Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

Two

BY the time Agatha went downstairs that evening, she left the bedroom behind her in a mess. She had tried on just about everything in her wardrobe, veering from the chic to the shoddy, and had finally settled on wearing a pair of comfortable woollen trousers, a checked shirt and a cashmere sweater.

Don’t get interested in men again, she told herself severely and looked so grim when she opened the door to Paul that he took a step back and asked her whether anything was the matter. “No, nothing,” said Agatha. “I’ll get the coffee.”

“I forgot to tell you. Sometimes I prefer tea, and this is one of those sometimes.”

Agatha threw him a filthy look and went through to the kitchen and picked up the huge Thermos. At least all the coffee she had made should keep her awake.

“We’ll take my car,” she said firmly. The evening was chilly and she did not relish the idea of bucketing through the lanes in Paul Chatterton’s MG.

Outside, Paul loaded a picnic basket into Agatha’s new Audi. “You’ve brought a lot,” commented Agatha.

“I haven’t eaten yet. Have you?”

“I had something,” lied Agatha. Somehow she felt guilty about having wasted so much time changing in and out of clothes and putting on full make-up with mascara and eye shadow and then wiping it off and replacing it with a lighter maquillage. Her stomach gave a rumble and she added quickly, “But only a sandwich.”

“Just as well I’ve got enough for two,” he said.

Agatha drove off, wondering how many curtains in the village were twitching as they cruised past.

“Isn’t this exciting?” said Paul.

“Yes,” said Agatha doubtfully. She didn’t believe in ghosts. Old houses, such as her own and Mrs. Witherspoon’s, were full of creaks and noises. Ahead of her lay a sleepless night with a man she didn’t really know.

They arrived at Ivy Cottage and unloaded the car. Mrs. Witherspoon answered the door wearing a voluminous scarlet dressing-gown which clashed with her red hair.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said ungraciously. “Go into the living-room and settle yourselves. If you need the bathroom, it’s the door off the landing. Otherwise, don’t bother me, and don’t wake me. I’m a light sleeper.”

“You’d think she didn’t want us to find her ghost,” grumbled Agatha after Mrs. Witherspoon had retreated upstairs.

“Never mind. I’m going to eat.” Paul opened up the hamper, took out several plastic boxes, and plates and knives and forks. “There’s cold chicken, salad and French bread,” he said cheerfully. “Help yourself, and then we’ll have a game of Scrabble.”

Agatha ate gratefully and accompanied her plate of food with several cups of strong black coffee. Paul had brought a Thermos of tea.

“So what brought you to Carsely?” asked Agatha.

“A desire for somewhere pretty and quiet. I usually live in London but it’s become so noisy and crowded and dirty. Besides, Carsely is only an hour and a half away, so it’s not exactly isolated.”

“Have you always worked with computers?”

“Yes, I was lucky. I started right after university. I got in pretty much on the ground floor.”

“What exactly do you do?”

“I’m a programmer. What about you? Retired?”

“Mostly, although I still take the odd job. I had my own PR firm in London but I sold up and took early retirement,” said Agatha, stressing the word early.

“And how did you get into amateur detection?”

“By accident,” said Agatha. “You know, things happen and I get curious.”

“How do you go about it?”

“Go around asking questions. The police don’t often have time to get to know people and people will talk more freely to a civilian than they will to the police.” Agatha had an impulse to brag, which she quickly suppressed. She had an uneasy feeling that Paul found her more amusing than attractive.

After they had finished, he neatly packed the plates away. So much for Juanita, thought Agatha. Bachelors are always neat and domesticated. She suddenly remembered James Lacey and felt a stab of pain. Her eyes filled with tears.

“What’s the matter?” asked Paul.

“I bit my tongue by accident.”

“Nasty, that. Let’s play Scrabble.”

He arranged the board and tiles on the table. He started. He put down “xenon” on the board.

“That’s not a word,” said Agatha crossly.

“It is, you know. It’s a gas. Here!”

He took out a copy of the Oxford Dictionary and handed it to her. Agatha looked it up. “Okay,” she said sulkily. The game progressed. Paul won easily. They started another. An old marble clock on the mantel ticked drearily and then its rusty chimes sounded midnight.

