M Beaton: Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

The jury took only fifteen minutes to come to their decision. “Murder by person or persons unknown.”

Agatha looked around the court for Harry Witherspoon, but he had disappeared.

“He can’t sell the house now,” whispered Paul. “Not until they find out who did it.”

Back in Carsely, Agatha said, “It’s all so obvious.”

“What is?” asked Paul. “It’s begun to rain and your cats are out in the garden. Will I let them in?”

“Open the door and they’ll come in if they want. They’re odd cats. They like rain. Obvious? I mean, it’s obviously Harry who did it. He must have known he was due to inherit everything. His business is in trouble, Mother is old but looks likely to go on for a good few years.”

“Don’t let it stop us from looking for other suspects.”

“Like who?”

“Percy Fleming.”

“What! The fantasy writer? Why him?”

“Just a thought. Maybe he got carried away with dislike of her and thought he was one of the characters in his books, Thor the Avenger, or something.”

“Wait a bit,” said Agatha. “We’re forgetting the hauntings. I can’t see Harry messing about with dry ice and bumps in the night. Why would he want to drive her out of a valuable property he knew he stood to inherit?”

“Could be he wanted to frighten her to death,” said Paul.

“He knew her. She was his mother. He must have known it wouldn’t be easy to frighten her. I feel restless,” said Agatha. “Let’s have something to eat and drive over to Towdey.” She opened the lid of a large freezer chest and pulled out several frosted packets and tried to scrape the ice of them to see what they were.

“Never mind,” said Paul quickly. He was sure the stuff Agatha was looking at had been in that freezer chest for years. We’ll go now. There’s bound to be someplace in Towdey where we can get a meal. I’ve got a car.”

“I know. The MG.”

“No, I got one for running around.”

The cats came in and wound their wet bodies around Agatha’s legs. “Shut the door before they get out again,” said Agatha. She picked up her handbag. “Let’s go.”

The village of Towdey was buried down in a fold of the Cotswold hills. The sun had come out again and mellow terraces of Georgian houses gleamed in the watery yellow light. Paul’s car, an old Ford Escort, crunched over a mat of straw at the entrance to the village, left there from the days when it had been soaked in disinfectant at the height of the foot-and-mouth epidemic.

Paul followed the sign directing them to the centre of the village. “Oh, look,” he said. “There’s a pub and it’s got a menu on a blackboard outside.”

He parked in front of the pub and they both got out and studied the menu. “Whatever happened to cheap village meals?” moaned Agatha. “It’s got things like sea bass and fillet steak at awful prices. I don’t feel like eating a grand meal.”

“Let’s try it anyway,” said Paul. “Maybe they’ve got a bar menu inside with simpler things.”

The pub was Tudor, older than the surrounding eighteenth-century buildings. It was low-beamed and dark inside. A barman with an accent like Inspector Clouseau asked them what they wanted. Paul explained that they wanted a light snack and they were told to go through to the public bar, all with that hard-eyed look and slightly curled lip that the French do so well.

The public bar was across a stone-flagged passage from the lounge bar where the “posh” meals were served.

The lounge bar had been empty but there were a good few people in the public bar. It was a long low room with a bare wooden floor and several tables and chairs. There was no one behind the bar but there was a bell on it with a little sign saying RING FOR SERVICE. Paul rang. Inspector Clouseau appeared.

“Ye-e-es?” he drawled.

“The cheap menu, please,” said Paul, becoming irritated.

A plastic laminated card was handed to him. Paul read out the brief menu: “Cod and chips, lasagne and chips, egg and chips or chicken curry.”

“Prices?” asked Agatha.

“Extraordinary.”

“High?”

“Very high for the junk listed here.”

Paul handed the menu back. “Forget it,” he said.

Clouseau flounced off.

“We’ll get somewhere else later,” said Paul.

“How on earth can they survive?” demanded Agatha angrily as they walked outside. “I mean, the pub isn’t even on the tourist route.” She half turned back. “Maybe it’s a front for something.”

“One case at a time,” said Paul, drawing her away. “Let’s walk along a bit. There might be a shop and we can ask about the historical society.”

They walked along past rows of cottages. There were no gardens at the front but there were climbing roses hanging in front of the doors of some, growing out of tubs.

“There’s a shop,” said Paul. “Towdey Grocery and Post Office.”

But the shop was closed. “Must be half-day.” Paul peered in the window. “Aren’t some British shopkeepers amazing. They seem to have learned nothing from the Asians.”

“Look!” Agatha pointed to one of the cards in the window.

Among cards offering gardening services, baby-sitting, second-hand lawn-mowers, washing machines and bicycles was a neat card headed TOWDEY HISTORICAL SOCIETY. Underneath was typed: “Roundheads and Cavaliers. Historical discussion on the royalist connections of Towdey in the Seventeenth Century. Meeting: Wednesday evenings at 7:30P.M. in the Church Room.”

“And that’s this evening,” said Paul with satisfaction. “May as well go to our respective homes and get something to eat.”

“He might at least have offered to whip me up an omelette,” grumbled Agatha to her cats as she defrosted a microwave meal and hoped it was something she felt like eating. The frost had been so thick that she could not read the label.

She felt uneasily that they were wasting time going to this historical society. Ten to one, Harry Witherspoon had murdered his mother.

AGATHA Raisin lay in a scented bath and wondered whether it was all worth getting out of it, getting dressed, and going to the Towdey Historical Society. This was not because she was sure Harry was the murderer, but rather because she felt a need to relax-a rare need. Normally Agatha never felt comfortable just sloping around, doing nothing. The fact was she was fed up with herself for always going to endless lengths to prepare herself and dress up for men who were not worth the effort. Paul is married, remember that, she told herself severely.

Her cats, Hodge and Boswell, sat on the edge of the bath and stared at her solemnly as if agreeing with her thoughts.

Hidden treasure and secret passages. It all reminded her of the comics she had read as a child. Still-someone had got into that house…

With a sigh, she rose out of the now tepid water and dried herself. She then studied her body in the mirror. Her breasts were still high, and she had no cellulite or stretch marks. But there was a slackening of the skin at the waist, at the stomach, and under her chin. She decided to do some waist exercises the following day. She had always had a thick waistline. No sense in letting it get worse.

She rebelled against the idea of wearing pretty underwear. Why bother when she was going out with a married man? She put on a pair of white cotton knickers and a white cotton bra and then went through to the bedroom and selected a comfortable linen trouser suit and white blouse. Agatha resisted the temptation to put on high heels. She was just making her way downstairs with the cats running in front of her when the doorbell rang. She looked at her watch. Paul was right on time.

“Ready?” he asked when she opened the door. “You look really nice.”