Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

by M C Beaton

  “But don’t you think,” said Agatha eagerly, “that she might have asked for expert advice? Have you heard of a Mr. Peter Frampton?”

  “No. You see, a lot of people came and went in Mrs. Barley’s life.”

  “Thank you for the tea,” said Agatha, getting to her feet. “There’s someone I’ve got to see.”

  “Peter Frampton?” asked Charles. “Who’s he? You didn’t mention him.”

  “He heads a historical society at Towdey, which is a village near Hebberdon. Paul and I went to one of his lectures. It was supposed to be on local history, but we got a lecture on the Battle of Worcester instead. There was something else odd. This young girl, Zena Saxon, turned up during the lecture. I think she and Frampton are an item, which is odd.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, I would guess she’s in her early twenties, sort of local disco chick, and he’s in his late forties-grey hair, stylish, looks like a Conservative MP out of central casting.”

  “Why on earth would he murder anyone?”

  “He wanted Ivy Cottage, Mrs. Witherspoon’s house. Maybe he thought he could find the treasure. Maybe he knew about the secret passage.”

  “What does he do when he’s not giving historical lectures?”

  “I don’t know. That’s what we’re going to Hebberdon to find out.”

  They were driving through Mircester when Agatha cried, “Stop the car!”

  Charles swerved in towards the kerb and parked on a double yellow line. “Be quick,” he urged. “I don’t want to get a ticket for illegal parking. What is it?”

  “I just saw Paul going into a pub with Haley.”

  “And who’s Haley?” asked Charles patiently.

  “She a policewoman. Bill’s quite keen on her. Paul offered to give her computer lessons.”

  “So that explains what he’s doing.”

  “He could be finding out things about the case from her.”

  “If he finds out anything, I’m sure he’ll let you know.”

  Agatha hardly ever recognized feelings of jealousy in herself. She persuaded herself that it was in the interests of the case to find out what Paul was doing.

  “I’ll just go and join them,” she said.

  “I can’t wait here!” complained Charles. “I’ll get booked.”

  “Then find somewhere legal to park and join us.”

  Agatha got out of the car and hurried off in the direction of the pub.

  Paul and Haley were sitting at a corner table when she walked in. “Hullo!” said Agatha with a crocodile smile that contained no humour whatsoever.

  Paul looked at her with an expression of dismay on his face. Agatha thought sourly he looked like an adulterous husband caught in the act.

  “What are you doing here, Agatha?” he asked.

  “I saw you and Haley and thought I’d join you,” said Agatha, preparing to sit down.

  “Do you mind not joining us, Agatha? I’m going to talk computer stuff with Haley and I’m sure you’d find it very boring.”

  “Oh, in that case…” Agatha turned towards the door.

  “I’ll talk to you later,” he called.

  Agatha went out and looked up and down the street. Charles was still parked where she had left him.

  “You didn’t find a legal parking place?” asked Agatha, sliding into the passenger seat.

  “Didn’t even try. I felt in my bones you wouldn’t be long.”

  “Why?”

  “When a middle-aged gent goes into a pub with a saucy blonde, I don’t think he wants anyone butting in.”

  “It’s not like that,” said Agatha. “I met her with Bill and she asked Paul to help her with some computer stuff.”

  “And so kindly helpful Paul sends you off with a flea in your ear?”

  “I’m sure he’ll explain it all later,” said Agatha huffily.

  “And look at it his way. He finds you cosy with me and gets jealous.”

  “He wouldn’t have been jealous if you hadn’t implied we were having an affair!”

  “You should be grateful to me,” said Charles loftily. “Nothing like a bit of competition to spice things up a bit. You never talk about James.”

  “Leave it.”

  “Okay.”

  “This is an odd village,” said Charles as he parked in Towdey’s main street. “All these little thatched cottages crouched along the road like so many animals. Secretive-looking place.”

  “It’s getting dark,” said Agatha, ever practical. “I think it’s going to rain.”

  They rang the doorbell of Frampton’s cottage, but there was no reply.

