Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

by M C Beaton

  Agatha shuffled her feet like a schoolgirl. “Well, he kissed me.”

  “Oh, Mrs. Raisin. Really. You said you had both been drinking. The fact that he is married does not necessarily stop him from making a pass at you. Haven’t married men ever made a pass at you before? You must have attended a lot of boozy functions during your PR work.”

  “But that was London and this is a village!”

  “And when did village life ever bestow sainthood on a married man? Wishful thinking can be very dangerous. I mean, before you left him, did he kiss you again or say any endearments?”

  “No-o. But we’d both had a fright, what with me knocking the dustbin over. Anyway, where is this mysterious wife?”

  “Probably in Spain, just like he said.”

  “You do spoil things,” remarked Agatha crossly.

  “I care for you. I don’t want to see you getting hurt.”

  Agatha sighed. “You can’t fall in love without getting hurt.”

  “Now, listen to me, falling in love is an addiction for you. Your trouble is you do not really like yourself half enough. So the minute you find your brain empty of some obsession or other, you race around trying to fill the gap.”

  “Thank you for sharing that with me, Oprah Winfrey.”

  “I mean it. Oh, never mind. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll say a prayer for you.”

  Agatha shifted awkwardly in her chair, suddenly embarrassed. Mrs. Blockley hardly ever pulled what Agatha privately thought of as “the God bit” on her.

  I mean, saying that she was trying to fall in love. Ridiculous!

  But when Agatha left the vicar’s wife, she could feel the first chill wind of reality creeping into her brain. Better to forget about that kiss.

  As the day dragged on, she began to wonder about his marriage. She hadn’t been inside his cottage. Maybe he had photographs of the two of them. Maybe there were some Spanish things lying around. She could call on him. Why not? He had said they would try again another time.

  She fed her cats and made herself a couple of sandwiches for lunch and then headed for the cottage next door.

  Paul looked surprised to see her, but said, “Come in. Have you any more news?”

  “Nothing. I wondered when you wanted to try again.”

  “I don’t know,” he said uneasily. “Want a coffee?”

  “Please.”

  He went through to the kitchen. Agatha’s eyes roamed around the room. No photographs. Crowded bookshelves, nice leather winged armchair, chintzy sofa and easy chair, a computer desk with computer and printer, a pleasant oil painting depicting a rural scene over the fireplace and a faint smell of tobacco smoke. James would have hated that, thought Agatha. He never liked her smoking in the house. Agatha felt herself relax. It was a bachelor’s house, of that she was sure.

  Paul came back with a tray with mugs of coffee. “I know you like yours black,” he said. “I can’t talk very long. I’m waiting for a phone call.”

  “About work?”

  Hesitation. Then he said, “Yes, something like that.”

  Uneasy silence while Agatha sipped her coffee and tried to think of something to say.

  The phone rang. “Do you mind…?” said Paul.

  Agatha stood up. “See you soon,” she said.

  She left, feeling empty. Mrs. Bloxby was right. That kiss had meant nothing. Still, there was nothing in that cottage living-room to show he was married.

  For the next two days, Agatha mooched around, feeling time lie heavy on her hands. She had seen nothing of Paul. She had tried to phone him, but there had been no reply. On Saturday evening she set out for the vicarage to attend a meeting of the ladies’ society, glad of something to do.

  Mrs. Bloxby opened the proceedings, Miss Simms read the minutes, and Agatha went off into a dream where Paul Chatterton was telling her he loved her and only jerked out of it when she realized she was being addressed. “The catering?” Mrs. Bloxby was saying, looking directly at her. “Fund-raising for the Alzheimer’s Society?”

  “What? asked Agatha.

  “You should be interested,” sniggered Mrs. Davenport, implying that Agatha showed signs of having the disease.

  “I’m sorry,” said Agatha. “My thoughts were elsewhere.”

  “We’re joining forces with the Ancombe Ladies’ Society on June tenth to raise money. It’s to be a sale of work. We need someone to do the catering.”

  “Okay, I’ll do it,” said Agatha, thanking her stars that she had enough money to hire a good catering firm.

