Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

One

FOOT-AND-MOUTH disease had closed down the countryside. Country walks and farm gates were padlocked. The spring was chilly and wet, with the first daffodils hanging their yellow heads under torrents of rain.

The thatch on Agatha Raisin’s cottage dripped mournfully. She sat on the kitchen floor with her cats and wondered what to do to ward off a familiar feeling of approaching boredom. With boredom came nervous depression, as she well knew.

An interesting-looking man had moved into the cottage next door, formerly owned by her ex-husband, James, but interest in any man at all had died in Agatha’s bosom. She had not joined the other village ladies in taking around cakes or homemade jam. Nor had she heard any of the gossip because she had just returned from London where, in her capacity as free-lance public relations officer, she had been helping to launch a new fashion line for young people called Mr. Harry. All it had served to do was make middle-aged Agatha feel old. Some of the skinny models-heroin-chic was still the fashion-had made her feel fatter and older. Her conscience had disturbed her because she knew the clothes were made in Taiwan out of the cheapest material and guaranteed to fall apart at the seams if worn for very long.

She got to her feet and went upstairs to her bedroom and studied herself in a full-length mirror. A stocky middle-aged woman with good legs, shiny brown hair, and small bearlike eyes stared back at her.

Action, she said to herself. She would put on make-up and go and see her friend Mrs. Bloxby, the vicar’s wife, and catch up on the village gossip. Agatha put on a foundation base of pale make-up, reflecting that it was not so long ago when bronzed skin had been all the rage. Now that the unfashionable could afford to go abroad in the middle of winter, it was no longer smart to sport a tan or even to wear brownish make-up. She plucked nervously at the skin under her chin. Was it getting loose? She slapped herself under the chin sixty times and then was cross to see a red flush on her neck.

She changed out of the old trousers and sweater she had put on that morning and changed into a biscuit-coloured linen suit over a gold silk blouse. Not that this sudden desire to dress up had anything to do with the new tenant in the cottage next door, she told herself. At least, as the cliché went, time was a great healer. She hardly ever thought of James now and had given up any hope of seeing him again.

Downstairs again, she shrugged into her Burberry and picked up a golf umbrella and went out into the pouring rain. Why on earth had she worn high heels? she wondered, as she picked her way round the puddles on Lilac Lane and headed for the vicarage.

Mrs. Bloxby, a gentle-faced woman with grey hair, opened the door of the vicarage to her. “Mrs. Raisin!” she cried. “When did you get back?”

“Last night,” said Agatha, reflecting that after London, the formal use of her second name sounded odd. But then the village ladies’ society of which Agatha was a member always addressed one another formally.

“Come in. Such dreadful weather. And this foot-and-mouth plague is frightening. Ramblers have been told not to walk the countryside, but they won’t listen. I really don’t think some of those ramblers even like the countryside.”

“Any foot-and-mouth around here yet?” asked Agatha, taking off her coat and hanging it on a peg in the hall.

“No, nothing round Carsely…yet.”

She led the way into the sitting-room and Agatha followed. Agatha sank down into the feather cushions on the old sofa, took off her shoes and stretched her wet stockinged feet out to the fire.

“I’ll lend you a pair of wellingtons when you leave,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I’ll get some coffee.”

Agatha leaned back and closed her eyes as Mrs. Bloxby went off to the kitchen. It suddenly felt good to be back.

Mrs. Bloxby came back with a tray with mugs of coffee.

“What’s the gossip?” asked Agatha.

“Er…James was here when you were away.”

Agatha sat bolt upright. “Where is he now?”

“I’m afraid I don’t know. He only stayed for an afternoon. He said he was travelling abroad.”

“Rats!” said Agatha gloomily, all the old pain flooding back. “Did you tell him where I was?”

“Yes, I did,” said the vicar’s wife awkwardly. “I told him where you were living in London and gave him your phone number.”

“He didn’t call,” said Agatha miserably.

“He did seem in a bit of a rush. He sent his love.”

“That’s a joke,” said Agatha bitterly.

“Now drink your coffee. I know it’s early, but would you like something stronger?”

