Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryham

and haws hung like lamps over the . . .’
    Nope, try again. ‘Hawthorn berries starred the hedgerow.’ No, berries can’t star. Flowers can. Who the hell wants to be a writer anyway?
    The pub was closed. Agatha stood irresolute. In the middle of the village green was a duck pond, minus ducks. There was a bench overlooking it. She crossed over and sat down and stared at the water.
    ‘Afternoon.’
    Agatha jumped nervously. A gnarled old man had sat quietly down beside her.
    ‘Afternoon,’ said Agatha.
    He shuffled along the bench until he was sitting close to her. He smelt of ham soup and cigarette smoke. He was obviously in his Sunday best, to judge from the old hairy suit, the white shirt and striped tie. His large boots were highly polished.
    Then Agatha felt something on her knee, and looking down, saw that he had placed one old hand on it.
    Agatha lifted up his hand and placed it on his own knee. ‘Behave yourself,’ she said sharply.
    ‘Don’t you go worriting about that fellow back home who done you wrong. Us’ll look after you.’
    Agatha rose and strode off, her face flaming. Had the whole village decided she had a broken heart? Damn them all. She would see the estate agent first thing on Monday morning and say she wanted to cancel.
    She found a street leading off the far end of the village green which had a small selection of shops. There was a post office-cum-general store like the one in Carsely, an electrical-goods shop, one selling Laura Ashley-type clothes, an antique shop, and at the end, Bryman’s, the estate agent. She studied the cards in the window. House prices were less than in the Cotswolds, but not much less.
    She wandered back to the village green, as lonely as a cloud, and decided to go back home and spend a useful day unpacking the rest of her stuff.
    The gardener called during the afternoon and asked her if there was anything in particular she would like to have done. Agatha said she would like him to sweep the leaves, mow the lawn and keep the flower-beds tidy. He was a young man, muscled and tattooed, with a thick thatch of nut-brown hair. He said his name was Barry Jones and he would call round on the next day. Agatha thanked him and as he turned to go, she said, ‘Do you know anything about odd lights? I saw odd little lights dancing around at the bottom of the garden last night.’
    He did not even turn around. ‘Reckon I don’t know nothing about that,’ he said and walked away with a rapid pace.
    There’s something odd about those lights, thought Agatha. Maybe it’s some wretched poisonous insect and the locals don’t want to put off visitors to the village by telling them about it.
    She went back to her housekeeping duties, wondering as she hung away clothes whether the log fires would be enough to keep the house warm in a cold spell. The estate agent should have warned her.
    When she realized it was nearly six o’clock, she began to wonder whether she should get out of going to church and then quilting. She checked the TV guide she had brought with her. There was nothing much on. And, she realized, she was lonely.
    She locked up and walked round to the church in time for Evensong. To her amazement, in these godless days, the church was full. The vicar’s sermon dealt with faith as opposed to superstition, and Agatha’s mind drifted back to those lights. There was a closed, inbred, anachronistic feel to this village. All across the world raged fire and floods and famine. Yet here in Fryfam, hatted ladies and suited gents raised their voices in ‘Abide With Me’ as if nothing existed outside their safe English world governed by the changing seasons and the church calendar: Michaelmas, Candlemas, Harvest Festival, Advent, Christmas.
    She waited in the churchyard. Harriet approached her surrounded by the three others she had met earlier. They were wearing the same clothes but had put on hats – Harriet a felt pudding basin, Amy a straw, Polly Dart a tweed fishing hat and Carrie sporting a baseball cap.
    Agatha, who had changed into a tailored trouser suit and silk blouse, felt almost overdressed.
    ‘Right,’ said Harriet. ‘Off we go!’
    A couple passed their group, arguing acrimoniously. ‘Don’t be such a bore , Tolly,’ said the woman. A waft of Gucci’s Envy reached Agatha’s nostrils. She paused, looking after the couple. The woman had what Agatha thought of as the ‘new’ beauty, meaning others admired it. She had blond hair worn down to her