The time crawled by. Paul won two more games. “I’m bored,” said Agatha.

“Why don’t you have a sleep? I’ll keep watch.”

“I’ll stay awake a little longer. The house is very quiet. I wish we could do something amusing to pass the time.”

He smiled at her. “Well, there is something we could do.”

Agatha felt a frisson of sexual tension. “And what’s that?” she asked.

“I’ve a pack of cards. We could play poker.”

“No, that’s even more boring than Scrabble, and you only want to play to make me look as silly as you’ve made me look over the Scrabble board. Does Juanita really exist?”

“Of course she does.”

“So why isn’t she with you?”

“I told you, she’s visiting relatives in Spain.”

“So you did. It’s getting cold in here. What’s that?”

Cold white mist was beginning to seep under the living-room door. Agatha stared at it as it crept around their legs.

“Come on,” said Paul, getting to his feet. “Someone’s playing tricks. Nip upstairs and see if Mrs. Witherspoon’s all right and I’ll search the downstairs.”

“Do I have to?”

“Go on.”

Paul opened the living-room door and crossed the small hall to the kitchen at the back. Agatha mounted the stairs, her feet feeling like lead. “Mrs. Witherspoon!” she called in a quavering voice and then louder, “Mrs. Witherspoon.”

A door at the top of the stairs opened and a terrible apparition stood there, tall and white, with a green face and staring red eyes. Agatha screamed. She tumbled down the stairs and yanked open the front door. She got into her car, fumbling for her keys. She was dimly aware of Paul shouting something, but she’d had enough. She roared off and did not stop until she had reached her own cottage. She did not feel safe until she was in her own bed with the duvet pulled up over her ears. Despite her fear, she fell into a heavy sleep from which she was aroused two hours later by the phone ringing. Assuring herself that ghosts surely did not know how to use the telephone, she answered it.

Paul’s voice sounded down the line. “Could you come and pick me up? You left me stranded.”

“I saw an awful thing…” began Agatha.

“That awful thing was Mrs. Witherspoon in a face pack. She’s furious with you. You’re not very courageous for a detective.”

“See you soon.” Agatha slammed down the phone. She dressed hurriedly and went out to set off again for Hebberdon, feeling like a fool. Paul was waiting for her on the doorstep.

“I’m sorry,” said Agatha as he packed the picnic basket in the car. “But how was I to know it was her? And all that cold mist.”

“That, I am convinced, was nothing more than carbon dioxide gas. There’s no sign of anyone having broken in and the windows were all closed and locked. She says no one else has a key, but they must have.” He got into the passenger seat. “Anyway, you’ve blown it. She’s so furious with you, she doesn’t want to see us again.”

“I’ve said I’m sorry,” shouted Agatha, moving off. “What else can I say?” He began to laugh. “What’s so funny?”

“You,” he spluttered. “You should have seen your face.”

“Have you not considered,” said Agatha coldly, “that if someone is ruthless enough to frighten that old woman to death, they might have wanted to put an end to us?”

“No, I don’t think so. I wanted to find out if she had much money and who would inherit, but she told me to mind my own business. I think we should go over to Hebberdon later today and ask the locals about her.”

Agatha felt ashamed of herself, and that shame was making her cross and irritated. She did not like not being in control, but grudgingly admitted to herself that to refuse to go on investigating would be childish. “All right,” she said ungraciously. “What time?”

“Oh, we’ll get some sleep first. Say, eleven in the morning?”

“Right.”

He began to laugh. “You must admit, it was very funny. You ran off screaming like a banshee!”

“Drop it. I feel a fool.”

“Well,” he said, conciliating, “who would expect old Mrs. Witherspoon to go in for a face pack at her age?”

“That carbon dioxide gas. At least we know there’s someone human behind it. It was carbon dioxide, wasn’t it?” asked Agatha.

“It might be. But surely the police would have thought of that.”

“I don’t know. This government has been closing down so many country police stations that the police that are left are overloaded with work. Anyway, tomorrow’s another day.”

