Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

Nine

AGATHA did not hear from Paul the next morning, and found herself reluctant to call on him or phone him. She was suffering from delayed shock over the death of Robin Barley and felt angry, guilty and obscurely responsible. Who would be the next to go because of her interference? The stage-door man, Freddy?

On impulse, she locked up her cottage and drove to London. She went to a beauticians in Bond Street that she had patronized in the old days when she was living in London, and when they told her they were fully booked became so cross and irritable that when the receptionist happened-“By a miracle, sweeties,” as she told her flatmates that evening, “I thought she was going to assault me!”-to receive a phone call cancelling an appointment in the middle of Agatha’s tirade, she gladly booked her in.

Agatha submitted herself to a full treatment of non-surgical face-lift, body wrap and leg wax before emerging some hours later feeling rejuvenated. She wandered around Fenwick’s and fell in love with a pink chiffon dress and bought it, despite the warning voices in her head telling her that at her age she would look like the late Barbara Cartland. For once, she enjoyed being back in London, enjoyed the buzz of being in a big city. She secured a table at one of London ’s most fashionable restaurants by dint of booking the table under the name of the Duchess of Cromarty. She finished a lavish meal with a portion of the restaurant’s famous chocolate cream pie and then made her way back to where she had parked her car, feeling that the meal had negated all the good of the body wrap. Her skirt felt tight at the waistband.

On the road home, a horrendous accident resulting in a tailback along the M40 caused her an hour’s delay. All the well-being she had experienced at escaping from Carsely left her. She fretted about her cats. She should never have left them locked up inside all day.

As she turned down the Carsely road, she warred with herself. One part of her mind was telling her to leave well alone. The other part was telling her that if she could find out anything about the murders, then it might cancel out some of the guilt she felt over the blunder of finding the secret passage and cleaning it up and over Robin’s death. As she got out of the car, she noticed that the thick curtains which covered her living-room windows were tightly closed. She must have forgotten to pull them back before she left.

She let herself into her cottage and paused in the darkness of the hall. No cats came to greet her. She put out her hand towards the light switch and then stared in horror at the closed door of her sitting-room. A light was shining from under the door. Terror made her behave stupidly. Instead of retreating to her car, driving off and calling the police, or running next door to get help from Paul, she seized a stout walking-stick from a stand by the door and flung open the door of the sitting-room.

Sir Charles Fraith was curled up asleep on the sofa, the cats on his lap. “How the hell did you get in here?” howled Agatha.

He opened his eyes and smiled and stretched with the same lazy insolence as her cats, who both slinked down from the sofa to wind themselves around her legs. “Don’t you remember, Aggie? I have a set of keys. You gave them to me ages ago. You do look ferocious.”

“Where’s your car? I didn’t see it.”

“Down the lane at the end.”

Agatha sank down in a chair and surveyed him. “You nearly frightened me to death. You look…different.”

The pompous married Charles she had last seen, fat with thinning hair, had disappeared. In his place was the old Charles, neat, slim and impeccably tailored and with a full head of hair.

“Have you had a hair weave?”

“No, I got over the cancer. The chemotherapy was making it fall out.”

“Cancer!” squeaked Agatha in horror. She remembered when James had had cancer and had not told her and her heart gave a lurch. “You didn’t tell me!”

“Didn’t tell most people. They all begin to act funny.”

“Cancer of what?”

“The lung.”

“Blimey!”

“Yes, blimey. But I’m cured and as fit as a fiddle.”

“How’s the wife and children?”

“Can I have a drink?”

Agatha stood up and went over to the drinks cupboard, saying over her shoulder, “Not like you not to help yourself.”

“I meant to. But after I had read the local papers I fell asleep. Scotch, Aggie, a malt if you’ve got it.”

Agatha poured him a generous measure and then one for herself.

“Cheers,” she said, sitting down. “You haven’t answered my question. How’s the family?”

“Gone. All gone.”

“What happened?”

While I was in hospital, she nipped back to Paris and fell in love with someone twenty years younger. He’s French, rich, well-connected. Her family forked out a fortune for the divorce.”

“How dreadful! Your children! How you must miss them!”

He took a sip of his drink. “I have visiting rights and they can come and stay with Papa any time they want. I doubt if they will. Like a couple of little aliens. Very dark and French. Wouldn’t speak English.”

“You must have felt shattered.”

He looked amused. “On the contrary, I thought I was blessed. No more cancer, no more nagging French wife. Goodbye to both.”

Agatha surveyed him curiously. “People who recover from cancer are usually very spiritual. I mean, they feel they have been given a second chance at life, sort of born again.”