“I don’t want to start down that road, especially for a creep like James,” said Agatha.

“Have you met your new neighbour?”

“No. I saw him when he moved in, I mean from a distance, but then I got the chance of this PR job and took off for London. What’s he like?”

“Seems pleasant and clever.”

“What does he do?”

“He works in computers. Free-lance. He’s just finished a big contract. He says he’s glad it’s over. He was commuting to Milton Keynes and back every day.”

“That’s a long haul. No murders?”

“No, Mrs. Raisin. I should think you’ve had enough of those. There is a small mystery, however.”

“What’s that?”

“Alf was recently asked to perform an exorcism, but he refused.” Alf was the vicar. “Alf says he only believes in the divine spirit and no other kind.”

“Where’s the ghost?”

“It’s a haunted house in Hebberdon-you know, that tiny village the other side of Ancombe. It belongs to an old lady, a Mrs. Witherspoon, a widow. She has heard strange voices and seen lights in the night. Alf has put it down to the village children playing tricks on the old lady and has suggested she call in the police. She did that, but they couldn’t find anything. But Mrs. Witherspoon sticks to her story that she is being haunted. So, do you want to investigate?”

Agatha sat for a moment and then said, “No. I think Alf ’s probably right. You know, sitting here I’ve decided to stop rushing around, finding things to ward off boredom. Time I broke the pattern. I’m going to become domesticated.”

Mrs. Bloxby looked at her uneasily.

“You? Do you think that’s a good idea?”

“The garden’s full of weeds and this rain can’t go on forever. I’m going to potter about and do a bit of gardening.”

“You’ll get fed up soon.”

“You don’t know me,” said Agatha sharply.

“Possibly not. When did you make this decision?”

Agatha gave a reluctant grin. “Five minutes ago.”

Her stubborn pride kept her from revealing that James’s visit and the fact that he had not tried to contact her had hurt her deeply.

As the wet spring finally dried up, it did indeed look as if Agatha Raisin had settled into domesticity at last. Tired of lazy gardeners, she had decided to do the work herself and found it alleviated the pain she still felt over James. The ladies of the village of Carsely informed Agatha that her neighbour, Paul Chatterton, was a charming man but not at all sociable. For a moment, Agatha’s competitive instincts were aroused, but then she thought dismally that men meant pain and complications. They were best left alone.

She was sprawled in a deck-chair in her garden one sunny day, covered in a careful application of sunblock and with her two cats, Hodge and Boswell, at her feet, when a tentative voice said, “Hullo.”

Agatha opened her eyes. Her neighbour was leaning over the garden fence. He had a thick shock of pure white hair and sparkling black eyes in a thin, clever face.

“Yes?” demanded Agatha rudely.

“I’m your new neighbour, Paul Chatterton.”

“So? What do you want?” asked Agatha, closing her eyes again.

“I wanted to say hullo.”

“You’ve already said that.” Agatha opened her eyes and stared at him. “What about trying goodbye?”

She closed her eyes again until she felt he would have fully appreciated the snub. She cautiously opened them again. He was still standing there, grinning at her.

“I must say you make a refreshing change,” he said. “I’ve been besieged by village ladies since I arrived, and now I decide to be sociable, I happen to pick on the one person who doesn’t want to know me.”

“Bother someone else,” said Agatha. “Why me?”

“You’re the nearest. Besides, I hear you’re the village sleuth.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“I read in the local papers that there’s some old woman over at Hebberdon who is being frightened out of her wits by ghosts. I’m going over there to offer my services as a ghost buster.”

Agatha’s recently dormant competitive instincts rose. She sat up. “Come round the front and I’ll let you in and we’ll talk about it.”

“See you in a few minutes.” He waved and loped off.

Agatha struggled to her feet, thinking that old-fashioned canvas deck-chairs like the ones in the Green Park in London had been expressly designed to make one feel old. She found she could not struggle out of it and had to tip it sideways and roll over on the grass to get to her feet. She gave it a furious kick. “You’re for the bonfire,” she said. “I’ll replace you with a sun lounger tomorrow.”