When they set out again the following morning, Agatha resolved that nothing about this “ghost” would scare her again. But she felt rather shy of Paul. He did not seem to feel in the least awkward around her, but then why should he? Probably regarded her as some sort of middle-aged eccentric, all right for a bit of amusement, only good enough to play Dr. Watson to his superior brain. Agatha mentally checked her appearance. She was wearing a scarlet cashmere sweater over a pair of jersey wool trousers and flat sandals. She edged the sweater down a bit over her stomach. Time for more exercise and diet. What a bore ageing was! Things drooped and sagged and bulged unless one worked ferociously on them. The flesh under her chin was really showing a slackness which alarmed her. She had slapped herself again under the chin sixty times that morning and had performed several grimacing exercises in order to try to tighten the flesh up, which had resulted in a red neck. She hoped the red had faded. And yet why should she mind what Paul thought of her appearance? Because he’s a man, she thought dismally, and she was mentally tied to her generation who considered every man as a prospective lover.

“Here we are,” said Paul, cruising to a stop. “What we want to suss out is whether Mrs. Witherspoon is regarded as eccentric and also who would get the house if she died. I mean, someone must be trying to frighten her to death.”

“Then someone doesn’t know her very well,” commented Agatha.

“She’s got high blood pressure.”

“How do you know that?”

“I went to the loo and checked out her pills in the bathroom cabinet.”

“So where do we start?” asked Agatha, looking around.

“The pub, I suppose.”

They got out of the car. The pub, a small square Victorian building, was called The Railway Arms. “Didn’t know there was a station here,” said Agatha.

“There probably was in the days when trains stopped everywhere. The Hereford line is quite close.”

Agatha looked at her watch. “It’s early yet. Don’t suppose it gets many people at any time.”

“It’s a free house. Hasn’t been bought up by a brewery yet. They probably get ramblers when there isn’t a foot-and-mouth epidemic. Come on.”

“Aren’t you going to lock your car?”

“No, it’ll be all right.”

“I would if I were you,” said Agatha. “I see you’ve got a CD radio fitted.”

“Oh, stop worrying and let’s get started.”

They walked together into the pub. The walls, once white, were now yellow with nicotine. A few framed photographs of steam trains hung on them. There was a scarred wooden bar along one wall and a few wooden tables and upright chairs were dotted about. A man with a balding head and a large beer belly stood behind the bar.

“What’ll you have?” asked Paul.

“Gin and tonic.”

“Right. I’ll have a tomato juice. It’s a bit early for me.”

“I haven’t no ice,” said the barman.

“I would be amazed if you had,” said Agatha.

The barman put their drinks on the counter. “Visiting?” he asked.

“We’re both living over in Carsely,” said Paul. “Funny, that business about Mrs. Witherspoon. We read about it in the papers.”

“You don’t want to pay no heed to that,” he said.

“Why?” asked Agatha.

“Because she’s an old bitch what’d say anything,” remarked the barman.

“That’s interesting,” said Agatha. “But you strike me as a very intelligent man. Do you work here or are you the landlord?”

“I own this pub.” He stuck out a hand. “Barry Briar’s the name.”

Agatha took his hand. He held hers and leered at her.

“So, Mr. Briar,” said Agatha, tugging at her hand until he released it, “do you mean Mrs. Witherspoon made the whole thing up?”

“Course she did. She likes the attention, see? Afore this, her was always calling the police out for something or another.”

“Like reporting you for serving drinks after hours?” said Paul.

“There’s that. But there’s other things.”

“Like what?” asked Agatha. “Here, let me buy you a drink?”

“Ta. I’ll have a malt.” Briar helped himself to a double measure and Agatha reluctantly paid up. “Like there’s Greta Handy at Pear Cottage. Her got the satellite TV in and Mrs. Witherspoon reported her to the council for defacing an old building and they made her take the satellite dish down. Then there’s Percy Fleming, him at Dove Cottage. He’s a writer. He had a shed put in his garden for a place to work. Said he could keep all his computer stuff and manuscripts, like, and use it for an office. Even had the phone put in. Tasty liddle place, it were. Mrs. Witherspoon reports him to the council and says he hasn’t asked for planning permission and it’s got to go. He paid lawyers and got his way, but it cost him a mint.”