Charles looked amused. “Do they? How odd.”

Selfish and self-centred and self-contained as ever, thought Agatha.

“So what brings you?”

“A mixture of curiosity and boredom. My aunt has turned the whole house over to some fund-raising gala for the Red Cross. I’ve got to get out of this, I thought. There’s murder and mayhem been going on over in Aggie’s direction, and I bet myself you were in the thick of it.”

“I wish I weren’t,” said Agatha. “I’ll tell you about it. But first, do you mind if I go upstairs and put on something more comfortable?”

“Not at all.” His eyes gleamed with mischief. “I thought you would never ask.”

Agatha went upstairs and put on a black-and-gold caftan she had bought years ago in Turkey and changed out of her high heels and put on slippers. It was nice to see Charles, she reflected. She wouldn’t have to bother about her appearance.

She went back downstairs and called to her cats, filled up their food bowls with some fish she had poached before she left and then opened the garden door so that they could get out after they had finished eating.

Outside, at the end of Lilac Lane, Mrs. Davenport walked away. Agatha had re-entered the living room and drawn back the curtains. Earlier, Mrs. Davenport had seen a man let himself in. In her handbag, she had Juanita’s address. She had got it by being in the general stores at just the right time. It had transpired that Juanita was extremely fond of the local fudge and had written to order a box of it. “I’ll send her one as well,” Mrs. Davenport had said. “I had her address but I’ve lost it.” Having secured the address, she had written a letter to Juanita to inform her that her husband was having an affair with Agatha Raisin. She did not sign it. No reason to let the formidable Mrs. Raisin know that she was the one who had informed on her.

Agatha sat down. “That’s better,” she said. “I like the curtains open when I’m at home. I only close them when I go to bed.”

“So tell me all about it,” said Charles.

Agatha began at the beginning and went on to the end, soothed by Charles’s capacity for listening.

“What a mess,” he commented when she had finished. “Before I give you my views, what about Paul? Am I interfering in your love life?”

“He’s married. Anyway, how could you interfere?”

“I took the liberty of unpacking my things in the spare room.”

“You do assume a lot, you cheeky sod. All right, you can stay. So what do you think of the murders? I cannot believe for a moment this Harry Witherspoon is the murderer.”

“Why? He’s the only one who stood to gain from her death.”

“I know, I know. I can imagine him doing the first one but not the second. He and his sister asked Paul and me to find the murderer of their mother.”

“You left that bit out.”

“Sorry.”

“I’d like to meet him.”

“I’m sure he’s been with the police for a long time. We could try tomorrow. It would be only polite to tell Paul and see if he wants to go with us.”

There was a sharp ring at the doorbell.

“It’s a bit late for anyone to be calling,” said Agatha, getting to her feet. “Hope it’s not that awful Runcorn. I don’t feel up to him tonight.”

She opened the door. Paul stood there. “I saw your car,” he said.

“Come in,” said Agatha. “I’ve got a friend here.”

She led the way into the living-room and introduced Charles. “Charles helped me on a lot of previous cases,” said Agatha.

“We thought we’d go and see Harry Witherspoon tomorrow,” said Charles. He yawned and stretched. “You tell him about it, Aggie. I’m off to bed.” He walked towards the door and then turned and smiled at Agatha. “Don’t be long, dear,” he said.

There was an awkward silence.

Then Agatha said, “It’s not what you think. Charles is just a friend.”

“A pretty intimate one, it seems to me,” said Paul. “I’d better go.”

“Don’t you want to come with us to see Harry tomorrow?”

“No, I’ll be off. Three’s a crowd.”

“Oh, don’t be so silly. I’ll send Charles away.”

“No need for that. I’ve got work to do anyway.” Paul left, looking decidedly huffy.

He returned to his own cottage. Two of the ladies of the village who had tried to court his company when he had first arrived had warned him about Agatha Raisin. They had hinted she’d had affairs. This had intrigued him and it was what had prompted him to approach Agatha in the first place. He had been quite disappointed at first to find himself faced with, not a femme fatale, but a prickly middle-aged woman. After he had got to know Agatha, he had admitted to himself that there was something very sexy about her, but the fact that he sensed the vulnerability under the hard shell had kept him from making any serious advances to her. He suddenly missed his volatile wife. He reached out for the phone and then decided against it. She would say the usual thing-if he loved her he would live in Spain -and they would end up having a row.

He did not feel sleepy. He switched on his computer. He would type out everything they had found out about the case and see if he could find a lead. It would be nice if he could solve the murders himself.

Agatha marched into the spare bedroom where Charles was lying, reading. “Did you have to go and imply we were having an affair?” she demanded.

