by M C Beaton
The portraits that remained all meant something to Charles and he knew the history and achievements of each individual. What, he wondered, shuffling invoices and payment sheets, would be counted among his achievements? Who would look at his likeness and recite his history? Would this room, this house, survive to host his portrait one day? It wasn’t something to which he had ever given much consideration in the past, but now …
The reason for his musing made a sudden appearance, flinging open the library door.
“Have you been through those latest spreadsheets?” Mary demanded.
“I have started looking through them,” Charles replied.
“They don’t make very encouraging reading, do they? Take a look at the five-year projections on … Oh for goodness’ sake! Why do you still not have a computer or even a laptop in here?”
“The computers are in the office.”
“But you spend your time in here! Things are going to change in this house, Charles—get used to it.”
“Things have already changed,” said Charles, running his hand through his hair, “but some of the things you are proposing are entirely impractical.”
“You’re talking about your precious tenants again, aren’t you?”
“The tenants are vital to holding the estate together, but most of the farmers and small businesses are struggling right now. They can’t afford the huge rent increases you want. For some, a modest increase might be manageable, but you can’t burden them with unreasonable rent hikes.”
“Don’t you dare tell me what I can and cannot do!” hissed Mary, stabbing a finger in Charles’s direction. “Unreasonable? You haven’t imposed a reasonable increase for years. If they can’t pay up, they can move out!”
“Some of these people have been here for generations. I grew up with them—I won’t let you kick them out. You will ruin the estate.”
“Ruin the estate? I will do whatever the hell I like with the estate! Get in my way and I will ruin you!”
Charles watched his young wife march out of the library and slam the door behind her. He let out a low groan and sat back in his chair. She was passionate about making money. She was passionate about show-jumping with her bloody horses. If only she had brought some of that passion into the bedroom. Their wedding night had not been what one would call an unqualified success. He had hoped that sleeping together would mellow her aggressive nature, but all she had done was complain that he was hurting her. That was particularly upsetting as Charles had always prided himself on being a gentle and sensitive lover. Perhaps things would change when they were on honeymoon.
His thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door, and Gustav entered.
“Bags are packed for your package holiday to the Brown-Field bungalow,” he announced.
“It’s not a package holiday, Gustav,” said Charles, “it’s our honeymoon. And it’s a villa near Marbella, not a bungalow.”
“Does it have an upstairs?”
“No.”
“Then it’s a bungalow.”
“I wish you would try to be a bit more accommodating towards these people, Gustav. They are going to be a permanent feature around here, not just weekend guests.”
“You need to see this.” Gustav spoke quietly as he approached the desk. He reached furtively into an inside jacket pocket and handed Charles a folded sheet of paper. Charles’s eyes widened as he scanned the document.
“Where did you get this?” he gasped.
“Where’d you think? Off her desk.”
“The bitch! I’ll kill her! I swear it—I’ll kill her!”
Chapter Three
“He had calmed down a bit by the time I took them to the airport this morning, but it doesn’t bode well for a successful honeymoon, does it?”
“Your timing was pretty poor, Gustav,” said Agatha, holding her phone in one hand while stroking Hodge with the other. She was sitting in the sunshine in her back garden, the cat curled up in her lap. Boswell was crouched on the grass staring intently at nothing at all in the shadows beneath a hydrangea. “Charles has been so stressed that it might have been kinder at least to give him a chance to relax while he’s away. You could have waited.”
“Would you have waited?”
“I might have,” Agatha lied.
“Bullshit,” Gustav cursed. “Whose side are you on? This is a dirty war and we have to fight dirty.”
“All right,” said Agatha. “I need to see this document. Can you photograph it with your phone and send it to me?”
“Already done,” said Gustav and hung up.
Agatha lifted Hodge off her lap and set him down on the grass beside Boswell. He joined in the staring for a moment, then swiped the other cat on the head with a paw before scampering off with Boswell hot on his heels. Agatha stared at her phone. Gadgets and electronic gizmos were not her strong suit, but she was sure she could retrieve Gustav’s photo if she just thought about it for a second or two.