“Goodness!” said Agatha, looking suitably enthralled. “Does she have any family?”

“She has a daughter, Carol, lives over Ancombe way. And a son. They never talk.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, Carol is in her late sixties and never married. She says she never had a chance. Her mother scared them all off. When she got the courage to leave, it were too late, poor old cow.”

“So she made all this ghost business up?” asked Paul.

“Course she did. She likes the fuss. Police and newspapers running around.”

The phone rang in the back premises and Briar went to answer it. Agatha and Paul carried their drinks over to a table.

“So what do you think?” asked Paul.

“Seems like he’s telling the truth,” said Agatha.

“What about that mist?”

“She probably faked that herself. Look, if she was really frightened, she would have been anxious for our help, but she was pretty reluctant.”

“Drink up and we’ll try those two neighbours she riled up.”

Greta Handy was a small, round, muscular woman. Her thick grey hair was scraped up on top of her head and she was wearing a man’s pullover with a pair of torn and faded jeans. When she heard the reason for their call, she invited them in. They stood helplessly in her low-beamed living-room, wondering where to sit. A large dog of mixed breed was stretched out on a sofa and somnolent cats occupied the two easy chairs. The stuffy air was redolent of cat and dog, and various bowls of half-eaten cat and dog food were spread about the floor on the hair-covered carpet. A large television set dominated the room. Agatha noticed a digital box on top of the video machine.

“So you got satellite after all?” she said.

“Yes, that silly old woman. What a fuss. The engineers just took the dish off the wall and put it on a stand in the shrubbery.”

“So what about this ghost business?” asked Paul.

“Load of rubbish, if you ask me. She’s run out of people to make trouble for, so she made the whole thing up. I’m amazed the police ever listened to her. I went round there and told her, I said, ‘You ever interfere again and I’ll stick the bread knife in you.’ So she calls the police. ‘Never said anything like that,’ I told them. I mean, you say things in the heat of the moment that you don’t mean, but if I’d told them I’d actually threatened her, they might have arrested me. But she didn’t bother me again.”

Outside, Agatha and Paul took grateful breaths of fresh air. “May as well try the other one, the writer,” said Paul.

When they rang the bell at Dove Cottage, there was no reply. “Perhaps we should go round the back,” suggested Agatha. “He may be in his shed.”

They walked along a narrow path at the side of the low thatched cottage. The front garden had been a riot of flowers, but the back garden consisted only of a square of lawn and the shed. It was a square wooden structure with a double-glazed window. “Sheds like these cost a lot,” said Agatha. “I wonder what he writes.”

“Maybe he writes under another name, one we’d recognize.” Paul rapped on the door of the shed.

A tall, stooped man opened the door. He had thick silver hair worn long, a black velvet jacket open over a white shirt and silk cravat, and black velvet trousers. “Go away,” he said in a reedy voice. “I am not buying anything.”

“We’re not selling anything,” said Paul. “I am Paul Chatterton and this is Mrs. Agatha Raisin. We spent last night in Mrs. Witherspoon’s house, trying to lay the ghost for her but without success. General opinion around here so far seems to be that she is making the whole thing up.”

“Come in,” said Percy. They walked up the shallow wooden steps and into an office-shed which looked a miracle of order. Neat files in different colours filled the shelves and a computer and printer stood on a metal desk. Percy sat beside the desk and waved Agatha and Paul into two hard chairs facing him. “I am glad you have come to me,” he said, making a steeple of his fingers and looking wise-or trying to look wise, Agatha thought. “I am a writer and I have a writer’s eye for detail.”

Probably can’t write very well and must have a private income, reflected Agatha. She knew from long experience that successful writers rarely glorified their trade.

“Do you write under your own name?” she asked.

“No,” he said proudly. “I am Lancelot Grail.” He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a paperback which he handed to her. The cover showed a muscular man stripped to the waist, wielding an axe and being threatened by a dragon.

“Oh, now I know who you are,” lied Agatha, anxious to keep him helpful. “So what can you tell us about Mrs. Witherspoon?”