“Bit of fun, Aggie. Anyway, he shouldn’t be sniffing around. You said your Watson was married.”

“He’s not all that married,” said Agatha sulkily.

“Married is married. Anyway, he’s a geek. A handsome one, I grant you, but a geek all the same. Not much personality.”

“Jealous, Charles?”

“Me! Never. Come and join me.”

“Don’t you ever give up?”

“Worth a try,” said Charles, stretching lazily.

Agatha went out and banged the door.

She awoke early next morning to the sound of frying bacon. She rose and washed and dressed and went down to the kitchen. “I was just about to call you,” said Charles, standing at the stove. “Breakfast’s nearly ready.”

“Do make yourself free with my groceries,” said Agatha.

“I have done. One egg or two?”

“One.

“I don’t usually have breakfast, as you know,” said Agatha, sitting down at the table. “I usually just have a cup of coffee.”

“This’ll do you good.” He slid a plate of sausage, bacon and egg in front of her.

“I feel guilty about Paul,” said Agatha, poking at her food. When Charles turned back to the stove, she lifted a rasher of bacon and dropped it down on the floor for her cats to eat.

Charles helped himself to a plate of food and sat down opposite her. He was wearing casual dress-casual for him-a checked blue-and-white shirt with dark blue chinos.

“What I cannot understand,” he said between bites of food, “is why the unfortunate Robin was killed and not you. You’ve been poking around asking questions about the murder and so far you haven’t been threatened.”

“All it means was she was close to something I missed.”

“I wonder what that could be? I’d like to meet this rector at Wormstone. Ask him a few more questions. There might have been something or someone she’s been involved with. Did you ask him whether she had any relationships with men?”

“Don’t think I did.”

“Well, there you are. Her murder might not have anything to do with this first one.” Charles finished his breakfast and stood up. Hodge, the cat, slid past him out into the garden, followed by Boswell. Hodge was holding a sausage in his mouth.

“Waste of food,” said Charles crossly. “After all my hard work you’re not supposed to feed your breakfast to the cats. So let’s go.”

Harry Witherspoon’s shop was closed and there was a FOR SALE sign in the window. “Hope he’s at home,” said Agatha. “It’s not far from here.”

Harry answered the door to them, blinking in the sunlight. “Oh, it’s you,” he said ungraciously. “Come in. Who’s this? Where’s the other fellow?”

“This is Sir Charles Fraith, who has helped me on cases before.” Oh, the magic of a title, thought Agatha, as Harry smiled and began to fuss. “Must offer you something. Too early for a drink?”

“Nothing for us,” said Agatha firmly. “What about this Robin Barley business?”

“I can’t understand it,” said Harry, looking bewildered. “She was an infuriating woman. But to kill her, and in such an elaborate way!”

“And you weren’t at the theatre?” asked Charles.

“No, thank God. At the time she was being murdered I was over in Broadway in a pub having drinks with this chap in the antiques business who is going to offer a good sum for my stock and may take over the shop as well. I need some ready cash. The lawyers say they can advance me money on Mother’s will because I haven’t been charged with anything, but I want to have the whole thing settled.”

“Did Robin have any lovers?” asked Agatha.

“I don’t know. She went around in the company of a lot of young gays. Then she was friendly with her local rector. We all rather kept clear of her.”

“I want to ask you about that secret passage,” said Agatha. “When Paul and I wanted to search the house, you refused permission. Why? Did you know about the passage?”

He shook his head. “You’ve no idea what our upbringing was like. After school we were sent up to our rooms and locked in, only to be let out for half an hour for supper and then locked in for the night. I often climbed out of the window and escaped, just to get away. Mother found out and said Carol had told her. When I got into trouble, she always said it was Carol who had told her. Now, I see it was never Carol, it was just her way of divide and rule.”

“But your mother must have known about the passage.”

“I don’t think so. I mean, when that ghost business started, if she’d known, she would have told the police. I know she once told me that when she’d bought the house there was a lot of old junk left in the cellar and she should really get someone to take it off to the tip. But she was penny-pinching, so I guess that was why she left it there.”

“I wonder if the two murders are connected,” said Charles.

“I can’t see that they are.” Harry gave a weary shrug. “Mind you, Robin infuriated a lot of people.”

“Not much there,” said Charles, as they drove towards the village of Wormstone. “Let’s hope the rector, Mr. Potter, can come up with something.”

Mr. Potter was welcoming but puzzled to find that Agatha should think he had anything to add to what he had already told her.