  “I suppose he must be out working at something,” said Agatha. “There’s a general store along the street. We’ll try there.”

  A woman behind the shop counter told them that Mr. Frampton owned a building and demolition works in the new industrial estate outside Moreton-in-Marsh.

  “So that’s where he gets his money from,” said Agatha as they got back into the car. “I wonder if that sort of demolition work means he could get his hands on cyanide.”

  “Shouldn’t think so. I know cyanide is used in mining. We’ll see what he has to say for himself.”

  “Have you any cards on you?” asked Agatha.

  “Yes, why?”

  “I think he’s a snob and I’m hoping to melt him with your title.”

  “You’re an old-fashioned girl, Aggie. I’m a mere baronet, not a duke. And a title doesn’t melt anyone these days with so many odds and sods in the House of Lords.”

  “Let’s see anyway.”

  “Where is this industrial estate?”

  “Turn off on the Oxford road. It’s just a few miles out of town.”

  Frampton’s Building Works was a large, prosperous-looking modern building. And inside a glittering reception area which seemed to have been fashioned out of steel tubes and then decorated with plants sat Zena Saxon behind a desk. She had toned down her dress and make-up for work, or so it seemed. She was wearing a neat white blouse and subdued make-up, but when she stood up to greet them and walked round the desk, she revealed that on the lower half of her body she was wearing brief sky-blue shorts and very high stilettos.

  “Wow!” whispered Charles.

  He presented his card, introduced Agatha, and asked if they could speak to Peter Frampton.

  “What about? I think he’s busy right now,” said Zena. She had a nasal singsong Birmingham accent.

  “Please ask,” urged Charles.

  She shrugged. “Wait here.” She swayed off into the nether regions.

  “Frampton’s a lucky man,” said Charles. “That must be the best bum in the Midlands.”

  “Control yourself,” snapped Agatha, reflecting moodily on the plight of middle-aged women who had to watch equally middle-aged men lusting after girls young enough to be their daughters.

  She was gone quite a long time but eventually reappeared, followed by Peter Frampton, impeccably tailored and carrying a hard hat in one hand.

  “Is this important?” he asked.

  “It is,” said Charles. “Did you know a Mrs. Robin Barley?”

  He frowned. He pressed one long finger against his forehead. Then his face cleared. “Can’t say I do.”

  “You don’t seem surprised at the question,” said Agatha.

  “Should I be?”

  “Mrs. Robin Barley is the woman who has just been so dramatically murdered with cyanide.”

  “Oh, that Mrs. Robin Barley. That’s why the name sounded familiar and gave me pause. But, no, sorry.”

  “But the rector of Wormstone said you were advising her on the historical details of the Battle of Worcester, which was being re-enacted in the village,” lied Agatha.

  “Was I? Dear me, when was this?”

  “I’m not quite sure,” said Agatha, wishing in that moment she’d asked the rector when the village Battle of Worcester had taken place.

  He shook his handsome head. “I can’t help you, I�
��m afraid. I meet a lot of people.”

  “Why did you ask Mrs. Witherspoon to sell her house to you?” asked Charles.

  “It’s an interesting building and my passion is the seventeenth century.”

  “But it’s a Tudor house, isn’t it?”

  “I am fascinated with old buildings, that’s all.”

  “I asked you this before,” said Agatha, “but I’ll ask you again. Did you hope to find Sir Geoffrey Lamont’s treasure?”

  “I am sure that is long gone and I am sure previous owners of Ivy Cottage searched the place from the cellar to the rafters.”

  “But why do you want to move into such a large house?” pursued Agatha.

  “Meaning a single man should not want space? My dear Mrs. Raisin, I have an extensive library of historical books, some of them valuable and quite a lot in storage because at the moment I do not have room for them. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

  They reluctantly left, unable to think of any more questions.

  When they got back to Agatha’s cottage, Paul ran along to meet them. “The case is over,” he said. “Harry’s been arrested.”

  “Why? How?” asked Agatha.

