M Beaton: Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

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. Could 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.