His housekeeper served them tea in the rectory garden, a peaceful place with apricot trees growing against a mellow stone wall and a large round pond where water-lilies opened their waxy petals to the sun. Agatha, looking at Mr. Potter’s mild, tranquil face and then round his peaceful garden, experienced a pang of envy. How pleasant it would be to be comfortable in one’s own skin, to be free of worries and inadequacies.

Charles said, “Perhaps there might be a clue in any relationships Mrs. Barley might have had?”

“I don’t really know of any. She was always busy. You would have thought her art and the theatre would take up all of her time, but she was always organizing something new.”

“Like what?” asked Agatha.

“Oh, so many things. Plays in the church. The village fête-provided she opened it. She had boundless energy.” His face suddenly creased in a smile. “I thought she was going to be killed once.”

Agatha, who had been lounging in her chair, sat up straight. “Tell us about it.”

“She had been over at Stow once, where the Sealed Knot were re-enacting the Battle of Worcester. Mrs. Barley decided we were going to outdo the Sealed Knot in a re-enactment. She divided up the villagers into Roundheads and Cavaliers. It was that very hot summer four years ago. I tried to point out to her that this is a very small village and we hadn’t really enough people to play the parts, but she was determined because she said Midlands Television was going to film it. As I said, it was a very hot summer and she had made the mistake of supplying the ‘troops’ with a plentiful amount of mead and cider. Instead of making everyone cheerful, the drink made a lot of people tetchy, and what with the heat and a general dislike of being bullied into things by Mrs. Barley, tempers began to run high. We had to wait about because no television camera appeared. At last, she shouted to them to go ahead, and the battle began to get nasty. I said to her I was frightened someone would get hurt.

“She strode into the midst of the battle, shouting, ‘Stop it! You are behaving like children.’ She jumped back to avoid being trampled by a horse, tripped and sat down on a cow-pat. The whole crowd erupted into laughter. It was very cruel of the villagers, but it restored good humour. Poor Mrs. Barley just walked away. Her face was scarlet and she was nearly in tears.”

“She would need advice to get it right,” said Agatha slowly. “Did she have some sort of historical expert to help her?”

“Mrs. Barley might have had. But if she had, she didn’t tell me.”

“But don’t you think,” said Agatha eagerly, “that she might have asked for expert advice? Have you heard of a Mr. Peter Frampton?”

“No. You see, a lot of people came and went in Mrs. Barley’s life.”

“Thank you for the tea,” said Agatha, getting to her feet. “There’s someone I’ve got to see.”

“Peter Frampton?” asked Charles. “Who’s he? You didn’t mention him.”

“He heads a historical society at Towdey, which is a village near Hebberdon. Paul and I went to one of his lectures. It was supposed to be on local history, but we got a lecture on the Battle of Worcester instead. There was something else odd. This young girl, Zena Saxon, turned up during the lecture. I think she and Frampton are an item, which is odd.”

“Why?”

“Well, I would guess she’s in her early twenties, sort of local disco chick, and he’s in his late forties-grey hair, stylish, looks like a Conservative MP out of central casting.”

“Why on earth would he murder anyone?”

“He wanted Ivy Cottage, Mrs. Witherspoon’s house. Maybe he thought he could find the treasure. Maybe he knew about the secret passage.”

“What does he do when he’s not giving historical lectures?”

“I don’t know. That’s what we’re going to Hebberdon to find out.”

They were driving through Mircester when Agatha cried, “Stop the car!”

Charles swerved in towards the kerb and parked on a double yellow line. “Be quick,” he urged. “I don’t want to get a ticket for illegal parking. What is it?”

“I just saw Paul going into a pub with Haley.”

“And who’s Haley?” asked Charles patiently.

“She a policewoman. Bill’s quite keen on her. Paul offered to give her computer lessons.”

“So that explains what he’s doing.”

“He could be finding out things about the case from her.”

“If he finds out anything, I’m sure he’ll let you know.”

Agatha hardly ever recognized feelings of jealousy in herself. She persuaded herself that it was in the interests of the case to find out what Paul was doing.

“I’ll just go and join them,” she said.

“I can’t wait here!” complained Charles. “I’ll get booked.”

“Then find somewhere legal to park and join us.”

Agatha got out of the car and hurried off in the direction of the pub.

Paul and Haley were sitting at a corner table when she walked in. “Hullo!” said Agatha with a crocodile smile that contained no humour whatsoever.

Paul looked at her with an expression of dismay on his face. Agatha thought sourly he looked like an adulterous husband caught in the act.

“What are you doing here, Agatha?” he asked.

“I saw you and Haley and thought I’d join you,” said Agatha, preparing to sit down.

