by M C Beaton
“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?
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 looke
d 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.
