by M C Beaton
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.
Three
“I would have thought they’d want to keep your CD player for forensics,” said Agatha as she drove competently along the Fosseway to Mircester.
“It’s a minor crime,” said Paul. “They won’t bother. I wonder if Mrs. Witherspoon is schizophrenic.”
“What makes you say that?”
“In some of the initial newspaper reports it referred to crashes and bumps and things falling down. Poltergeists are people with the knack of telekinesis. They can move objects with their minds. Usually it’s a three-year-old or someone in their forties, don’t ask me why. It’s something to do with the pineal gland. But schizophrenics also can manage it.”
“See any pills in her bathroom cabinet to do with that?”
“Nothing but diuretics, pain-killers and high blood pressure pills.”
“Oh, well,” said Agatha, “case closed. It seems as if she only wanted to draw attention to herself.”
“I don’t know about that,” he said slowly. “She’s a crusty old lady but I wouldn’t have thought she would have needed the attention. She struck me as being pretty self-contained.”
They both fell silent. Agatha thought, should I ask him out for dinner? A nice candle-lit dinner? Eyes meeting across the table. “Agatha, I would like us to be more than friends. Dear Agatha…”
“Are you listening to me?” Paul’s voice suddenly cut through her dreams.
“No, I wasn’t. What did you say?”
“About this evening…”
Ah, two minds with but one single thought.
“What about this evening?” asked Agatha in a husky voice.
“If you’re up to it…Oh, I don’t know…”
“I’m up to anything,” said Agatha, her hands suddenly clammy on the wheel. When did she last shave her legs? Did her toenails need cutting?
“I thought it might be an idea to sit outside the cottage tonight and watch it. I mean, if someone else other than Mrs. Witherspoon is behind these hauntings, we might see someone hanging about the house. In fact, it might be exciting. Be a good chap and say yes.”
“I am not a chap,” said Agatha, irritable in her disappointment. Why did fellows never speak the script one had written for them?
But going on with the investigation meant going on in his company. “All right,” she said.
“Grand. We’ll pick up the machine and then get a bite to eat. My treat.”
Agatha’s spirits, which had plummeted, soared up again.
While Paul was led off to identify his CD player and sign the relevant papers, Agatha asked the sergeant at the desk whether she could use the loo. Once inside a white-tiled institutionalized toilet smelling strongly of disinfectant, she opened her capacious handbag and got to work, cleaning off the makeup she had so recently applied and adding a new coat of foundation, powder, blusher and eye shadow. Then she sprayed herself liberally with Ysatis and returned to the reception area. Where would he take her for dinner? Surely somewhere nice.
Paul finally reappeared, accompanied by Bill Wong and a small blonde policewoman whom Bill introduced as Haley. “I’ve asked them to join us,” said Paul cheerfully. “Bill says the Dog and Duck does a good meal.”
Agatha stifled a sigh. Bill’s taste in food was appalling.
The Dog and Duck was one of those pubs that the modern taste for smart bistro-style hostelries had passed by. A snooker table dominated one end of the room. Fruit machines flashed and blinked in the dim smoky light. The bar was crowded with plain-clothed and uniformed police and CID. A menu was chalked up on a board. Agatha gloomily read it. Lasagne and chips, curry and chips, egg, sausage and chips, hamburger and chips, fish and chips, and quiche and chips. So much for her idea of a romantic evening.
Bill started to ask Agatha how various people in Carsely were getting on and when she had finished replying, she noticed, with extreme irritation, that Paul appeared to be flirting with Haley, who was giggling appreciatively.
Haley had a round face and narrow blue eyes. Her hair was what Agatha privately described as “cheap blonde”-but what man had ever been put off by that?
/> “Paul’s ever so clever,” said Haley, “He’s promised to come round to my place one day and help me with my computer.”
“Oh,” said Agatha sharply. “I thought all you police were computer-literate these days.”
“I only know the basics,” said Haley. She pulled out a notebook. “Here! Let me write down my address and phone number for you.”
Agatha and Bill watched her gloomily as she wrote down her details and handed them to Paul.
“How old are you?” asked Agatha abruptly.