“Do you mind not joining us, Agatha? I’m going to talk computer stuff with Haley and I’m sure you’d find it very boring.”

“Oh, in that case…” Agatha turned towards the door.

“I’ll talk to you later,” he called.

Agatha went out and looked up and down the street. Charles was still parked where she had left him.

“You didn’t find a legal parking place?” asked Agatha, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Didn’t even try. I felt in my bones you wouldn’t be long.”

“Why?”

“When a middle-aged gent goes into a pub with a saucy blonde, I don’t think he wants anyone butting in.”

“It’s not like that,” said Agatha. “I met her with Bill and she asked Paul to help her with some computer stuff.”

“And so kindly helpful Paul sends you off with a flea in your ear?”

“I’m sure he’ll explain it all later,” said Agatha huffily.

“And look at it his way. He finds you cosy with me and gets jealous.”

“He wouldn’t have been jealous if you hadn’t implied we were having an affair!”

“You should be grateful to me,” said Charles loftily. “Nothing like a bit of competition to spice things up a bit. You never talk about James.”

“Leave it.”

“Okay.”

“This is an odd village,” said Charles as he parked in Towdey’s main street. “All these little thatched cottages crouched along the road like so many animals. Secretive-looking place.”

“It’s getting dark,” said Agatha, ever practical. “I think it’s going to rain.”

They rang the doorbell of Frampton’s cottage, but there was no reply.

“I suppose he must be out working at something,” said Agatha. “There’s a general store along the street. We’ll try there.”

A woman behind the shop counter told them that Mr. Frampton owned a building and demolition works in the new industrial estate outside Moreton-in-Marsh.

“So that’s where he gets his money from,” said Agatha as they got back into the car. “I wonder if that sort of demolition work means he could get his hands on cyanide.”

“Shouldn’t think so. I know cyanide is used in mining. We’ll see what he has to say for himself.”

“Have you any cards on you?” asked Agatha.

“Yes, why?”

“I think he’s a snob and I’m hoping to melt him with your title.”

“You’re an old-fashioned girl, Aggie. I’m a mere baronet, not a duke. And a title doesn’t melt anyone these days with so many odds and sods in the House of Lords.”

“Let’s see anyway.”

“Where is this industrial estate?”

“Turn off on the Oxford road. It’s just a few miles out of town.”

Frampton’s Building Works was a large, prosperous-looking modern building. And inside a glittering reception area which seemed to have been fashioned out of steel tubes and then decorated with plants sat Zena Saxon behind a desk. She had toned down her dress and make-up for work, or so it seemed. She was wearing a neat white blouse and subdued make-up, but when she stood up to greet them and walked round the desk, she revealed that on the lower half of her body she was wearing brief sky-blue shorts and very high stilettos.

“Wow!” whispered Charles.

He presented his card, introduced Agatha, and asked if they could speak to Peter Frampton.

“What about? I think he’s busy right now,” said Zena. She had a nasal singsong Birmingham accent.

“Please ask,” urged Charles.

She shrugged. “Wait here.” She swayed off into the nether regions.

“Frampton’s a lucky man,” said Charles. “That must be the best bum in the Midlands.”

“Control yourself,” snapped Agatha, reflecting moodily on the plight of middle-aged women who had to watch equally middle-aged men lusting after girls young enough to be their daughters.

She was gone quite a long time but eventually reappeared, followed by Peter Frampton, impeccably tailored and carrying a hard hat in one hand.

“Is this important?” he asked.

“It is,” said Charles. “Did you know a Mrs. Robin Barley?”

He frowned. He pressed one long finger against his forehead. Then his face cleared. “Can’t say I do.”

“You don’t seem surprised at the question,” said Agatha.

“Should I be?”

“Mrs. Robin Barley is the woman who has just been so dramatically murdered with cyanide.”

“Oh, that Mrs. Robin Barley. That’s why the name sounded familiar and gave me pause. But, no, sorry.”

“But the rector of Wormstone said you were advising her on the historical details of the Battle of Worcester, which was being re-enacted in the village,” lied Agatha.

“Was I? Dear me, when was this?”

“I’m not quite sure,” said Agatha, wishing in that moment she’d asked the rector when the village Battle of Worcester had taken place.

He shook his handsome head. “I can’t help you, I’m afraid. I meet a lot of people.”

“Why did you ask Mrs. Witherspoon to sell her house to you?” asked Charles.

“It’s an interesting building and my passion is the seventeenth century.”

“But it’s a Tudor house, isn’t it?”

“I am fascinated with old buildings, that’s all.”

“I asked you this before,” said Agatha, “but I’ll ask you again. Did you hope to find Sir Geoffrey Lamont’s treasure?”