  “He was over at Hebberdon around the time of the murder. The landlord of the local pub in Hebberdon saw him and was blackmailing him. Harry cracked and went to the police. He was seen going up to the house just before eleven o’clock at night.”

  “But surely the cast said he was at the party after the show?” exclaimed Agatha.

  “Well, you can’t imagine someone like Harry being the life and soul of the party. He could easily slip away and come back without anyone noticing.”

  “I suppose the landlord’s been arrested,” said Charles.

  “They’re looking for him. He’s disappeared.”

  “I suppose you got all this out of Haley,” said Agatha.

  “Yes, she was very excited about it all.”

  Agatha hesitated and then said, “Let’s all go inside.”

  Paul looked at Charles and shrugged. “I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got work to do.”

  “I thought you were taking a break.” Agatha looked at him pleadingly.

  “Can’t afford to always be on holiday. See you around.”

  He walked away.

  “He would have stayed if you hadn’t been here,” said Agatha sulkily.

  “He’s married, Aggie. No hope there.”

  “How do you know that?” howled Agatha. “His wife’s in Spain. His marriage is on the rocks.”

  Mrs. Davenport, idling on the other side of the lane with her dog, listened avidly.

  Agatha suddenly saw her and dragged Charles inside. “That awful woman,” she said. “She always seems to be snooping around.”

  “Same could be said for you, Aggie. Like a drink?”

  “No. I think I’d like to go and see Bill. I don’t believe it’s Harry.”

  “If it’s not Harry, why didn’t he tell the police he was there?”

  “He may have found her dead.”

  “He didn’t have a key. Maybe he just knocked at the door and getting no answer, went back to the party. When he heard she’d been found murdered, he panicked.”

  “Maybe, maybe, maybe. I’m going to phone Mircester and see if Bill’s there.”

  “Suit yourself. I’m having a drink.”

  Agatha phoned and then joined Charles in the sitting-room. He sat cradling a large whisky and with the cats on his lap.

  “Bill’s gone home,” said Agatha. “I’m going over to see him. Coming?”

  “If I must. Wait till I finish this drink.”

  “No!”

  “Okay, I’ll take it with me. You drive.”

  Fortunately for both of them, it was Bill himself who answered the door and not one of his formidable parents. “Come in,” he said. “My parents are out. It’s their bingo night.”

  “We hear Harry’s been arrested and that landlord was blackmailing him and now he’s gone missing and I don’t think it’s Harry and there’s been some terrible mistake…”

  “Whoa, Agatha! Hold your horses. Who told you? Nothing’s been issued to the press.”

  Agatha suddenly did not want to tell him about Haley, in case he was hurt, in case Paul got into trouble. “We have our sources,” she said.

  “Sit down,” said Bill, his face impassive. “That friend of yours, Paul Chatterton, took Haley for lunch.”

  “Oh, Bill, does it really matter how we know? What do you think about it?”

  “It’s all circumstantial evidence. There’s no forensic evidence and the one witness who says Harry was there has disappeared. But Harry does inherit a lot of money and he lied to the police. Mrs. Barley was asking around about where he was during the evening and suddenly she’s murdered. Runcorn is determined it is Harry and he’s holding a press conference tomorrow. Mrs. Barley had been phoning various members of the cast. We’ve checked her phone calls. She must have made about twenty calls. And look at it this way. If it’s not Harry, then who else could it possibly be?”

  “Sister Carol?”

  “I don’t see the sister having the strength or the expertise to deliver a blow like the one that killed Mrs. Witherspoon. Furthermore Harry says he did not take part in the production of Macbeth because of his hay fever. And yet there were no hay fever treatments at his house.”

  “If it was just the death of his mother, I might, I just might think it was Harry,” said Agatha. “But all that business with cyanide! It just doesn’t make sense.”

  “If we ever find Barry Briar, then we might have a clearer idea.”

  “I suppose the police are looking for him everywhere?”

  “Of course.”