She hurried into the house, stopping only in the kitchen for a moment to wipe the sunblock from her face.

Agatha hesitated before opening the door to him. She was wearing a faded house dress and loafers. Then she shrugged. Men! Who needed to bother about them?

She opened the door. “Come in,” she said. “We’ll have coffee in the kitchen.”

“I’d rather have tea,” he said, trotting in after her.

“What kind?” asked Agatha. “I’ve got Darjeeling, Assam, Earl Grey, and something called Afternoon Tea.”

“ Darjeeling will do.”

Agatha put the kettle on. “Aren’t you working at the moment?”

“No, I’m between contracts. Going to take a brief holiday.”

Agatha leaned against the kitchen counter. Paul’s intelligent black eyes surveyed her and Agatha suddenly wished she were wearing something more attractive, or, at least, had some makeup on. He was not strictly handsome, and yet there was something about that white hair combined with black eyes in a white face and a long athletic figure which, she thought, would disturb quite a lot of women-except, of course, she reminded herself, Agatha Raisin.

“I believe my cottage once belonged to your ex-husband, James Lacey,” he said. The kettle began to boil. Agatha lifted down two mugs and put a tea-bag in one and a spoonful of instant coffee in the other.

“Yes,” she said. She stirred the tea-bag, lifted it out and put the mug down in front of him. “There’s sugar and milk in front of you.”

“Thanks. Why Raisin? Did you get married again?”

“No, that was my first husband’s name. I kept on using it even when I was married to James. Are you married?”

There was a short silence while Paul carefully added milk and sugar. He stirred his tea. “Yes, I am,” he said.

“And so where is Mrs. Chatterton?”

Another silence. Then he said, “Visiting relatives in Spain.”

“So she’s Spanish?”

“Yes.”

“What’s her name?”

“Um…Juanita.”

Agatha’s bearlike eyes narrowed. “You know what I think? I think you’re not married at all. I think there isn’t any Juanita. Look, I invited you in here, not to get into your trousers, but because I’m interested in this ghost thing.”

His black eyes sparkled with amusement. “Are you usually this blunt?”

“When I’m being lied to, yes.”

“But there is a Juanita. She has long black hair-”

“And plays the castanets and has a rose between her teeth. Forget it,” snapped Agatha. “So what do you plan to do about the haunting?”

“I thought I’d run over there and offer my services. Care to join me?”

“Don’t see why not,” said Agatha. “When shall we go?”

“What about now?”

“Okay. Finish your tea and I’ll get changed.”

“No need for that. Your housewifely appearance might reassure Mrs. Witherspoon.”

“Tcha!” said Agatha. She left the kitchen and ran upstairs. She put on a cool pink-and-white-striped shirtwaister dress and then carefully applied make-up. She longed to wear high heels, but the day was hot and swollen ankles would not look chic. She sighed and pushed her feet into a pair of low-heeled sandals.

She was half-way down the stairs when she realized she had forgotten to put on tights. A hot day minus tights would mean the straps on her sandals would scrape across her feet and the skin of her thighs under the short dress might stick to the car seat. She went back to her bedroom and struggled into a pair of tights labelled “One Size Fits All,” reflecting that whoever put that slogan on the packet had been thinking of a skinny fourteen-year-old. She looked in the mirror. The effort of putting on the tights in a hot bedroom had made her nose shine. She powdered it too vigorously and got a sneezing fit. By the time she had finished sneezing, her make-up was a wreck, so she had to redo it. Right! A last look in the full-length mirror. God! The buttons at the bosom of her shirtwaister were straining. She took it off and put on a white cotton blouse and a cotton skirt with an elasticated waist.

Fine. Ready to go. One more look in the mirror. Damn. She was wearing a black bra and it showed through the white cotton. Off with the blouse, on with a white bra, blouse back on again.

Resolutely not looking in the mirror this time, Agatha darted down the stairs.

“You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” said Paul.

“I haven’t gone to any trouble,” growled Agatha.