  “Excellent!” The meeting moved on and Agatha relapsed back into her dreams.

  During the tea and cakes afterwards, Agatha found herself accosted by Mrs. Davenport. “A word of warning,” said Mrs. Davenport. “About Mr. Chatterton. He is married, you know.”

  “That’s what he says. But it’s only to keep the old frumps of the village from bothering him,” said Agatha.

  “Like you?” said Mrs. Davenport sweetly and moved away.

  Agatha eyed her narrowly. Mrs. Davenport had gone back to wolfing the delicate little ham sandwiches supplied by Mrs. Bloxby. Agatha slid off into the kitchen, where more sandwiches and cakes were laid out on the kitchen table, ready to be brought into the drawing-room. Agatha opened the fridge and searched around until she found a bunch of hot chilli peppers. She quickly sliced them up and put them on as many of the little sandwiches as she could and then picked up the plate and carried it back into the drawing-room.

  “You shouldn’t have bothered,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I made too many. They’ve all started on the cakes.”

  “A pity to waste such good food,” said Mrs. Davenport, sailing up, her massive bust making her look like the figurehead on a ship. “I’ll take a few.” She took about six onto her plate.

  Agatha slid to the back of the crowd. There were two remaining chilli pepper sandwiches. She popped them in her handbag.

  Mrs. Bloxby swung round in alarm as Mrs. Davenport, red in the face, gasping and spluttering, staggered about the room. The plate with most of the sandwiches still uneaten had fallen to the floor. One of them had broken open, revealing the chilli peppers. While the other women rushed to get Mrs. Davenport a glass of water, Mrs. Bloxby looked around the room for Agatha Raisin.

  But there was no sign of her.

  Agatha decided on Sunday that it was time she attended church again. The fact that Paul might be there, she told herself, was nothing to do with it. She owed it to Mrs. Bloxby to put in the occasional appearance.

  The day was cloudy and overcast, threatening rain. She put on a soft wool suit and her Burberry over it, collected her umbrella and made her way to the church where the bells were pealing out under the lowering sky.

  The church was full. Although the government kept saying the foot-and-mouth plague was under control, pyres of dead animals still smoked and smouldered across Britain, and, as usual in times of adversity, people went to church.

  Agatha managed to squeeze into a pew near the front and then regretted it. If she had sat at the back of the church, she would have been able to see if Paul was at the service.

  She kept twisting her head around until she had to give up because Mrs. Davenport was in the pew directly behind her and looking daggers.

  So while most of the congregation sang the hymns, said the prayers and listened to the sermon, Agatha Raisin wrapped herself in a dream of announcing her engagement to Paul Chatteron in the Times, where with luck James Lacey would read it.

  Finally it was over. Agatha got to her feet. “I want a word with you,” boomed Mrs. Davenport.

  “Not now,” hissed Agatha, pushing her way down the aisle. She could see Paul’s white head of hair ahead of her.

  Outside the church, she stood suddenly stock-still. For Paul was standing talking to the vicar, his arm around the waist of a small pretty woman with long dark hair.

  Realizing that people were pushing to get past her, Agatha moved reluctantly forwards. It couldn’t be. Co
uld it?

  She suddenly didn’t want to know. A crowd had gathered around Paul and the woman with him. Agatha tried to edge past but Paul, taller than the people surrounding him, saw her and shouted, “Agatha!”

  The crowd parted. Agatha walked slowly forward. “Agatha, my wife, Juanita. Darling, this is my neighbour, Agatha Raisin.”

  “How nice to meet you,” said Agatha with a crocodile smile. Juanita was young, possibly in her early thirties, and that was young to the likes of Agatha Raisin. Her golden skin glowed with health and her wide brown eyes were fringed with thick lashes. The only consolation-and it wasn’t much-that Agatha could notice was that her long black hair was thick and coarse. She was wearing a neat little black suit which emphasized her generous bust and her trim waist.

  “Are you staying long?” asked Agatha.

  Juanita laughed and said with a pretty accent, “I think it is time I spent as long as possible with my husband.”

