Free Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfam by MC Beaton Page A

bought it and then insured it high. But this is the thing. At that time, they had a house in Launceston Place in Kensington. Lucy adored it. Evidently when they were first married, they held very chic parties there. Tolly ups and says they can’t afford two residences and he’s happy in the country and sells the house for nearly a million. Poor Lucy was furious.’
    ‘Can one make a fortune from bathroom showers?’ asked Charles.
    ‘Evidently,’ said Amy eagerly. ‘He sold all over the world, or so he says, and sold the business to an American company.’
    ‘So,’ said Agatha slowly, ‘Lucy would hardly steal the painting and then murder her husband. I mean, all she had to do was murder him and then she would get everything, Stubbs and all.’
    ‘But she was in London when the murder took place,’ exclaimed Amy. ‘So it can’t be anything to do with her at all.’
    ‘Who’s the handsome fellow at the bottom of your garden, Agatha?’ asked Charles. ‘Not a fairy?’
    ‘No, that’s Barry Jones, who does the garden.’
    ‘I wonder if he does any gardening up at the manor,’ said Charles.
    ‘I’ll ask him.’ Agatha opened the back door and called, ‘Barry?’
    The gardener walked up to the back door and entered the kitchen, doffing his cap to reveal a thick head of chestnut hair. He had the same bright blue eyes as Rosie Wilden. He was wearing a shirt with the sleeves cut off and his bronzed and muscled arms were a miracle of human sculpture.
    ‘We’re talking about the murder of Tolly,’ said Agatha. ‘Do you garden up at the manor?’
    ‘I did, missus, for a while. No flowers or vegetables, but he likes the lawns kept trim. Then, three weeks ago, he sacks me. I says to him, “Is my work unsatisfactory?” And he says, “I want a real gardener. Going to get the place landscaped.”’
    ‘Do you know how he was killed?’ asked Charles.
    ‘No, but Mrs Jackson is telling everyone that Mrs Raisin and her boyfriend were the last to see him alive, so I reckon the police’ll be calling on you soon enough.’
    ‘Thanks, Barry. You can go back to work. I’d better get dressed. You, too, Charles.’
    Agatha had only just finished dressing when the doorbell went again. She ran downstairs and opened the door to the man she remembered as Detective Inspector Percy Hand. He was accompanied by another detective.
    ‘You are Mrs Raisin?’ he asked.
    ‘Yes, come in. It’s about this murder?’
    She led both men into the sitting-room. The sun was shining again, streaming through the windows to light up the debris of Charles’s night-time television viewing – coffee-cup, biscuit packet and TV guide.
    ‘Sit down,’ said Agatha. ‘Coffee?’
    ‘Thank you.’
    Agatha called up the stairs on her way to the kitchen, ‘Hurry up, Charles. The police are here.’
    As she plugged in the percolator, she suddenly remembered the manuscript of Death at the Manor lying on the desk in the sitting-room. The desk was in a dark corner. Surely he wouldn’t prowl around looking at things.
    The coffee seemed to take ages to percolate. Where was Charles? He should be doing this and giving her the opportunity to get that manuscript. At last she poured two mugs of coffee and put them on a tray along with milk and sugar and a plate of biscuits.
    She walked into the sitting-room, carrying the tray – and nearly dropped it. Hand was standing at the desk flicking through her manuscript.
    ‘Aren’t you supposed to have a search warrant before you go poking through my things?’ asked Agatha harshly.
    ‘We can get one,’ said Hand, looking at her mildly. ‘I find it interesting that your book is called Death at the Manor , and here we have a death at the manor.’
    ‘Coincidence,’ snapped Agatha, setting the tray down on the coffee-table.
    ‘A lot of coincidence,’ he murmured. ‘This is Detective Sergeant Carey.’ And to Agatha’s rage, he handed Carey the manuscript, saying, ‘Have a look at this.’
    Charles