Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

Five

AGATHA Raisin lay in a scented bath and wondered whether it was all worth getting out of it, getting dressed, and going to the Towdey Historical Society. This was not because she was sure Harry was the murderer, but rather because she felt a need to relax-a rare need. Normally Agatha never felt comfortable just sloping around, doing nothing. The fact was she was fed up with herself for always going to endless lengths to prepare herself and dress up for men who were not worth the effort. Paul is married, remember that, she told herself severely.

Her cats, Hodge and Boswell, sat on the edge of the bath and stared at her solemnly as if agreeing with her thoughts.

Hidden treasure and secret passages. It all reminded her of the comics she had read as a child. Still-someone had got into that house…

With a sigh, she rose out of the now tepid water and dried herself. She then studied her body in the mirror. Her breasts were still high, and she had no cellulite or stretch marks. But there was a slackening of the skin at the waist, at the stomach, and under her chin. She decided to do some waist exercises the following day. She had always had a thick waistline. No sense in letting it get worse.

She rebelled against the idea of wearing pretty underwear. Why bother when she was going out with a married man? She put on a pair of white cotton knickers and a white cotton bra and then went through to the bedroom and selected a comfortable linen trouser suit and white blouse. Agatha resisted the temptation to put on high heels. She was just making her way downstairs with the cats running in front of her when the doorbell rang. She looked at her watch. Paul was right on time.

“Ready?” he asked when she opened the door. “You look really nice.”

Well, thought Agatha, you never could tell with men. Maybe one looked more available with the minimum of make-up.

“Do you really think anything will come out of this?” she asked.

“Might do. It’s worth a try.”

It was still light as they drove off, but a grey evening with flashes of sheet lightening over to the west and the occasional rumble of thunder. “Maybe we should have checked out where the church room was before we left Towdey,” said Agatha.

“The church is at the end of the main street and the church room is bound to be next to it.”

“Heard from your wife?”

“Juanita? No. No news is good news. Heard from your ex? Gossip round the village says you’re still in love with him.”

“I haven’t heard from him and I don’t want to,” said Agatha harshly.

They continued on to Towdey in silence.

Paul parked in front of the church. It had a grey Norman tower and the west door had a Norman arch over it. Old gravestones, some of them slanted at crazy angles, stood on the rough grass of the churchyard. A heavy drop of rain struck Agatha’s cheek and the thunder rumbled closer.

“Let’s find that church room,” cried Agatha. “It’s just about to pour.”

An elderly man and woman walked into the churchyard. “Are you going to the historical society?” asked Paul. “We don’t know where the church room is.”

“Follow us,” said the old man.

“They’re a bit historical themselves,” said Agatha as they slowly followed the couple round the corner of the church and up shallow steps to an open door. There were six more elderly people already seated in a small square room, and three middle-aged punters, fidgeting and yawning.

A tall slim man was arranging some papers on a lectern facing the audience. When he saw Agatha and Paul, he walked forward to meet them. “I am Peter Frampton,” he said. “Nice to see two new faces at our little gathering.”

Paul introduced them while Agatha covertly studied Peter Frampton, deciding he was quite attractive in a scholarly way. She put his age somewhere in the early forties. He had beautifully barbered grey hair, all waves and curls. His face was thin with a good straight nose and his pale grey eyes were heavy-lidded.

“There are two seats at the front,” Peter was saying. “I don’t know why it is, but nobody wants to sit at the front.”

“We’ll break the pattern, then,” said Paul, ushering Agatha forward.

“Are you interested in the Civil War?” he asked.

“Very,” said Agatha.

“Good, good. Just about to start.”

A great flash of lightning whitened the room and several members of the audience screamed.

“It’s just a storm and it will soon pass,” said Peter, taking his place behind the lectern. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Some of you have told me that you have insufficient knowledge of the Civil War. I think therefore tonight I will concentrate on the Battle of Worcester, 1651, which was the final act in the Civil War, which began in August 1642. Now the Cavaliers were so called from the Spanish caballeros, and the Roundheads because they were considered lowly Puritan artisans, not gentlemen, with cropped heads. The Cavaliers favoured flowing locks. Now to the battle.

“On August 28, part of the Parliamentary Army-”

“Who they?” quavered an old voice.

“The Roundheads.”

“Arr.”

“They crossed the river Severn at Upton. By nightfall-”

The door to the back of the hall opened with a bang. Agatha twisted round to look at the newcomer and then nudged Paul in the ribs. “Have a look,” she whispered. “It’s life, but not as we know it, Jim.”