“I am sure that is long gone and I am sure previous owners of Ivy Cottage searched the place from the cellar to the rafters.”

“But why do you want to move into such a large house?” pursued Agatha.

“Meaning a single man should not want space? My dear Mrs. Raisin, I have an extensive library of historical books, some of them valuable and quite a lot in storage because at the moment I do not have room for them. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

They reluctantly left, unable to think of any more questions.

When they got back to Agatha’s cottage, Paul ran along to meet them. “The case is over,” he said. “Harry’s been arrested.”

“Why? How?” asked Agatha.

“He was over at Hebberdon around the time of the murder. The landlord of the local pub in Hebberdon saw him and was blackmailing him. Harry cracked and went to the police. He was seen going up to the house just before eleven o’clock at night.”

“But surely the cast said he was at the party after the show?” exclaimed Agatha.

“Well, you can’t imagine someone like Harry being the life and soul of the party. He could easily slip away and come back without anyone noticing.”

“I suppose the landlord’s been arrested,” said Charles.

“They’re looking for him. He’s disappeared.”

“I suppose you got all this out of Haley,” said Agatha.

“Yes, she was very excited about it all.”

Agatha hesitated and then said, “Let’s all go inside.”

Paul looked at Charles and shrugged. “I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got work to do.”

“I thought you were taking a break.” Agatha looked at him pleadingly.

“Can’t afford to always be on holiday. See you around.”

He walked away.

“He would have stayed if you hadn’t been here,” said Agatha sulkily.

“He’s married, Aggie. No hope there.”

“How do you know that?” howled Agatha. “His wife’s in Spain. His marriage is on the rocks.”

Mrs. Davenport, idling on the other side of the lane with her dog, listened avidly.

Agatha suddenly saw her and dragged Charles inside. “That awful woman,” she said. “She always seems to be snooping around.”

“Same could be said for you, Aggie. Like a drink?”

“No. I think I’d like to go and see Bill. I don’t believe it’s Harry.”

“If it’s not Harry, why didn’t he tell the police he was there?”

“He may have found her dead.”

“He didn’t have a key. Maybe he just knocked at the door and getting no answer, went back to the party. When he heard she’d been found murdered, he panicked.”

“Maybe, maybe, maybe. I’m going to phone Mircester and see if Bill’s there.”

“Suit yourself. I’m having a drink.”

Agatha phoned and then joined Charles in the sitting-room. He sat cradling a large whisky and with the cats on his lap.

“Bill’s gone home,” said Agatha. “I’m going over to see him. Coming?”

“If I must. Wait till I finish this drink.”

“No!”

“Okay, I’ll take it with me. You drive.”

Fortunately for both of them, it was Bill himself who answered the door and not one of his formidable parents. “Come in,” he said. “My parents are out. It’s their bingo night.”

“We hear Harry’s been arrested and that landlord was blackmailing him and now he’s gone missing and I don’t think it’s Harry and there’s been some terrible mistake…”

“Whoa, Agatha! Hold your horses. Who told you? Nothing’s been issued to the press.”

Agatha suddenly did not want to tell him about Haley, in case he was hurt, in case Paul got into trouble. “We have our sources,” she said.

“Sit down,” said Bill, his face impassive. “That friend of yours, Paul Chatterton, took Haley for lunch.”

“Oh, Bill, does it really matter how we know? What do you think about it?”

“It’s all circumstantial evidence. There’s no forensic evidence and the one witness who says Harry was there has disappeared. But Harry does inherit a lot of money and he lied to the police. Mrs. Barley was asking around about where he was during the evening and suddenly she’s murdered. Runcorn is determined it is Harry and he’s holding a press conference tomorrow. Mrs. Barley had been phoning various members of the cast. We’ve checked her phone calls. She must have made about twenty calls. And look at it this way. If it’s not Harry, then who else could it possibly be?”

“Sister Carol?”

“I don’t see the sister having the strength or the expertise to deliver a blow like the one that killed Mrs. Witherspoon. Furthermore Harry says he did not take part in the production of Macbeth because of his hay fever. And yet there were no hay fever treatments at his house.”

“If it was just the death of his mother, I might, I just might think it was Harry,” said Agatha. “But all that business with cyanide! It just doesn’t make sense.”

“If we ever find Barry Briar, then we might have a clearer idea.”

“I suppose the police are looking for him everywhere?”

“Of course.”

“I can’t believe in the fact that if Harry is innocent, he has nothing to fear,” said Agatha. “Not with a twit like Runcorn running things.”

“Runcorn put your back up, Agatha. He may have an abrasive manner, but he’s a conscientious policeman.”