“Twenty-seven,” said Haley. She giggled again. “Ever so old.”
“You’ve a long way to go before you are as old as either me or Paul,” said Agatha sweetly.
“Terrible for a woman to be old,” said Haley. “I mean, doesn’t matter so much for men. I fancy older men. Here’s our food.”
The food was as awful as Agatha had thought it would be. She had ordered fish and chips, thinking that even this pub could not muck up such a simple dish, but the fish was thin and dry and the chips of the frozen variety.
She watched with horrified fascination as Haley dredged her lasagne in ketchup and began eating with every sign of relish.
Bill and Paul had both ordered sausage, egg and chips.
Haley ate steadily and then leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction. “That was good.”
She surveyed Agatha. “I hear you’re a bit of a Miss Marple.”
A vision of Miss Marple as played on television rose before Agatha’s eyes and she began to feel ancient.
“I have done some detective work, yes,” she said.
“Anything at the moment?”
“Came to nothing,” said Agatha, pushing her plate away. “We were supposed to be investigating a haunted house.”
Haley clutched Paul’s arm and let out a shriek. “I’m ever so afraid of ghosts.”
“Have you seen one?” asked Paul, smiling down at her.
“No, but my gran has. She was up in this old hotel in the Highlands of Scotland once and she woke up during the night and saw a man standing at the foot of her bed.”
“Was he wearing a kilt?” asked Agatha cynically.
“Yes, he was. And he looked ever so fierce. My gran, she got the Gideon Bible out of the drawer beside the bed and held it up and he disappeared.”
“Gosh!” said Paul. “How scary. I remember hearing a story about…”
He proceeded to relate several ghost stories while Haley alternately giggled and shrieked and clutched his arm more tightly.
Agatha was relieved when Bill finally looked at his watch and said, “I have to go.”
“I don’t,” said Haley, and Agatha’s heart sank.
“But we do,” said Paul firmly. “It’s been a delight to meet you, Haley.”
“You will let me know when you’re coming round?”
“Absolutely.”
“What a disgusting meal,” said Agatha as they drove off.
“Yes, wasn’t it? Anyway, we’d better get back and prepare for our night watch.”
“What time do you want to set out?”
“About midnight.”
“Do you really think we should?”
“Why not? Let’s have a go anyway. Is Haley Bill’s girlfriend?” asked Paul.
“Not yet, and possibly not ever after the way you went on tonight.”
“Oho! Jealous, Agatha?”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Humbert Humbert. You didn’t give Bill a chance.”
“She didn’t give Bill a chance. Don’t let’s quarrel. I think we should park outside the village and wear dark clothes.”
Agatha looked at her watch as they neared Carsely. Eleven o’clock. Just time to get something to eat to make up for having barely touched the fish and chips, and then get changed.
She resolved not to torture herself anymore by trying on outfit after outfit. It was time to grow up and move on. Dressing for men meant never feeling secure, never feeling comfortable. She had eaten a microwaved curry, without ever reflecting on the irony of a woman such as herself who could sneer at pub food and yet hardly ever prepared a decent meal. She put on a pair of black trousers, a black sweater, flat shoes and the minimum of make-up and was ready when Paul rang her doorbell.
Paul thought briefly that there was something rather sexy about grumpy Agatha. Her skin was good and her mouth generous, her bust and hips very beddable, but then he concentrated on the night ahead.
Fortunately it was quite warm and the sky above was clear. Like Agatha, he was dressed in black trousers and a black sweater. “I hope you’ve got something for your head,” she said. “That white hair of yours shines out like a beacon.”
“I’ve got something. We’ll need to use your car again. I’m taking mine to the garage tomorrow. I’ve ordered another top for it, but I’ll also buy something to run around in, the type of old banger I won’t care about too much if it gets vandalized.”
“You should get a security alarm put in that old MG of yours,” said Agatha.
“I probably will.” He put a heavy bag in the back seat of Agatha’s car and then got into the passenger seat at the front.
“What’s in the bag?” asked Agatha.
“Some refreshments and a pair of binoculars. It’s going to be a long night.”