“To put it bluntly, she is a bitch from hell,” he said. “Ah, I shock you by my plain speaking, Mrs. Raisin, but that is what she is. She reported this shed to the planning officer and I had to employ a lawyer at Great Expense to clear things up. I told her to mind her own business in future and she told me to go and…” His face turned a delicate pink. “Well, I will not sully your ears with such language. Of course she’s making it all up. She’s lonely and bored and her hobby is creating fuss and chaos.”

Agatha felt disappointed. Three people in this small village all said roughly the same thing. It looked as if there was no case and no case meant no more outings with Paul.

Paul got to his feet. “Thank you for your time. So you really believe there’s nothing in it? We thought someone might be trying to frighten her to death.”

“Her! My dear fellow, all the dragons of Gorth could not frighten that old hag.”

“What’s Gorth?” asked Agatha.

“It is a planet in my latest book. I would offer you a copy, but on the other hand, I feel people should buy my books and not expect free copies.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Agatha in all sincerity.

As they approached his MG, Paul said ruefully, “Nothing to investigate after all.”

Agatha looked at the parked car. “I’m afraid there is.”

“What?”

She pointed to the soft top of the car, which Paul had left up. Someone had sliced through it with a sharp knife. Paul gave an exclamation and opened the car door. “My CD player has gone.”

He looked wildly around. “Who could have done this?”

Agatha took out her mobile phone. “I’ll call the police.”

Bill Wong made a detour into the ops room on his way out of police headquarters in Mircester. He rather fancied the new blonde recruit called Haley. She was just taking a call. He heard her say, “Any units in the area of Hebberdon. Car-radio theft. Owner a Mr. Paul Chatterton.”

Bill stood deep in thought while she gave further instructions. Not so long ago, a policeman from the nearest village would have been sent, but with the government closing so many rural stations, calls went out to patrol cars. Chatterton. Now that was Agatha’s new neighbour and Hebberdon was that village where the old woman had been frightened by a ghost. So Agatha was investigating that business after all.

A patient policeman took down the details of the theft of Paul’s radio-cum-CD player. “We’ll do our best, sir,” he said, finally closing his notebook. “But in future, you should keep your car locked.”

“And what difference would that make?” demanded Paul angrily. “They assumed it was locked anyway and just sliced through the roof. Someone must have seen something. It’s such a small village.”

They turned and looked up the winding road and then down but nothing moved in the patchy sunlight. “Let’s try the pub,” suggested Agatha.

“Just leave the investigating to us,” said the policeman. “I have your phone number, Mr. Chatterton. We’ll let you know if we find anything.”

He stood there until they drove off.

“I feel sick,” said Paul. “I love this car.”

“Then you should take better care of it,” snapped Agatha.

“Are you always so insensitive and rude?”

They arrived back in Carsely in an angry silence. Before she got out of the car, Agatha tried to heal the breach. “Look, Paul, I’m sorry I made that crack about you taking better care of your car.”

But he sat at the wheel, staring straight ahead.

Agatha climbed out and stomped off into her cottage. Rats, she thought. I’ve blown it. She walked through to the kitchen and opened the back door and let her cats out into the garden. She made herself a cup of coffee and followed them out and sank down into the deck-chair. Now what should she do? To tell the truth, she admitted to herself, she had rather enjoyed stealing a march on the other women of the village by cruising around with Paul Chatterton. She probably wouldn’t have a chance to talk to him again. Now that there appeared to be no mystery to solve, he would probably take on another work contract.

The doorbell shrilled from the front of the house. She tried to struggle to her feet and ended up rolling the whole deck-chair to the side so that she fell out onto the grass. She hurried through the house. Please let it be Paul, please let it be Paul, went her mind. I’m sure it’s Paul. She threw open the door.

Bill Wong stood on the step.

Agatha’s face fell.

“Expecting someone else?” asked Bill.

“No, no. Come in. Another visit, and so soon! Come through to the garden. Coffee?”

“No, it’s a flying visit.”

They walked into the garden. “I’ll bring out a chair,” said Agatha. “Try the deck-chair,” she added, malicious in her disappointment. “It’s very comfortable.”

She carried out a hard kitchen chair. Bill settled himself in the deck-chair.

“I heard a report from Hebberdon that your neighbour’s car was broken into.”

“And you came all the way here just for that!”

