolly was having an affair. Based on what? Rose perfume and the fact that Tolly had washed the sheets. But Rosie Wilder, Agatha was sure, had been telling the truth. But surely rose perfume could be used by anyone.
The best thing would be to wait until the fuss died down and then try to see Lucy. Charles had been right about one thing-the evening television news had featured many of the locals, including Harriet, talking about the