Agatha muttered something that sounded like pah.

“I haven’t offered you anything to drink,” said Bill. “Would you like some sherry?”

“No, thanks,” said Charles and Agatha together, knowing by experience that the brand of sweet sherry, the only drink the Wongs kept for visitors, was vile.

“The only advice I can give you,” said Bill, “is the advice I gave you before. Keep out of it. If it’s not Harry, then for the moment the murderer will believe himself safe. If you keep poking around, you could be in danger. Where’s Paul, or has Charles’s presence driven him away?”

“Not at all. He thinks it’s all over and has gone back to work.”

“How is your wife, Charles?”

“Ex.”

“Ah. There’s nothing more I can help you with.”

Agatha and Charles went to dinner in Mircester. To Agatha’s amazement, Charles paid. As Agatha drove them home, she said, “Planning on staying with me for a bit?”

“Why not? Paul’s a non-starter, Aggie. You have a genius for chasing after men who are going to hurt you.”

“I wasn’t thinking about Paul,” lied Agatha, who had been thinking about him on and off all evening.

“Anyway, let’s get a good night’s sleep and maybe go over to Hebberdon in the morning and ferret around.”

After she fell asleep, Agatha had a nightmare in which she was meticulously scrubbing and cleaning the secret passage. Thick cobwebs brushed her face and she clawed them away. She felt she should not go on because there was something terrible awaiting her at the end of the passage. She awoke with a start and lay there with her heart thudding. What a horrible dream. She stared up at the beamed ceiling wondering where the landlord, Barry Briar, had got to. Then she wondered why whoever had killed Mrs. Witherspoon, because she still could not believe the murderer to be Harry, had not just put her body down into the secret passage. It could have lain there, undiscovered, for ages. Marvellous place to hide a body.

She sat up straight. What if the murderer had killed Barry? If he had been blackmailing Harry, then why not someone else?

Would the police think of searching for a body? What better place to dump a body than down in the secret passage in a house that had already been gone over thoroughly by the police?

She got out of bed and went through to the spare bedroom and shook Charles awake. He switched on the bedside light and surveyed the glory of Agatha Raisin in a diaphanous black nightie which she had recently bought without admitting to herself that she hoped Paul might see her in it.

“Why, Aggie,” said Charles with a grin. “Welcome! Come and join me.”

“Charles! Listen! I think the landlord’s body might be down in that secret passage.”

“So? Phone Bill in the morning and put it to him.”

“No, I want to go now and look.”

Charles yawned. “Good hunting!”

“You are coming with me!”

“Oh, Aggie.” He twisted his head and looked at the bedside clock. “It’s three in the bloody morning.”

“Please.”

“Oh, very well.” He threw back the blankets and eased his naked body out of bed. He stretched and walked over and stared out of the open window. Mrs. Davenport drew back into the shrubbery across the road, gazing avidly at the lamplit tableau under the thatched roof. Agatha Raisin in a see-through black nightie. She could not see Charles’s head because the low window only afforded her a view of his naked torso.

As Charles turned away, Mrs. Davenport scuttled off down the lane, her conscience eased. After she had written to Juanita, she had been frightened that she had exaggerated. But now she had just seen proof positive of Agatha’s affair with Paul. She was so determined to find Agatha guilty that she discounted the fact that Charles was staying with Agatha. Charles, she decided, must have left. Hadn’t Mrs. Bloxby told her the other day that Sir Charles Fraith was simply an old friend?

If she had waited, she would have seen Charles and Agatha emerge from the house and drive off.

“All this because you had a nightmare,” grumbled Charles. “I assume we can get to the damned passage from the garden. I don’t feel like housebreaking.”

“Yes, we can. I hope the police haven’t sealed off the trapdoor.”

“No reason why they should. It’s not their property.”

“Drive right up to the house,” ordered Agatha. “I don’t care if anyone sees us.”

“We’re trespassing, even if it is only the garden.”

“Harry’s the owner and I’ve got his permission to investigate the case. That’s what I’ll say if we’re caught. Turn up here.”

“It’s certainly isolated,” said Charles, switching off the engine. “I wonder what the landlord was doing skulking around.”

“Let’s go and get it over with.” Agatha got out of the car. The night was very still. A small moon riding overhead silvered a mackerel sky and a breeze sent the ivy which covered the old cottage rippling and whispering.

“Creepy,” muttered Charles. “Are you really sure you want to go through with this?”

“May as well. We’re here now. Better put our gloves on.”

They made their way round the side of the house and into the garden. “Right down at the end,” said Agatha. “It’s in that clump of shrubbery.”