“You were away ages and I thought…Never mind. Let’s get going. You’d better take a pair of wellingtons.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s still foot-and-mouth around and she may live near a farm and we might have to wade through disinfectant.”

“Right,” said Agatha. “I’ve got a pair by the door. Whose car? Yours or mine?”

“I’ll drive.”

His car was a vintage MG. Agatha groaned inwardly as she lowered herself down into the low seat. She felt as if she were sitting on the road. He set off with a roar and Agatha’s hair blew forward about her face.

“Why is it in films,” she said, “that the heroine in an open car always has her hair streaming behind her?”

“Because she’s filmed in a stationary car in a studio with a film of landscape rolling behind her and a studio fan directed on her hair. If it’s bothering you, I can stop and put the top up.”

“No,” said Agatha sourly. “The damage is done. Whereabouts in Hebberdon does this Mrs. Witherspoon live?”

“Ivy Cottage, Bag End.”

Agatha fell silent as the countryside streamed past, the ruined countryside, the countryside destroyed by foot-and-mouth. If she had still been in London, she wouldn’t have given a damn. But somehow she now felt she belonged in the countryside and what happened there affected her deeply.

Hebberdon was a tiny picturesque village nestling at the foot of a valley. There were no shops, one pub, and a huddle of cottages. Paul stopped the car and looked around. “I’ll knock at one of the doors and ask where Bag End is.”

Agatha fished out a cigarette and lit up. There was a hole where she guessed the ashtray used to be. Still, it was an open car. He could hardly object.

He came back. “We can leave the car here. Bag End is just around the corner.”

Getting out of the car to Agatha was reminiscent of getting out of the deck-chair, but she managed it without having to roll out on the road.

They walked round into Bag End, a narrow lane with only one cottage at the end. Agatha took a final puff at her cigarette and tossed it at the side of the road. Paul retrieved it and stubbed it out. “You’ll set the countryside alight in this weather,” he complained.

“Sorry,” mumbled Agatha, reflecting that she was not really the countrywoman she had thought herself to be. “How old is this Mrs. Witherspoon?”

“Ninety-two, according to the newspapers.”

“She might be gaga.”

“Don’t think so. Let’s see anyway.”

Ivy Cottage was indeed covered in ivy which rippled in the summer breeze. The roof was thatched. Paul seized the brass knocker and gave it a good few bangs. After a few moments, the letter-box opened and a woman’s voice shouted, “Go away.”

“We’re here to help you,” said Paul, crouched down by the letter-box. “We’ll lay the ghost for you.”

“I’m sick of cranks. Sod off!”

Paul grinned sideways at Agatha. “Sounds like a soul mate of yours.” He turned back to the letter-box.

“We’re not cranks, Mrs. Witherspoon. We really do want to help.”

“How can you do that?”

“I am Paul Chatterton with Agatha Raisin. We live in Carsely. We’re going to spend a night in your house and catch your ghost.”

There was a long silence and then the rattle of bolts and chains. The door opened. Agatha found herself looking upwards. She had imagined that Mrs. Witherspoon would turn out to be a small, frail, stooped old lady. But it was a giantess that faced her.

Mrs. Witherspoon was a powerful woman, at least six feet tall, with dyed red hair and big strong hands.

She jerked her head by way of welcome and they followed her into a small dark parlour. The ivy clustered round the leaded windows cut out most of the light.

“So what makes you pair think you can find who is haunting me?” she asked. Her head almost touched the beamed ceiling. Agatha, who had sat down, stood up again, not liking the feeling of being loomed over.

“It’s worth a try,” said Paul easily. “I mean, what have you got to lose?”

Mrs. Witherspoon turned bright eyes on Agatha. “You said your name was Raisin?”

“He did. And yes, it is.”

“Ah, you’re the one from Carsely who fancies herself to be a detective. Your husband ran off and left you. Hardly surprising.”

Agatha clenched her hands into fists. “And what happened to yours?”

“He died twenty years ago.”

Agatha turned to Paul and began to say, “Maybe this is a silly idea after all…” but he hissed, “Let me handle it.”

He turned to Mrs. Witherspoon. “We would be no trouble,” he coaxed. “We could sit down here during the night and wait.”