“Not working today?” James’s head appeared above the hedge between the gardens.
“Late start,” Agatha explained. “Toni’s coming to pick me up and we’re going to talk to a woman who thinks she has a poltergeist.”
“Spooky.” James smiled. “But you have to take these things seriously around here. There are plenty of locals who still believe in witches, fairies and ghosts.”
“I know,” Agatha agreed. “I’ve come across quite a few of them. James, would you be a sweetheart and help me with this wretched phone?”
“Of course. Why don’t you come round? I’ve just made a fresh pot of coffee.”
They sat together drinking coffee at a small table in James’s neat garden. James tapped and swiped at Agatha’s phone and then handed it back to her.
“The document is there on your screen. Just tap to open it,” he said. “The text will be quite small but you should be able to read it.”
“Thank you, James,” said Agatha. “You know, I’ve been thinking about what we were saying the other night. About us being too hasty about the divorce.”
“I have, too,” James admitted, “and I came to the conclusion that when we got married I was an old bachelor, set in my ways, maybe not prepared for the changes that marriage would bring. In your own way, perhaps you were too.”
“I think you’re right,” said Agatha, “apart from the ‘old’ bit. So that’s something else we agree on—something else we have in common.”
She looked at her phone and tapped the icon on the screen. The document that opened was headed “Barfield House Luxury Hotel and Spa.” She stared at it, her mouth set in a grimace.
“Are you all right, Aggie?” asked James. “Bad news?”
A car horn sounded in the street.
“That must be Toni,” said Agatha, getting to her feet. “I have to go.”
“Well don’t let the ghosties scare you too much,” he joked, and stooped to give her a peck on the cheek. They embraced, holding each other in a hug for a heartbeat or two, then Agatha backed away and smiled.
“Let’s talk more later,” she said.
“Yes,” said James. “Let’s do that.”
* * *
Toni was sitting waiting behind the wheel of her little car when Agatha jumped into the passenger seat. The windows were open and Toni was wearing a flower-patterned summer dress and sunglasses. Her arms were bare.
Agatha smoothed the skirt of her own forest-green suit, settling the hem just above her knee. She had always had good legs and knew how best to show them off with skirts and heels that worked together to flatter their shape. Her concession to the warm spell of weather had been to abandon tights, shave her legs with particular care and apply a light touch of fake tan—not enough to imply a leisurely fortnight spent lazing in the Mediterranean sun, but just sufficient to banish the pallid winter hue. Toni clearly knew nothing about preparing for the seasons. She had jumped into that dress as soon as the sun came out, but because she was naturally slim and pretty, anything she
wore looked great. Agatha pursed her lips and gave her a sideways look.
“That outfit’s a bit summery, isn’t it?” she said.
“Do you think so?” said Toni. “It’s just that the weather has been so warm. I can dash home for something else if you like, but I felt like I wanted something different. I needed a change.”
“A change…” Agatha mused. “Yes, of course you did. We all need a change now and again, don’t we? You don’t need to dash home, Toni, you look fabulous.”
“And you look very elegant, as always,” said Toni. “You look like the boss, like you’re in control.”
“That’s just as it should be,” said Agatha as they set off. She closed the car window, despite the heat of the sun scorching through the windscreen. Toni gave her a quizzical look and Agatha made a wind-rush gesture against the window.
“Ruins the hair,” she said, “and gives you the complexion of a round-the-world sailor.”
* * *
Pulling out onto the A44, they joined light traffic heading north-west towards Moreton-in-Marsh. Prior to snapping up her cottage in Carsely, Agatha had considered moving to Moreton. It was an ancient market town, a settlement having existed on the site for more than two thousand years, yet it seemed somehow more modern than Carsely. The scattering of thatched roofs that graced a few of the buildings in the centre of Carsely were nowhere to be seen in Moreton. The buildings there were of the same mellow Cotswold stone but the roofs were all either stone tiles or slate. Moreton was also bigger than Carsely, yet it still retained the undeniable charm that had lured Agatha away from the glitz and clamour of London life.
