'Call me Agatha,' said Agatha, sitting down. She scanned the room for signs of an ashtray but could see none. She gave a little sigh, but at least it would keep her off fags for an hour.
Lucy rang a bell in the wall beside the fireplace. Its summons was answered, not by a neat maid, but by a fat, surlylooking woman in a stained gingham pinafore.
'We'll have tea now, Betty,' said Lucy.
'And then I'm off,' said surly Betty. 'You'll need to clear up yourselves.' She clumped off in a pair of battered boots.
'Help these days,' said Lucy, raising her eyes. 'Do you have trouble with help, Agatha?'
Not so long ago, the old Agatha, intimidated at being in a manor house, would have invented colourful stories about a whole regiment of servants. Now she simply said, 'I don't have any trouble back home. I have an excellent cleaning woman who comes in twice a week.'
'Lucky you,' sighed Lucy. 'I sometimes wish we had never come here.'
'Why did you?' asked Agatha curiously.
'Made my pile,' said Tolly. 'Wanted a bit of country life. Get a bit of hunting.'
'And because he wants to act the squire, we're stuck here,' said Lucy with a light laugh.
Her husband flashed her an angry look, but the door opened and Betty lumbered in with a large tray which she deposited on the low table in front of them. Besides tea, there was a plate with a few chocolate biscuits-no sandwiches, no fruit-cake.
'That will be all, Betty,' said Tolly imperiously.
'Should think so, too,' grumbled Betty and off she went.
'Such a character,' murmured Lucy, clanking her bangles.
People who would not pay good wages and put up with surly help were usually tight with money, thought Agatha.
'We had such a nice place in London. Kensington,' said Lucy, pouring tea. 'Help yourself to milk and sugar, Agatha. Do you know Kensington?'
'Yes, very well. I used to live in London. I had a public relations business. I took early retirement to move to the Cotswolds.'
'Don't you miss London?'
'I did when I first moved to the country, but then a lot of exciting and scary things happened, and Carsely- that's where I live-began to seem more interesting than London.'
There was a slight snore. Tolly had fallen asleep, his teacup resting on his paunch.
Lucy sighed, rose and took the cup from him.
'If only we could get back to London,' she mourned. 'But he wants to be the country gentleman. Doesn't work. None of the county invite us unless they want money for some charity or other. I tried to get that coat of arms taken down.'
'Doesn't it come from the College of Arms or something?'
'No, he had an artist make it up for him. He got some poncey interior designer to do this room. Isn't it foul?'
'It's a bit ... modem.'
'It's vulgar.'
'Could you rent in London for the winter?'
'He won't think of it. He likes to keep me trapped here. So tell me, what on earth could be exciting about living in the Cotswolds?'
Agatha chattered on happily about her amazing detective abilities until she realized she was boring Lucy, so she finished by saying, 'You have an interesting mystery here in Fryfam.'
'Like what?' Lucy stifled a yawn.
'The fairies. The dancing lights.'
'Oh, those. I'm telling you, once the second-home people go back to London, you're left with a lot of inbred peasants who'd believe anything.'
'But I met the women's group members. They seem intelligent.'
'Yes, but they're all from Fryfam, don't you see? You've never spent a winter here, have you?'
Agatha shook her head.
'It's so black and bleak and grim, you'll end up believing in fairies yourself.'
Lucy yawned again.
Agatha rose to her feet. 'I must go.'
'Must you? Can you find your own way out?'
'Sure. Perhaps you would like to have tea with me?'
'Too kind. I'll let you know.'
Agatha hesitated in the hall, looking in her handbag for her car keys. 'Wake up, Tolly,' she heard Lucy say sharply. 'She's gone.'
'Thank God for that. Another plain woman and not quite one of us.'
'Not quite one of who?' demanded Lucy shrilly. 'It's because of your snobbery that we're stuck in this dump.'
Agatha walked quickly away, her face flaming. She had moved a long way away from the Birmingham slum of her upbringing, but at weak moments she thought that people could still sniff it out.
She got in the car and drove home and phoned Mrs. Bloxby. 'You can give Cbarles my number and address and tell him if he's at loose ends, 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?'