  “I’m just next door,” Agatha forced herself to say. “Call on me if I can be of any help in any way.”

  Juanita thanked her and Agatha made her way home, legs as heavy as lead, mind snapping, “You old fool.”

  She was blindly fumbling in her handbag for her house keys when a voice behind her said, “You look awful. Been to a funeral?”

  Agatha swung round. Roy Silver, Agatha’s ex-employee who now worked for a big public relations firm in the City, stood there.

  “ Roy!” exclaimed Agatha, more delighted to see him than she had ever been before. “Come on a visit?”

  “Just for the day.” He gave her a peck on the cheek.

  “Well, come in and make yourself at home.”

  Roy followed her into the kitchen. “I should use the living-room more often,” said Agatha. “I’ll just feed the cats and we’ll go through and have a drink. You’re looking well.”

  Roy did indeed look marginally better than his usual weedy self. He was wearing a sweater, checked shirt and jeans and his limp hair had recently had a conventional cut. “In fact,” said Agatha, bending down and filling two feed bowls, “you look quite respectable. No studs, no earrings. Is this the new image?”

  “I’m handling a baby food account and they’re very square.”

  “And no raincoat. Did you drive down?”

  “Yes, the roads aren’t too bad on Sundays. How’s foot-and-mouth?”

  “Hanging on.” Agatha straightened up. “Come through. What’ll you have?”

  “A G and T, thanks. Small, I’m driving.”

  “Okay, sit down and I’ll get some ice.

  “So,” said Agatha after she had fixed their drinks, “what brings you?”

  “I’ll be honest with you,” said Roy.

  “Makes a change.”

  “Still taking on free-lance work?”

  “From time to time. What have you got?”

  “You know Dunster and Braggs?”

  “The chain store, yes. Everyone knows them.”

  “They’re launching a new line, Youth Fashion. Boss wants your ideas.”

  “I know what Youth Fashion means,” said Agatha gloomily. “Same as Mr. Harry clothes. Cheap clothes made out of T-shirt material and all of it made in the sweat-shops of Taiwan.”

  “We’d pay well. He wants you to start as soon as you can.”

  “If you wait until I pack a suitcase, you can drive me up to London.”

  Roy looked at her in surprise. “I never thought it would be this easy. What gives?”

  “Just bored, that’s all.”

  “No murders?”

  “Not one. Oh, there was this house that was supposed to be haunted, but it turned out to be just some old lady trying to get attention. I’ll go and pack.”

  Agatha was gone for a month, taking her cats with her this time. Paul Chatterton landed a short contract with a firm in Milton Keynes, which meant he had to leave early in the morning and did not return until late in the evening. Mrs. Bloxby called on Juanita as part of her parish duties and found the lady highly discontented.

  “It’s so boring here,” was Juanita’s complaint. “I want to go back to Madrid. Paul could get work there. I should have married someone nearer my own age and a Spaniard. That’s what my mother said. If only I’d listened to her.”

  “Mr. Chatterton will soon have finished his contract,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “and then he’ll be able to take you about. Maybe you could go to London for a visit.”

  “I don’t want to go to London,” said Juanita. “I want to go to Madrid.”

  Outside, the rain was drumming down, making puddles in the grass. “It’s sunny in Madrid.”

  In vain did Mrs. Bloxby try to rope her in to take over the catering duties that Agatha Raisin had so cavalierly forgotten about. All Juanita would say was that it was boring.

  After three weeks, she arrived at the vicarage carrying her suitcase and asked for a lift to the station. Mrs. Bloxby pleaded with her to at least stay until Paul came home that evening. Juanita said stubbornly that she had made up her mind. If Paul wanted her, he knew where to find her.

  So Mrs. Bloxby drove her to the station and waved goodbye to her as she boarded the London train.

  Now Mrs. Raisin’s dreams will start up again, thought Mrs. Bloxby crossly. I only hope Mr. Chatterton decides to follow his wife.

  But when she spoke to Paul that evening, he heard her in silence, looking angry and resigned.

  “Why don’t you go after her?” suggested Mrs. Bloxby.

