M Beaton: Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

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?”

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.