M Beaton: Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

Agatha opened her eyes. Her neighbour was leaning over the garden fence. He had a thick shock of pure white hair and sparkling black eyes in a thin, clever face.

“Yes?” demanded Agatha rudely.

“I’m your new neighbour, Paul Chatterton.”

“So? What do you want?” asked Agatha, closing her eyes again.

“I wanted to say hullo.”

“You’ve already said that.” Agatha opened her eyes and stared at him. “What about trying goodbye?”

She closed her eyes again until she felt he would have fully appreciated the snub. She cautiously opened them again. He was still standing there, grinning at her.

“I must say you make a refreshing change,” he said. “I’ve been besieged by village ladies since I arrived, and now I decide to be sociable, I happen to pick on the one person who doesn’t want to know me.”

“Bother someone else,” said Agatha. “Why me?”

“You’re the nearest. Besides, I hear you’re the village sleuth.”

“What’s that got to do with it?”

“I read in the local papers that there’s some old woman over at Hebberdon who is being frightened out of her wits by ghosts. I’m going over there to offer my services as a ghost buster.”

Agatha’s recently dormant competitive instincts rose. She sat up. “Come round the front and I’ll let you in and we’ll talk about it.”

“See you in a few minutes.” He waved and loped off.

Agatha struggled to her feet, thinking that old-fashioned canvas deck-chairs like the ones in the Green Park in London had been expressly designed to make one feel old. She found she could not struggle out of it and had to tip it sideways and roll over on the grass to get to her feet. She gave it a furious kick. “You’re for the bonfire,” she said. “I’ll replace you with a sun lounger tomorrow.”

She hurried into the house, stopping only in the kitchen for a moment to wipe the sunblock from her face.

Agatha hesitated before opening the door to him. She was wearing a faded house dress and loafers. Then she shrugged. Men! Who needed to bother about them?

She opened the door. “Come in,” she said. “We’ll have coffee in the kitchen.”

“I’d rather have tea,” he said, trotting in after her.

“What kind?” asked Agatha. “I’ve got Darjeeling, Assam, Earl Grey, and something called Afternoon Tea.”

“ Darjeeling will do.”

Agatha put the kettle on. “Aren’t you working at the moment?”

“No, I’m between contracts. Going to take a brief holiday.”

Agatha leaned against the kitchen counter. Paul’s intelligent black eyes surveyed her and Agatha suddenly wished she were wearing something more attractive, or, at least, had some makeup on. He was not strictly handsome, and yet there was something about that white hair combined with black eyes in a white face and a long athletic figure which, she thought, would disturb quite a lot of women-except, of course, she reminded herself, Agatha Raisin.

“I believe my cottage once belonged to your ex-husband, James Lacey,” he said. The kettle began to boil. Agatha lifted down two mugs and put a tea-bag in one and a spoonful of instant coffee in the other.

“Yes,” she said. She stirred the tea-bag, lifted it out and put the mug down in front of him. “There’s sugar and milk in front of you.”

“Thanks. Why Raisin? Did you get married again?”

“No, that was my first husband’s name. I kept on using it even when I was married to James. Are you married?”

There was a short silence while Paul carefully added milk and sugar. He stirred his tea. “Yes, I am,” he said.

“And so where is Mrs. Chatterton?”

Another silence. Then he said, “Visiting relatives in Spain.”

“So she’s Spanish?”

“Yes.”

“What’s her name?”

“Um…Juanita.”

Agatha’s bearlike eyes narrowed. “You know what I think? I think you’re not married at all. I think there isn’t any Juanita. Look, I invited you in here, not to get into your trousers, but because I’m interested in this ghost thing.”

His black eyes sparkled with amusement. “Are you usually this blunt?”

“When I’m being lied to, yes.”

“But there is a Juanita. She has long black hair-”

“And plays the castanets and has a rose between her teeth. Forget it,” snapped Agatha. “So what do you plan to do about the haunting?”

“I thought I’d run over there and offer my services. Care to join me?”

“Don’t see why not,” said Agatha. “When shall we go?”

“What about now?”

“Okay. Finish your tea and I’ll get changed.”

“No need for that. Your housewifely appearance might reassure Mrs. Witherspoon.”

“Tcha!” said Agatha. She left the kitchen and ran upstairs. She put on a cool pink-and-white-striped shirtwaister dress and then carefully applied make-up. She longed to wear high heels, but the day was hot and swollen ankles would not look chic. She sighed and pushed her feet into a pair of low-heeled sandals.

She was half-way down the stairs when she realized she had forgotten to put on tights. A hot day minus tights would mean the straps on her sandals would scrape across her feet and the skin of her thighs under the short dress might stick to the car seat. She went back to her bedroom and struggled into a pair of tights labelled “One Size Fits All,” reflecting that whoever put that slogan on the packet had been thinking of a skinny fourteen-year-old. She looked in the mirror. The effort of putting on the tights in a hot bedroom had made her nose shine. She powdered it too vigorously and got a sneezing fit. By the time she had finished sneezing, her make-up was a wreck, so she had to redo it. Right! A last look in the full-length mirror. God! The buttons at the bosom of her shirtwaister were straining. She took it off and put on a white cotton blouse and a cotton skirt with an elasticated waist.

Fine. Ready to go. One more look in the mirror. Damn. She was wearing a black bra and it showed through the white cotton. Off with the blouse, on with a white bra, blouse back on again.

Resolutely not looking in the mirror this time, Agatha darted down the stairs.

“You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble,” said Paul.

“I haven’t gone to any trouble,” growled Agatha.

“You were away ages and I thought…Never mind. Let’s get going. You’d better take a pair of wellingtons.”

“Why?”

“Because there’s still foot-and-mouth around and she may live near a farm and we might have to wade through disinfectant.”

“Right,” said Agatha. “I’ve got a pair by the door. Whose car? Yours or mine?”

“I’ll drive.”

His car was a vintage MG. Agatha groaned inwardly as she lowered herself down into the low seat. She felt as if she were sitting on the road. He set off with a roar and Agatha’s hair blew forward about her face.

“Why is it in films,” she said, “that the heroine in an open car always has her hair streaming behind her?”

“Because she’s filmed in a stationary car in a studio with a film of landscape rolling behind her and a studio fan directed on her hair. If it’s bothering you, I can stop and put the top up.”

“No,” said Agatha sourly. “The damage is done. Whereabouts in Hebberdon does this Mrs. Witherspoon live?”

“Ivy Cottage, Bag End.”

Agatha fell silent as the countryside streamed past, the ruined countryside, the countryside destroyed by foot-and-mouth. If she had still been in London, she wouldn’t have given a damn. But somehow she now felt she belonged in the countryside and what happened there affected her deeply.

Hebberdon was a tiny picturesque village nestling at the foot of a valley. There were no shops, one pub, and a huddle of cottages. Paul stopped the car and looked around. “I’ll knock at one of the doors and ask where Bag End is.”