A girl stood at the entrance. Behind her in the churchyard, rain drummed down in silver rods. Her thick brown hair was worn on top of her head and held in place with silver combs. Her face was white and her lips purple. She had painted thick black lines around her eyes. She was wearing a sleeveless leather tunic with heavy silver baroque jewellery and tight black leather trousers with knee-high boots which had silver clasps down the side and enormously high heels.

“Come in, Zena, and close the door,” said Peter, looking not in the slightest taken aback by this vision.

The thunder crashed but Peter’s voice rose above it. After half an hour, Agatha realized that he was still at the Battle of Worcester and showed no sign of moving on to the Royalist history of Towdey.

By the time he had got to the end of the battle, where the Cavaliers were routed and King Charles had escaped, the thunder was rumbling off into the distance. “Around ten thousand Scottish prisoners were stripped of their possessions. Some were placed in prisons around the country, others were transported to New England, Virginia and the West Indies to work on the plantations and iron works. Others were sent to work on the drainage schemes on the fens. Many of the English prisoners were conscripted into the army and were sent to Ireland.

“I hope this lecture has gone some way to fill in the gaps in your knowledge. Shall we break for tea, and then I will take your questions.”

A woman rose from the audience and whipped off a white cloth on a trestle-table revealing a tea urn and plates of sandwiches and cakes. Agatha stood up and looked around for Zena but she was nowhere in sight. She must have left more quietly than she had arrived.

“May as well get some tea,” said Paul. The elderly were rapidly piling up their plates with mounds of sandwiches and cakes. “Are you interested in history?” Paul asked an elderly gentleman. “Not me,” he said cheerfully. “Me, I comes for the food.”

“There’s not much left,” grumbled Agatha. “Bloody gannets.”

“Their need is greater than yours,” said Paul. “How would you like to have to manage on an old age pension?”

“I wonder why that odd-looking girl called Zena decided to show up?”

“Who knows? Maybe checking on her grandmother. She looked dressed for the disco rather than a historical society meeting.”

“Peter Frampton has gone missing as well,” said Paul, looking around. “I hope he’ll be back to take questions.”

“There’s another door behind that screen at the back of the room,” said Agatha. “Maybe he went there.”

“Oh, here he is again,” said Paul as Peter emerged from behind the screen.

“While you are enjoying your tea,” he announced, “are there any questions?” Agatha put up her hand. “Yes, Mrs. er…”

“I thought this was going to be a lecture on the Royalists in Towdey,” said Agatha.

“It was. But several members said they would like to know a bit of the background of the Civil War. Perhaps next week.”

Paul put up his hand. “Can you tell us a bit about Sir Geoffrey Lamont?”

“In a moment. Mr. Bragg had his hand up first. Mr. Bragg?”

“Why weren’t there none of them fairy cakes this time?”

“Mrs. Partlett is on holiday. She usually supplies them. She will be back next week.”

A ferocious discussion on the merits of fairy cakes erupted. Paul put his hand up again.

“Mrs. Harper,” said Peter.

Paul glared his annoyance.

“I would like to read out the minutes of the last meeting,” quavered Mrs. Harper in a nervous voice.

“My apologies. I forgot. Do proceed.”

Paul sank back in his chair. “This is getting interesting,” whispered Agatha. “He’s deliberately avoiding answering your question.”

And so it seemed. For the minute Mrs. Harper had finished, Peter said, “Well, that wraps it up. See you all next week.”

Paul rose to his feet but Peter scurried off behind the screen and they heard a door slam.

“That’s that,” said Agatha. “We’ll find out where he lives and tackle him at his home.”

“Let’s ask some of the locals about Ivy Cottage. Mr. Bragg,” said Paul, approaching that elderly gentleman.

“Yuss?”

“Can you tell us anything about the history of Ivy Cottage?”

“Where her was killed?”

“Yes.”

“It be an old place. Tudor.”

“We know that,” said Paul impatiently. “Weren’t there supposed to be jewels hidden there?”

“Oh, that old story. Naw. Nary a one, I reckon. If there was anything, it was stolen long afore I was born and that weren’t yesterday.” He laughed, spraying Paul with cake crumbs.

“We might be interested in buying it,” said Agatha.

“Then you should see Mr. Frampton. He were arter it, but the old girl wouldn’t budge.”

Agatha’s eyes gleamed with excitement. “Do you know where Mr. Frampton lives?”

“Third cottage down from the pub. Faggots Bottom.”

Agatha blinked at him. “That can’t be the name of the place!”

“That it is. Always was. Course Mr. Frampton just has a number outside. Didn’t hold with the name.”