“I wondered what you pair were up to. The only thing that would take you to Hebberdon, Agatha Raisin, is ghost-hunting.”

“Oh, well, you may as well hear it all. Okay, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I thought you wouldn’t want me to interfere.”

“Quite right. Anyway, what did you find out?”

“Nothing much. I made a fool of myself.”

His brown eyes smiled up at her from the depths of the deck-chair. “You? Never! What happened?”

“Paul persuaded Mrs. Witherspoon to let us spend the night. At first it was all very quiet and boring. Then this cold mist began to creep into the room. I ran upstairs to see if Mrs. Witherspoon was all right. There was this horrible sight with a green face and a long white gown. I ran screaming out of the house. Paul phoned me to say that the apparition had been Mrs. Witherspoon in her nightie with a face pack on. No wonder she looks so sour. You’re not supposed to sleep with a face pack on.”

Bill chortled with laughter and stroked Boswell, who had jumped onto his lap.

“Anyway,” Agatha went on, “we went there today to ask around. Mrs. Witherspoon doesn’t want to have anything to do with us. We were told by three of the neighbours that she was only doing it to get attention.”

“And you believe that?”

“I think that old ratbag would do anything to upset people.”

“Maybe. The police sat it out in that cottage a couple of nights but nothing happened. This cold mist…?”

“Probably carbon dioxide, dry ice; they use it on stage sometimes.”

“Well, that’s something. Didn’t you find that odd?”

“After what the neighbours say, I suppose she was playing tricks on us. The stuff ’s pretty easy to get, I suppose.”

The doorbell rang. “Excuse me,” said Agatha. This time, she did not expect it to be Paul, but it was the man himself who stood there.

“Oh, Paul,” said Agatha faintly. “I did say I was sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he said, his black eyes gleaming with excitement. “I’ve just had a call from the police. They’ve found my radio.”

“Come in. I’ve got a detective friend here.” She led the way through to the garden. “Bill, this is Paul Chatterton. Paul, Detective Sergeant Bill Wong.”

Paul sank down onto the grass beside Bill. “Yes, the police have just phoned. They found my car radio and CD player in a dry ditch beside where my car was parked.”

“That’s odd,” said Bill. “Maybe someone came along and whoever stole it just dropped it.”

“Or Mrs. Witherspoon, anxious for more attention, did it herself,” said Agatha.

“Come on, Agatha,” protested Bill. “She’s an old lady!”

“A very fit old lady and very strong,” said Agatha.

“Anyway,” said Paul, “I’m going over to Mircester to identify it and pick it up. Feel like coming?”

Bill noticed the way Agatha’s face lit up, and his heart sank. Paul was a very attractive man. Bill didn’t want to see Agatha getting hurt again.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Let’s finish talking about this haunted-house business.” Bill’s almond-shaped eyes gleaned. “Was there any more mist?”

“No, none at all.”

“Did you search around? Any canisters?”

“Nothing.”

“Any wet patches on the floor outside the room where you were sitting?”

“I didn’t look. Why?”

“Dry ice does not really need to be wet with water to give off a visible vapour; it will freeze water vapour in the air near it, producing visible vapour all by itself. However, if you add water, it works at an accelerated rate and you’ll get a lot more mist.”

“So you think there might be something in this?” asked Paul.

“Probably not. Funnily enough, the police on both occasions came to the conclusion that she wanted attention. I’ve got to go.” To Agatha’s irritation, he rose out of the deck-chair in one fluid movement. Bill was young, in his late twenties. Oh, God, her inability to get out of that hell-chair must be the first creaking signs of age.

Agatha walked him to the door. “Be careful,” whispered Bill. “Of what? Ghosts?”

“Of falling in love again.”

“I won’t. He says he’s married.”

“Let’s hope that damps your ardour.”

Agatha retreated into the house. “Going to the loo,” she shouted. She nipped quickly up the stairs and put on fresh make-up.

“We’ll take my car,” she said to Paul when she made her appearance in the garden again.

“Fine.” He rose to his feet. “I think I’ll buy myself an old banger for driving around. I’d better take care of my MG in future.”

Honestly, thought Agatha, I bet he’s even got a name for the damn thing.