“Don’t expect me to feed you,” she said.

“Wouldn’t dream of it. We’ll come about ten.”

“Oh, all right. I’ve lived in this cottage all my life and I am not going to be driven out of it.”

“What form do these hauntings take?”

“Whispers, footsteps, a sort of grey mist seeping under the bedroom door. The police have been over the place, but there’s no sign of forced entry.”

“Have you any enemies?” asked Agatha.

“Not that I know of. I’m a friendly sort. Never anything about me to upset people.” She fastened her eyes on Agatha’s face with a contemptuous look as if to imply that there was a lot about Agatha Raisin to get people’s backs up.

Paul edged Agatha to the door, seeing she was about to burst out with something. “We’ll be back at ten,” he said.

“I don’t think I want to help that old bitch,” she railed, when they got into the car. “Believe me, Count Dracula wouldn’t even frighten that one.”

“But it is interesting,” protested Paul. “As a child, didn’t you want to spend the night in a haunted house?”

Agatha thought briefly of the Birmingham slum she had been brought up in. There had been so much earthly terror and violence that as a child she had little need to scare herself with things supernatural.

She sighed and capitulated. “May as well give it a try.”

“I’ll bring a late supper and a Scrabble board to pass the time.”

“A Ouija board might be better.”

“Haven’t got one of those. What would you like to eat?”

“I’ll eat before we go. Lots of black coffee would be a good idea. I’ll bring a large Thermos.”

“Good, then. We’re all set.”

They drove back into Carsely under the watchful eyes of various villagers.

“I saw Mrs. Raisin out with that Paul Chatterton,” complained Miss Simms, secretary of the ladies’ society, to Mrs. Bloxby when she met her outside the village stores later that day. “I don’t know how she does it! Here’s all of us women trying to get a look in and she snaps him up. I mean ter say, she’s no spring chicken.”

“I believe men finds Mrs. Raisin sexy,” said the vicar’s wife and tripped off with her shopping basket over her arm, leaving Miss Simms staring after her.

“Would you believe it?” Miss Simms complained ten minutes later to Mrs. Davenport, a recent incomer and now a regular member of the ladies’ society. “Mrs. Bloxby, the wife of a vicar, mark you, says that Mrs. Raisin is sexy.”

“And what prompted that?” demanded Mrs. Davenport, looking every inch the British expatriate she had recently been-print dress, large Minnie Mouse white shoes, small white gloves and terrifying hat.

“Only that our Mrs. Raisin has been driving around with Paul Chatterton and the pair of them looking like an item.” Under the shadow of the brim of her hat, Mrs. Davenport’s face tightened in disapproval. Had she not presented Mr. Chatterton with one of her best chocolate cakes and followed it up with two jars of homemade jam? And hadn’t he just politely accepted the gifts without even asking her in for a coffee?

Mrs. Davenport continued on her way. The news rankled. In the manner of British ex-patriates who lived on a diet of rumours, she stopped various people, embellishing the news as she went. By evening, it was all round the village that Agatha was having an affair with Paul Chatterton.

At six o’clock that evening, Agatha’s doorbell rang. She hoped that perhaps it was Paul inviting her out for dinner. Detective Sergeant Bill Wong stood on the doorstep. Agatha felt immediately guilty. Bill had been her first friend when she had moved down to the country. She didn’t want to tell him about the search for the ghost in case he would try to stop her.

“Come in,” she said. “I haven’t seen you for while. How are things going?”

“Apart from chasing and fining ramblers who will try to walk their dogs across farmland, nothing much. What have you been getting up to?”

They walked into the kitchen. “I’ve just made some coffee. Like some?”

“Thanks. That’s the biggest Thermos I’ve ever seen.”

“Just making some coffee for the ladies’ society,” lied Agatha. “I hear James was back in Carsely-briefly.”

“Yes,” said Agatha. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Still hurts?”

“I said, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Okay. How’s the new neighbour?”

“Paul Chatterton? Seems pleasant enough.”

Bill’s round face, a mixture of Asian and Western features, looked at her curiously. Agatha’s face was slightly flushed.