A watery sunlight was sparkling off raindrops on the old trees surrounding the churchyard when they left.

“So what do you think?” asked Paul when they got into the car.

“It could be a front, the historical society, I mean,” said Agatha, ever eager to discover major crime syndicates in the Cotswold villages.

He laughed. “No, you weren’t paying attention. He gave a very good lecture. He was passionate about it. He doesn’t really care if most of the audience only come for the eats.”

“But what about that girl who came in? Totally out of place.”

“She may be a relative. Stop speculating and see if we can get some facts.”

They drove slowly past the pub and counted off two cottages and stopped outside the third.

“There’s a light on, anyway,” said Agatha. “Must be at home.”

“Unless he left it on as security.”

They got out of the car and walked to the cottage door. Agatha rang the bell.

The door opened and Peter Frampton surveyed them impatiently. “Is it important?” he asked.

“We wanted to ask you about Ivy Cottage,” said Agatha.

“Well, what about it?”

“Do you mind if we come in for a moment?” asked Paul.

“Just for a minute,” he said reluctantly.

He turned away and they followed him into a small dark living room. He did not ask them to sit, simply stood facing them.

“The story of Sir Geoffrey Lamont’s jewels,” said Paul. “Any truth in that story?”

“I believe there is, or rather was. There is a short history of the village published in the nineteenth century. Evidently one of the owners around 1884 practically had the cottage dismantled looking for the treasure, but nothing was found.”

“What about secret passages?”

Peter Frampton threw back his head and laughed. “None of those. I once got Mrs. Witherspoon’s permission to search Ivy Cottage, but there was nothing odd there. No jewels, no secret passage.”

“Well, that’s that,” said Agatha, disappointed. “Thank you for your time.”

“So where do we go from here?” asked Agatha as they drove off. “No wicked hotel owner, no sinister man from the historical society.”

“Someone killed her and it was probably Harry. Let’s concentrate on Harry.”

“Not much good. The police will have been concentrating their efforts on Harry and I don’t see that we can find out anything they can’t. What about the daughter? She may have known she wasn’t going to get anything and murdered her mother in a rage.”

“Let’s leave it until tomorrow. I’m tired.”

“And I’m hungry,” said Agatha, hoping he would ask her out for dinner.

“I’ll leave you to your microwave meals.” Paul laughed and Agatha repressed an impulse to hit him.

Agatha slept heavily and woke to the sounds of cleaning. Doris Simpson, who “did” for Agatha, had obviously arrived.

Agatha washed and dressed and went downstairs just as Doris emerged from the kitchen. “Morning, Agatha,” said Doris, who was one of the very few women in the village to use Agatha’s first name.

“Come into the kitchen and join me for a coffee, Doris. I want to know if you’ve heard anything.”

“I made a fresh pot of coffee.” Doris sat down at the kitchen table. “I let your cats out into the garden.”

“Thanks,” said Agatha. “How’s Scrabble?”

Scrabble was a cat Agatha had rescued during one of her cases. Feeling that three cats were too much, she had given Scrabble to the cleaner.

“Scrabble’s blooming,” said Doris. She helped herself to three spoonfuls of sugar and then a generous topping of milk. “Don’t know how you can drink it straight black like that. What do you want to know?”

“Have you heard any gossip about Mrs. Witherspoon?”

“That old woman that got murdered? She did get murdered, didn’t she? There was a bit in the paper this morning. I didn’t see it, but someone in the village told me.”

“Yes, it came out at the inquest. So, heard anything?”

“Too early yet, Agatha. You see, up till this morning, everyone thought it was an accident. But I’ll ask around. I hear you’ve been seeing a lot of your neighbour.” She tilted her head to one side and peered at Agatha through her glasses.

“I’ve been asking around about Mrs. Witherspoon and he’s been helping me.”

“Doesn’t do to mess with married men.”

“I’m not messing with him,” said Agatha crossly. “And I’ve met his wife.”

“Oh, that Spanish woman. Very rude, she was. Told one of my ladies that Carsely was a living grave and she wasn’t ever coming back.”

“I think she’s very temperamental,” said Agatha cautiously. “She wants her husband to live in Spain.”

“What does he think about that?” asked Doris.

Agatha shrugged. “Don’t believe he wants to, but it’s none of my business.”

The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” said Agatha.

She opened the front door to Detective Sergeant Bill Wong. “Official?” asked Agatha.

“Semi,” he said, following her indoors. “I wondered if you had unearthed anything.”

“Nothing much. Coffee?”

“Yes, please. Morning, Doris.”