As they approached Hebberdon, Paul said, “Slow down. There’s a good place. That farm entrance under the trees. Reverse into it.”
Agatha went in, nose-first. “Don’t you know women drive forwards, not backwards?”
They got out of the car. “We have to walk through the village to get to her place,” said Paul. “But I don’t think anyone will be awake.”
That did seem to be the case as they walked past silent dark cottages. Even the pub showed no signs of life. “There’s a field opposite with a pretty high hedge,” said Paul. “We’ll settle down there and watch.”
They squeezed through a gap in the hedge. “Ground should be dry,” said Paul. “Look, if we settle down here, there’s a big hole in the branches right opposite. We’ll get a good view.”
Mrs. Witherspoon’s cottage was all dark. Somewhere an owl hooted. Paul opened up his bag and took out a bottle of malt whisky and two glasses. “Drink?”
“Maybe I shouldn’t,” said Agatha. “I’m driving.”
“The effects will have worn off before morning. Go on.”
“All right, just a small one. Have you ever noticed,” said Agatha, “how many people urge one to drink? I mean, it’s always drink. Say you don’t like fish. No one says, ‘Oh, go on, have one. Why not half a fish? Go on, why not a fish finger?’ No, it’s always drink, like drug pushers.”
“You only had to say no,” said Paul mildly. “Cigarette?” He pulled out a packet.
“You smoke!” exclaimed Agatha with all the delight of one member of an endangered species meeting another.
“From time to time.”
They sipped their whisky and smoked and stared across at the cottage. Nothing moved, nothing happened.
“What happened to your marriage?” asked Paul, filling up her glass again.
“It just fell apart. James was a genuine copper-bottomed bachelor. We didn’t get on. What about your marriage to the supposed Juanita?”
“Well, she’s in Spain a lot and I’m here, but we get on pretty well when we meet up.”
“Children?”
“No. You?”
“No, none.”
“So what brought you to the Cotswolds?”
“It’s pretty,” said Agatha. “It’s pretty everywhere you look. London ’s not the same. It’s getting violent and dirty. Of course, I notice all the faults when I go up on business but maybe if I still lived there, I wouldn’t pay all that much attention to what’s wrong. Sometimes Carsely seems a bit boring and I get restless, but something always happens. There’s murder and mayhem here, just like in the cities.”
“And what about men?”
“What about them?”
“I me
an, do you have a lover?”
“No,” said Agatha curtly.
“And yet your reputation in the village seems to be that of a sort of Cotswolds femme fatale.”
“There are women in Carsely who’ve got nothing else to do but invent stories about me. I’m just a stuffy middle-aged woman.”
He filled her glass again. Agatha felt dimly that she ought to protest but the whisky was soothing and warming and she had always maintained she had a strong head for drink.
“I wouldn’t call you stuffy.” He had put on a black woollen cap to eclipse his white hair. His black eyes glinted in the darkness. He leaned forward and surprised her by planting a warm kiss on her lips. Agatha gazed up at him, mesmerized. He bent his head towards her again. A twig snapped.
He straightened up and whispered, “That came from across the road.”
Agatha tried to get up and stumbled and fell. Her head swam. “Shhh!” He deftly put bottle, glasses and binoculars back in his bag. He pulled her to her feet. “Let’s get over there.”
He nimbly eased through the gap in the hedge. Agatha weaved after him. There was a metal dustbin outside the cottage gate, ready for collection. Agatha stumbled into it and the whole thing rolled over with a crash.
“Now that’s torn it.” Paul seized hold of her as a light went on in an upstairs window. “Run!”
With his arm around her waist, supporting her, he hustled her through the village and out to where her car was parked. He took the keys from her and unlocked the doors. Despite her drunkenness, Agatha noticed he had had the forethought to bring his bag along with him. “I’ll drive,” he said.
He drove off, not accelerating until he was well away from the village. “I shouldn’t have drunk so much,” mourned Agatha.
“My fault,” he said. “I’m sure there was someone there.”
“Could have been a fox or a sheep.”
“Maybe. Get some sleep and we’ll try again another time.”
“So you think he’s lying about being married?” asked Mrs. Bloxby the next day. “Why should you think that?”