As they passed the inevitable clusters of galleries and antique shops, the impressive flank of the Redesdale Market Hall loomed in front of them. Agatha checked her watch against the nineteenth-century black-and-white clock face on the tower that crowned the hall and decided that one of them was not quite right. She cast an eye at the black-and-gold face of the even older clock on the Curfew Tower to their right. That was also slightly different. She opted to back her battery power against the ancient clocks. The differences, after all, were minimal.
Turning right, they headed up the high street past the Black Bear Inn. To the left of the wide thoroughfare was the market area, giving way to an avenue of trees and the imposing presence of the Old Police Station, which the police had long since surrendered to private residences. The high street was very straight, as was the road they turned onto, heading towards Batsford.
“This is all very pretty,” said Toni, admiring the trees that were now almost in full leaf at either side of the road, and the public park rolling into fields that looked lush and green in the spring sunshine. “It’s an incredibly straight road.”
“An old Roman road,” said Agatha. “They knew the quickest route was the straightest route, so they didn’t bother much with curves and corners. I think we turn off to the left here.”
They pulled off the main road onto a farm track that led to a stone-built farmhouse with a tiled gabled roof, dormer windows nestling just below the ridge line. The car tyres crunched on the stone-chip driveway and Toni parked by a bed of roses that decorated the front of the house. Agatha stepped gingerly out of the car. She hated stone chips. They destroyed delicate high heels. Toni strode forward and rang the doorbell.
“Mrs. Jessop?” said Agatha to the woman who opened the door. “I’m Agatha Raisin, and this is my associate Toni Gilmour.”
“Oh, I am pleased to see you.” Mrs. Jessop gave them a welcoming smile and shook their hands. “Please, do come in.” She led them along the hallway towards the back of the house.
She looks, thought Agatha, in good shape. Probably mid to late sixties, slim build, about the same height as myself, well dressed in a neat cardigan and tweed skirt, carefully coiffured hair and modest make-up. This is not the shambling old wreck I expected. She seems quite robust—not the sort to go to pieces over hearing a few bumps in the night.
“Come into the kitchen,” said Mrs. Jessop. “This is where I’ve been having the problem. Would you like some tea?”
“That would be lovely,” said Agatha.
The kitchen was clearly newly fitted, with plenty of wall and base unit cupboards and marble work surfaces arranged around a large wooden kitchen table with six high-backed wooden chairs. Agatha and Toni sat at the table while Mrs. Jessop reached up to open a cupboard door. She hesitated.
“There, you see?” she said. “This is what I’m talking about. This is where I keep the tea caddy and cups, and now they’ve gone.” She opened and closed a few more doors, then crossed to the other side of the kitchen and did the same until she finally found the tea.
“I know it seems silly,” she said, busying herself with a kettle and teapot, “but things in these cupboards are being moved about. I sort it all out just the way I like it, and when I next open a cupboard, it has all changed!”
“How annoying,” said Agatha. “That would drive me crazy.”
“Oh, I’m not crazy, Mrs. Raisin,” Mrs. Jessop assured her. She set a china teapot on the table, along with cups, a milk jug and sugar bowl. “Something very strange is going on around here—something very sinister.”
“You said when we spoke on the phone that you believed you were being visited by a poltergeist,” said Toni. “Have you seen this ghost?”
“Yes, I’ve seen him all right,” Mrs. Jessop admitted. “As plain as you can see me.”
“Did you see him in the kitchen?” Agatha asked.
“No, he comes in here at night to do his mischief.”
“So where have you spotted him?” asked Toni.
“Out there,” said Mrs. Jessop, pointing to the large window that looked out over a stone-chip garden path, beautifully maintained flower beds bursting with spring colour and an immaculate lawn. “In the garden. That is his place, after all.”