“Morning, Bill. I’ll get one with my work, Agatha. I was going to feed the cats for you, in case you wanted a long lie-in, but I couldn’t find any tins of cat food.”

“I’ll get some from the shop this morning.”

When Doris had left and had plugged in the vacuum cleaner and was busily cleaning the living-room, Bill said, “She doesn’t know you feed your cats on fresh fish and pâté, now does she?”

Agatha turned pink. “I give them a little treat from time to time. So what have you found out?”

“It’s hard to pin-point the exact time of death, but from eight that evening until midnight, Harry Witherspoon was in an amateur production of The Mikado in Mircester. He’s in the chorus. He attended the back-stage party after the show, which went on late.”

“But she was found in her night-gown. It could have happened during the night.”

“From the contents of her stomach, the pathologist suggests she probably died around eleven o’clock.”

“Rats! He never left the theatre?”

“Not according to witnesses. Have you got anything?”

Agatha sighed. “Nothing. We spent a dreary evening at the historical society at Towdey.”

“Why there?”

“Ivy Cottage is an old house. During the Civil War, a Cavalier, Sir Geoffrey Lamont, fleeing the Battle of Worcester, took refuge there. He was supposed to be carrying a fortune in jewels and gold with him. His host, Simon Lovesey, unknown, I suppose, to Lamont, was a Cromwell sympathizer and turned him in. Nothing was ever heard of the fortune. Legend has it that the fortune is somewhere in the house.”

“Sounds like a Boy’s Own story. Hidden treasure!” scoffed Bill. “Anyway, Simon Lovesey probably became richer or gave the booty to Cromwell.”

“I suppose,” said Agatha. “Dead ends all round. But the fact remains that even before her death, someone was able to get into the house. There may even be a secret passage.”

“Agatha! I am sure generations of owners have turned the place upside down looking for the jewels. So if there was a secret passage, they’d have found it.”

“Maybe. But would they talk about it? I mean, if they were looking for jewels and only found an old secret passage, would they bother talking about it?”

“You’re clutching at straws,” said Bill.

“You haven’t even got a straw to clutch at,” commented Agatha, lighting a cigarette. “Nothing from forensics? No footprints anywhere?”

“Nothing of use.”

“What about the daughter, Carol? She needs money. She might have thought she was inheriting something, or maybe she knew she wasn’t and killed her mother in a fit of rage, and she has a key.”

“She’s a sad creature and has been treated badly by her mother but she doesn’t seem the type to plan such a murder. Whoever did this was cold and calculating. Don’t worry. They’re working on it.”

“They? Not you?”

“No, the case is being handled by Detective Inspector Runcorn.”

“Oh, him! Nasty chauvinist.”

“Agatha, it’s no use trying to talk like an old-fashioned women’s libber when you fall for any man who crosses your path.”

“I do not! I have not fallen for Paul!”

The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” called Doris.

“It’s Mr. Chatterton,” she called.

Bill grinned as Agatha squawked and ran for the stairs. “Tell him I’ll be down in a minute.”

When Agatha came back to join them, Bill noticed the pretty summer dress and the newly applied make-up.

“It’s seems no one’s getting anywhere,” said Paul. He turned to Bill. “Will you be at the funeral tomorrow?”

“Not my case. I’ve no doubt Runcorn, who’s in charge of it, will be there.” Paul flashed a warning look at Agatha. How could they steal the house key and not be observed?

“I’d better get on,” said Bill. “If I hear anything interesting I’ll let you know.”

“That’s odd,” said Agatha after he had left.

“What’s odd?”

“Usually he warns me to stay clear and leave it to the police.”

“Then take it as a compliment to your detective abilities.”

“My detective abilities are not doing much for me in this case.”

“What can we get that the police can’t?” said Paul. “I’ll tell you. Gossip. I think we should drive over and see the neighbours again.”

“You mean Greta and Percy?”

“Yes, them.”

“Worth a try, I suppose.” She raised her voice. “I’m going out for a little, Doris.”

“Don’t forget to get food for the cats.”

“I won’t. Come on, Paul.”

As they drove into Hebberdon, Agatha said, “We should remember that Greta threatened to stick a bread knife into Mrs. Witherspoon.”

“You’ve met Mrs. Witherspoon. Seems just the sort of thing a lot of people must have said to her. But saying and doing are two different things. Oh, look at the roses!” He pointed to where rambling roses in pink and white tumbled over the doorways of two cottages. “It’s almost as if God is compensating us for the dreadful autumn, winter and spring of rain and more rain.”