An owl sailed overhead, making them jump. They crept into the shrubbery. Agatha took out a small torch and shone it on the ground.

“There’s the trapdoor,” she said.

“If we have to go down there, we’ll leave footprints,” cautioned Charles.

“So? I mean, if there’s no body, we don’t have to worry.”

Charles heaved open the trapdoor. “Shine the torch down,” said Charles. “It’s so dark I can’t even see the stairs.”

Agatha shone the thin beam of the torch down the stairs, let out a squawk and dropped the torch and clutched at Charles so hard he fell back with a crash into the bushes.

“Aggie,” he complained. “What the hell…?”

“Eyes,” stammered Agatha. “Eyes. Down there.”

“Where’s the damned torch?” demanded Charles, struggling to his feet. He felt around the ground until he located it.

“Get out of my way and I’ll have a look.”

Charles shone the torch down. He gave a muttered exclamation and went down a few steps. Then he retreated back up.

“It’s a dead body.”

“Is it Barry Briar?”

“I don’t know. Never met the man. Have a look.”

“No, I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Leave everything as it is. I’m calling the police.”

“Must we? I mean, they’ll be awfully angry.”

“Aggie, someone’s dead down there. We can’t just walk away.”

“How do you know he’s dead?”

“If a man’s lying with his neck twisted and his lifeless eyes glaring up at you, it’s ten to one he’s dead. Let’s get out of this shrubbery.”

They emerged into the garden and sat down on the grass. Charles took out his mobile phone and called the police while Agatha hugged her knees and shivered.

“Gloves,” she said when Charles rang off. “It looks criminal, us wearing gloves.”

“I’m not going back there to put fingerprints on the trapdoor. I am wearing an ordinary pair of gloves. Sort of thing a man would wear to lift a dirty trapdoor lid. Stop worrying.”

“They’ll wonder how I knew where the entrance was.”

“It said in the newspapers that a secret passage led from the house to the garden. You had this brainwave, so we searched the garden and found it. Don’t you want to go back and have a peek and make sure it’s the missing landlord?”

“I can’t.”

“Well, we’ll soon know. You’re getting soft in the country, Aggie. I’m sure the city mouse wouldn’t be in such a shake.”

“Charles, I’ve often wondered if you’ve any feelings at all.”

“Oh, lots and lots. But I didn’t know this landlord and he sounds no end of a creep. I can hear sirens. Won’t be long. I’d better get my lawyer out of bed.”

“Why? We didn’t murder him.”

“Try telling Runcorn that. ‘Oh, officer,’ says Aggie, ‘I had a dream.’ He’s not going to buy that.”

It was a long night. Agatha and Charles and Charles’s sleepy lawyer waited and waited after being taken to police headquarters for their interviews.

Agatha was to be interviewed first. At last she was summoned and the lawyer rose to join her.

The lawyer, a Mr. Jellicoe, was an imposing figure and Agatha was sure that without his steely interruptions, Runcorn would have grilled her to the point where she would almost feel like confessing to murder just to have the interview over.

Then it was Charles’s turn.

The noon sunshine was streaming in through the dusty windows of police headquarters when he came out to join her. “They’re giving us a lift back to Hebberdon.” They both thanked the lawyer and went out to where the police car was waiting. Haley was at the wheel.

“Oh, it’s you,” said Agatha, sliding into the back seat with Charles.

“How’s Paul?” asked Haley as she drove off.

“Fine,” said Agatha. “I gather from the horrible Runcorn that the body we found was the landlord’s.”

“I’m not allowed to discuss the case.”

“Oh, really?” snapped Agatha. “Then how come you flapped your mouth off to Paul?”

The back of Haley’s neck turned pink. “That was private.”

“Aggie,” said Charles warningly, “we’re too tired for a fight.”

Agatha relapsed into a resentful silence, only waking when Haley drew up at Ivy Cottage.

“Thank you,” said Charles politely and Haley flashed him a smile.

“Trollop,” muttered Agatha as they walked to their car.

“Now, Aggie, that’s nothing but jealousy.”

Agatha ignored the remark and slid into the passenger seat. “God, I’m tired. I only hope for Harry’s sake that the police find some evidence that Barry Briar was blackmailing someone else.”

“We’ll sleep on it.”

Back at her cottage, Agatha switched off the phone and disconnected the doorbell. “Don’t want to be disturbed,” she said. “I’m going to sleep as long as possible.”

“I’m going to make breakfast.”

“Help yourself. I’m too tired to eat.”

Before Agatha plunged down into sleep, she wondered what Paul would make of the latest development and wished that Charles would take himself off.