  “I can’t believe in the fact that if Harry is innocent, he has nothing to fear,” said Agatha. “Not with a twit like Runcorn running things.”

  “Runcorn put your back up, Agatha. He may have an abrasive manner, but he’s a conscientious policeman.”

  Agatha muttered something that sounded like pah.

  “I haven’t offered you anything to drink,” said Bill. “Would you like some sherry?”

  “No, thanks,” said Charles and Agatha together, knowing by experience that the brand of sweet sherry, the only drink the Wongs kept for visitors, was vile.

  “The only advice I can give you,” said Bill, “is the advice I gave you before. Keep out of it. If it’s not Harry, then for the moment the murderer will believe himself safe. If you keep poking around, you could be in danger. Where’s Paul, or has Charles’s presence driven him away?”

  “Not at all. He thinks it’s all over and has gone back to work.”

  “How is your wife, Charles?”

  “Ex.”

  “Ah. There’s nothing more I can help you with.”

  Agatha and Charles went to dinner in Mircester. To Agatha’s amazement, Charles paid. As Agatha drove them home, she said, “Planning on staying with me for a bit?”

  “Why not? Paul’s a non-starter, Aggie. You have a genius for chasing after men who are going to hurt you.”

  “I wasn’t thinking about Paul,” lied Agatha, who had been thinking about him on and off all evening.

  “Anyway, let’s get a good night’s sleep and maybe go over to Hebberdon in the morning and ferret around.”

  After she fell asleep, Agatha had a nightmare in which she was meticulously scrubbing and cleaning the secret passage. Thick cobwebs brushed her face and she clawed them away. She felt she should not go on because there was something terrible awaiting her at the end of the passage. She awoke with a start and lay there with her heart thudding. What a horrible dream. She stared up at the beamed ceiling wondering where the landlord, Barry Briar, had got to. Then she wondered why whoever had killed Mrs. Witherspoon, because she still could not believe the murderer to be Harry, had not just put her body down into the secret passage. It could have lain there, undiscovered, for ages. Marvellous place to hide a body.

  She s
at up straight. What if the murderer had killed Barry? If he had been blackmailing Harry, then why not someone else?

  Would the police think of searching for a body? What better place to dump a body than down in the secret passage in a house that had already been gone over thoroughly by the police?

  She got out of bed and went through to the spare bedroom and shook Charles awake. He switched on the bedside light and surveyed the glory of Agatha Raisin in a diaphanous black nightie which she had recently bought without admitting to herself that she hoped Paul might see her in it.

  “Why, Aggie,” said Charles with a grin. “Welcome! Come and join me.”

  “Charles! Listen! I think the landlord’s body might be down in that secret passage.”

  “So? Phone Bill in the morning and put it to him.”

  “No, I want to go now and look.”

  Charles yawned. “Good hunting!”

  “You are coming with me!”

  “Oh, Aggie.” He twisted his head and looked at the bedside clock. “It’s three in the bloody morning.”

  “Please.”

  “Oh, very well.” He threw back the blankets and eased his naked body out of bed. He stretched and walked over and stared out of the open window. Mrs. Davenport drew back into the shrubbery across the road, gazing avidly at the lamplit tableau under the thatched roof. Agatha Raisin in a see-through black nightie. She could not see Charles’s head because the low window only afforded her a view of his naked torso.

  As Charles turned away, Mrs. Davenport scuttled off down the lane, her conscience eased. After she had written to Juanita, she had been frightened that she had exaggerated. But now she had just seen proof positive of Agatha’s affair with Paul. She was so determined to find Agatha guilty that she discounted the fact that Charles was staying with Agatha. Charles, she decided, must have left. Hadn’t Mrs. Bloxby told her the other day that Sir Charles Fraith was simply an old friend?

  If she had waited, she would have seen Charles and Agatha emerge from the house and drive off.

  “All this because you had a nightmare,” grumbled Charles. “I assume we can get to the damned passage from the garden. I don’t feel like housebreaking.”

  “Yes, we can. I hope the police haven’t sealed off the trapdoor.”