“You talk like you know who he is,” said Agatha.
“Oh, I do,” Mrs. Jessop replied, reaching into her cardigan pocket to produce a slightly faded, lightly creased black-and-white photograph. It showed herself as a much younger woman, standing beside a powerfully built man wearing jeans, boots and a checked shirt. He had wavy dark hair, a full beard and, even in this old photo, the most captivating eyes Agatha had ever seen. She could not imagine them to be anything other than a sharp, electric blue.
“Who is this?” Toni asked.
“You mean who was this,” Mrs. Jessop corrected her. “That is John Cornish, my gardener. He died twenty-five years ago.”
“And he’s been … appearing in your garden?” Toni swallowed hard, staring wide-eyed at the photo. Agatha frowned at her, a clear signal to man up.
“Regular as clockwork,” said Mrs. Jessop. There was the unmistakable crunch of boots on stone chips. “That,” she whispered, “will be him now…”
The heavy tread grew louder, subduing all other sounds. The three women sat perfectly still, holding their breath, as the figure of a man drifted into view outside the window—dark wavy hair, a full beard and a checked shirt. He stopped, turning slowly towards them. Agatha felt a paralysing chill run down her spine as he fixed her with eyes of such a startling, intense blue that she could not break his gaze. An instant later, he turned away, resuming a steady pace until he was out of sight beyond the window. A blanket of silence smothered the kitchen. A tear came to Mrs. Jessop’s eye and Toni was sitting bolt upright, pale and frozen to the spot.
“Snakes and bastards!” cried Agatha, jumping to her feet. “I’m not having this!” She grabbed the photograph and headed for the back door. Ignoring the stone chips scuffing the heels of her shoes, she stomped out into the garden, where she spotted the figure just a few yards ahead of her.
“Hey, you!” she called. “John Cornish! What are you doing here?”
The figure turned to face her. She avoided his eyes and stood her ground even as she felt her knees begin to fold.
“Doin’ the garden, ain’t I?” said Cornish. “
What’s it to you?”
“I am Agatha Raisin, private investigator.”
“What you got to investigate in my garden?” said Cornish, walking towards her.
“This!” said Agatha, holding up the photograph.
“Where’d you get that?” Cornish asked. “That’s my old dad with Auntie Joan.”
“Your father?” said Agatha, with a sigh of relief. “You’re not dead, then?”
“Is that what she’s been tellin’ you?” Cornish laughed, stroking his beard. “Think I’d better shave this off. Beards is trendy nowadays, right? Makes me look the spitting image of my old man, though. He’d be about my age in that photo. Taught me all I know about gardens, he did.”
“She really does think you are him.”
“Ah.” Cornish nodded. “Things ain’t always what they seem, eh?”
“She thinks you’re a ghost who sneaks in at night and rearranges her cupboards.”
“Ah,” Cornish repeated. “I should ’ave guessed. Kitchen’s new. She keeps forgettin’ where she put things. Auntie Joan’s not been herself recently.”
“She’s your aunt?”
“Not really, but I grew up around this house, what with my dad workin’ here. She liked me to call her auntie and always treated us like family. Uncle Tom did the same until he passed a couple of years back and left her on her own. Suppose that’s when she started to lose it.”
“She seems perfectly all right. She doesn’t seem confused at all.”
“Like I said—things ain’t always what they seem. Do me a favour, would you? Keep her occupied for a little while an’ I’ll sneak indoors to the bathroom and get rid of this.” He tugged at his beard.
Agatha headed back inside. After a few minutes spent reassuring Mrs. Jessop and Toni that there was no ghost stalking the garden, Cornish breezed into the kitchen, freshly shaved.
“Auntie Joan!” he called. “Any more tea in that pot? I’m parched.”
“Of course, John!” Mrs. Jessop’s face lit up at the sight of him. “You’ll be wanting a biscuit or two, I should think. I’ve got your favourites … somewhere.”