“So you haven’t been getting up to anything exciting?”

“Not me,” said Agatha. “I did some PR work in London, but down here I’ve been concentrating on the garden. I made some scones. Would you like one with your coffee?”

Bill knew Agatha’s baking was bad, to say the least. He looked doubtful. “Go on,” urged Agatha. “They’re awfully good.”

“All right.”

Agatha put a scone on a plate and then put butter and jam in front of him.

Bill bit into it cautiously. It was delicious, as light as a feather. “You’ve really excelled yourself, Agatha,” he said.

And Agatha, who had received the scones as a gift from Mrs. Bloxby, smiled sweetly at him. “You’ll never believe how domesticated I’ve become. Oh, there’s the doorbell.”

She hurried to open the door, hoping it would not be Paul Chatterton who might start talking about their planned vigil at the haunted house. But it was Mrs. Bloxby.

“Come in,” said Agatha. “Bill’s here.” She hoped Bill had finished that scone.

But to her horror, as she entered the kitchen with Mrs. Bloxby, Bill said, “I wouldn’t mind another of those scones, Agatha.”

“Oh, do you like them?” asked Mrs. Bloxby. “I gave Mrs. Raisin some this morning because I’d made too many.”

“Coffee?” Agatha asked the vicar’s wife.

“Not for me. The attendance at the ladies’ society is not very good, so I called round to make sure you would be at it this evening.”

“I can’t,” said Agatha, aware of Bill’s amused eyes on her face.

“Why not?”

“I’ve got to see a man about some PR work.”

“Working again so soon? I thought you wanted a quiet summer.”

“Oh, well, it’s just a little job.”

“What is it this time? Fashion?”

“It’s a new anti-wrinkle face cream.”

“Really? Do you think those creams work?”

“I don’t know,” said Agatha loudly. “It’s all too boring. Can we talk about something else?”

There was a silence. Agatha felt her face turning red.

“You’re getting quite a name for yourself in the village,” teased Mrs. Bloxby. “It’s all over the place that you and Paul Chatterton are an item.”

“Nonsense.”

“You were seen out in his car.”

“He was giving me a lift.”

“Oh, is your car off the road?”

“Look,” said Agatha, “I was leaving to go to Moreton and he came out of his house at the same time and said he was going to Moreton as well and offered me a lift. That’s all. Honestly, the way people in this village gossip.”

“Well,” said the vicar’s wife, “a lot of noses have been put out of joint by your apparent friendship with him. Why should you succeed when so many others have failed? I’d better go.”

Agatha saw her out and then returned reluctantly to the kitchen. “You haven’t let me have another of those scones yet,” said Bill.

“I must have made a mistake and given you one of Mrs. Bloxby’s scones instead of one my own,” said Agatha, who, once she was in a hole, never knew when to stop digging.

“Then I’ll have one of yours.”

Agatha went through the pantomime of opening an empty tin. “Sorry,” she said. “Mine are all finished. What a pity.”

She put another of Mrs. Bloxby’s scones in front of him,

“Have you heard of a Mrs. Witherspoon who claims she is being haunted?” asked Bill.

“Yes, it was in the local papers.”

“And you didn’t feel impelled to do anything about it?”

“No, I want a quiet life. She’s probably gaga.”

“She’s not. I went a couple of times to investigate. The police couldn’t find anything. I’ve got this odd feeling you’re hiding something from me, Agatha.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I mean, I ask you about this new neighbour of yours and you don’t tell me he took you down to Moreton.”

“What is this?” demanded Agatha. “The third degree?”

Bill laughed. “I still think you’re holding out on me. Well, I’m sure a bit of ghost-hunting won’t hurt you.”

“I never said-”

“No, you didn’t, did you? I would ask you about this face cream and where you are meeting this man, but I don’t want to stretch your imagination any further.”

“Bill!”

He grinned. “I’ll see you around.”

Agatha sighed with relief when he had left and went upstairs to take a shower. She felt hot and clammy after all her lies.

Now what did one wear for ghost-hunting?