Agatha grunted. She always felt uneasy when people mentioned the God word. But she had to admit to herself that she became so used to the beauty of the Cotswolds that she was apt to take it all for granted-except two days after a visit to London.

“Well, here’s Pear Cottage. Let’s start off with Greta.”

Greta answered the door to them, wearing trousers and a sleeveless shirt. Agatha was struck anew at how muscular Greta was. Although small and round, there seemed to be no spare fat on her figure.

“Oh, it’s you again,” she said. “So it’s murder. Not surprised. Could have murdered the old bird myself. Come in.”

They followed her into her living-room and sat down.

“The police seem to think that her son Harry did it,” said Paul.

“That little pussy-cat! Know why he kept away from her? She terrified him. Old folks round here say she beat him when he was a boy. That’s why he turned out the way he is.”

“What way?” asked Agatha.

“Well, he’s a poof, isn’t he?”

“Do you mean he is homosexual?” said Agatha.

“Stands to reason. Not married.”

Agatha suddenly thought of James, who had remained a bachelor until his middle age, when he had married her.

“The fact that he is not married,” said Agatha in a cold voice, “does not mean that he is homosexual. Furthermore, if he is, it does not mean that he is either lacking in brains or courage.”

Greta snorted with contempt. “You’re one of those bleeding-heart liberals.”

Paul suppressed a grin. He wondered if Agatha had ever been accused of such a thing before. But seeing that Agatha was about to renew the attack, he said quickly, “Did you happen to hear any stories about a secret passage to Ivy Cottage?”

“Not that I ’member. Why?”

“Someone was trying to frighten her. I mean, we spent the night there and there was carbon dioxide gas coming under the door.”

“Did that herself to get the attention.”

“Maybe,” said Paul. “On the other hand, if someone else was doing it, there may be a secret way in. And what about this old story about treasure being hidden in the house?”

“That’s all it is. Just an old story.”

“On the night she was killed,” Agatha put in, masking her dislike for Greta, “you didn’t see or hear anyone around? Any strangers reported in the village?”

“You should leave detecting to the police. Don’t you think they’ve asked around? They’ve had men going from door to door.”

Agatha had had enough. She stood up. “Thank you for your time. Come along, Paul.”

Paul meekly followed her out.

“Bitch!” said Agatha loudly.

“Shut up. She’ll hear you and we might need her again.”

“Heaven forbid,” said Agatha. “Anyway, I’ve got a good idea.”

“Like what?”

“Like Harry is now prime suspect, alibi or not. I bet the police still think he might have sneaked over to Hebberdon when no one was looking.”

“What? Dressed as a citizen of Titipu?”

“Say the show finished at ten. He’d still have time to get his make-up off and drive over and then nip back again in time for the party.”

“What’s all this about, Agatha?”

“He might be glad of our help. If he wanted our help, he might let us search the house.”

“Long shot.”

“Maybe. But I’ll ask him at the funeral tomorrow.”

“I think your timing’s wrong.”

“Why? He must have hated his mother after the way she brought him up.”

“Not necessarily. Mothers are mothers.”

“And by all accounts, this one was a right mother, as they say in New York.”

“Tut, Agatha. Shouldn’t speak ill of the dead.”

“Why not? I’m just joining the legions who haven’t a good word to say for the old bat. Let’s see if Percy is in his shed.”

Percy Fleming was delighted to see them. “A real-live murder and practically on one’s doorstep,” he said cheerfully. “Are you sleuthing? The police have been round but I couldn’t really tell them anything.”

“We were wondering whether you knew of any hidden passage in Ivy Cottage,” said Paul.

“I’ve heard about the treasure but never a word about a secret passage.”

“And you didn’t hear or see anything or anyone around on the night of the murder?”

“Not a thing. But I have a Theory.”

“That being?” asked Agatha.

“The daughter did it. Yes, she found the body. But what was she doing on the night of the murder? I asked one of the coppers. He said she was home all evening. Neighbours say her lights were on and heard her television going on until late. But I say, what’s to stop her from leaving the lights on and the telly on and nipping over to Hebberdon?”

“I didn’t see a car,” said Agatha. “How did she normally get over here?”

His face fell. “She took the bus, which arrives here in the morning, stayed with her mother and then took it back again at two in the afternoon.”

“But the buses don’t run in the evening, do they?”

“No. But she could have hired a car.”

“So she could,” said Agatha, suddenly weary. It was hot inside the shed and Percy was wearing a very strong aftershave. “Well, thanks for your help.”

“Waste of space,” grumbled Agatha as they walked back to the car. “What now?”

“Nothing till the funeral tomorrow.”