  “My wife insists on living with her mother and three brothers. We had a flat of our own in Madrid for four weeks after we were married and then we moved to London. She would not settle and kept making excuses to go home. At first I kept going over there, but I could not get her to move out of the family home again. She’s thirty-two and yet they all treat her like a child and so that’s the way she behaves. The last time she said she had heard the English countryside was pretty and why didn’t we live there? So I bought this cottage, but this is the result. Damn women. Where’s Agatha, by the way?”

  “Working in London.”

  “I might be going up there for a day. Know where’s she’s staying?”

  “No,” lied the vicar’s wife and silently asked God to forgive her. Agatha had phoned her with the address of the service flat she would be staying in.

  Agatha was happy to be back. Her conscience, never usually very active, had nonetheless continued to jab her over promoting clothes which were shoddy and badly designed. Summer had arrived at last and the taxi bearing her home from Moreton-in-Marsh station cruised down under the arches of green trees which leaned over the Carsely road.

  After she had released the cats from their travelling boxes into the sunshine of the garden, she took a deep breath of sweet air and then went indoors to unpack.

  At least the time in London had got Paul Chatterton firmly out of her head. Juanita might be fun to know, a change anyway from nasty trouts like Mrs. Davenport.

  The expensive block of service flats she had been staying in-expensive mainly because they allowed pets-had boasted a gym and Agatha had made good use of it. Her waist was trim and her stomach flat-well, nearly. She changed into a pair of sky-blue shorts and a blue-and-white gingham blouse and walked along to the post office-cum-general stores to buy groceries.

  She was paying for the groceries when she noticed a bundle of local papers on the counter. The headline on the top one said: OWNER OF HAUNTED HOUSE FOUND DEAD. Agatha bought a copy and hurried home with it. She stacked away her purchases and settled down at the kitchen table to read the story.

  Mrs. Witherspoon had been found by her daughter lying at the bottom of the stairs with her neck broken. Daughter Carol Witherspoon, aged sixty-seven, of Holm Cottage, Ancombe, said that she had not heard from her mother and became worried because her mother usually phoned her every Friday. She had let herself into her mother’s house with her key and had found her dead. Mrs. Witherspoon had reported to the police on several occasions tha
t her home was haunted. Agatha pushed the paper away and sat deep in thought. The staircase, she remembered, had been carpeted, and the stairs themselves, shallow.

  Of course something or someone might have frightened Mrs. Witherspoon so much that she had lost her footing. Even so, how did she manage to break her neck? She had shown no signs of suffering from brittle-bone disease. Her back had been ramrod-straight.

  The doorbell rang. Agatha went and opened the door and looked up into Paul Chatterton’s black eyes. “Oh, it’s you,” she said weakly. “Come in.” She peered round him. “Where’s your wife?”

  “Gone back to Spain.”

  “Oh.” Agatha walked ahead of him into the kitchen. He noticed idly that she had long smooth legs, not a varicose vein in sight.

  “You’ve lost weight,” he said.

  “There was a gym at the flats I was staying at. I used it as much as possible. Coffee?”

  “You’ve forgotten. Tea, please.”

  Agatha plugged in the kettle. “Would you do me a favour, Paul? Just before I left I bought four decent garden chairs. They’re stacked at the shed in the bottom of the garden. Here’s the key. Could you bring out two of them?”

  “Sure.” He took the key and headed off out into the garden to a rapturous welcome from the cats.

  Agatha made tea for him and coffee for herself and carried both into the garden to where Paul had set up two garden chairs with comfortable cushioned seats and backs.

  “Did you have time to read about Mrs. Witherspoon?” he asked. “I find it all very odd.”

  “So do I,” said Agatha, suddenly happy. “What are we going to do about it?”

  Four

  AGATHA Raisin listened to her conscience, which was currently telling her not to have anything further to do with Paul. The rest of her mind was just glad to see him. Not for a moment would she admit to herself that she dreaded loneliness. She prided herself on being a self-sufficient woman. She only knew that she was glad that he was back, glad his wife was in Spain, and glad that the investigation had started up again.