M Beaton - Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

Agatha sat down. “That’s better,” she said. “I like the curtains open when I’m at home. I only close them when I go to bed.”

“So tell me all about it,” said Charles.

Agatha began at the beginning and went on to the end, soothed by Charles’s capacity for listening.

“What a mess,” he commented when she had finished. “Before I give you my views, what about Paul? Am I interfering in your love life?”

“He’s married. Anyway, how could you interfere?”

“I took the liberty of unpacking my things in the spare room.”

“You do assume a lot, you cheeky sod. All right, you can stay. So what do you think of the murders? I cannot believe for a moment this Harry Witherspoon is the murderer.”

“Why? He’s the only one who stood to gain from her death.”

“I know, I know. I can imagine him doing the first one but not the second. He and his sister asked Paul and me to find the murderer of their mother.”

“You left that bit out.”

“Sorry.”

“I’d like to meet him.”

“I’m sure he’s been with the police for a long time. We could try tomorrow. It would be only polite to tell Paul and see if he wants to go with us.”

There was a sharp ring at the doorbell.

“It’s a bit late for anyone to be calling,” said Agatha, getting to her feet. “Hope it’s not that awful Runcorn. I don’t feel up to him tonight.”

She opened the door. Paul stood there. “I saw your car,” he said.

“Come in,” said Agatha. “I’ve got a friend here.”

She led the way into the living-room and introduced Charles. “Charles helped me on a lot of previous cases,” said Agatha.

“We thought we’d go and see Harry Witherspoon tomorrow,” said Charles. He yawned and stretched. “You tell him about it, Aggie. I’m off to bed.” He walked towards the door and then turned and smiled at Agatha. “Don’t be long, dear,” he said.

There was an awkward silence.

Then Agatha said, “It’s not what you think. Charles is just a friend.”

“A pretty intimate one, it seems to me,” said Paul. “I’d better go.”

“Don’t you want to come with us to see Harry tomorrow?”

“No, I’ll be off. Three’s a crowd.”

“Oh, don’t be so silly. I’ll send Charles away.”

“No need for that. I’ve got work to do anyway.” Paul left, looking decidedly huffy.

He returned to his own cottage. Two of the ladies of the village who had tried to court his company when he had first arrived had warned him about Agatha Raisin. They had hinted she’d had affairs. This had intrigued him and it was what had prompted him to approach Agatha in the first place. He had been quite disappointed at first to find himself faced with, not a femme fatale, but a prickly middle-aged woman. After he had got to know Agatha, he had admitted to himself that there was something very sexy about her, but the fact that he sensed the vulnerability under the hard shell had kept him from making any serious advances to her. He suddenly missed his volatile wife. He reached out for the phone and then decided against it. She would say the usual thing-if he loved her he would live in Spain -and they would end up having a row.

He did not feel sleepy. He switched on his computer. He would type out everything they had found out about the case and see if he could find a lead. It would be nice if he could solve the murders himself.

Agatha marched into the spare bedroom where Charles was lying, reading. “Did you have to go and imply we were having an affair?” she demanded.

“Bit of fun, Aggie. Anyway, he shouldn’t be sniffing around. You said your Watson was married.”

“He’s not all that married,” said Agatha sulkily.

“Married is married. Anyway, he’s a geek. A handsome one, I grant you, but a geek all the same. Not much personality.”

“Jealous, Charles?”

“Me! Never. Come and join me.”

“Don’t you ever give up?”

“Worth a try,” said Charles, stretching lazily.

Agatha went out and banged the door.

She awoke early next morning to the sound of frying bacon. She rose and washed and dressed and went down to the kitchen. “I was just about to call you,” said Charles, standing at the stove. “Breakfast’s nearly ready.”

“Do make yourself free with my groceries,” said Agatha.

“I have done. One egg or two?”

“One.

“I don’t usually have breakfast, as you know,” said Agatha, sitting down at the table. “I usually just have a cup of coffee.”

“This’ll do you good.” He slid a plate of sausage, bacon and egg in front of her.

“I feel guilty about Paul,” said Agatha, poking at her food. When Charles turned back to the stove, she lifted a rasher of bacon and dropped it down on the floor for her cats to eat.

Charles helped himself to a plate of food and sat down opposite her. He was wearing casual dress-casual for him-a checked blue-and-white shirt with dark blue chinos.

“What I cannot understand,” he said between bites of food, “is why the unfortunate Robin was killed and not you. You’ve been poking around asking questions about the murder and so far you haven’t been threatened.”

“All it means was she was close to something I missed.”

“I wonder what that could be? I’d like to meet this rector at Wormstone. Ask him a few more questions. There might have been something or someone she’s been involved with. Did you ask him whether she had any relationships with men?”

“Don’t think I did.”

“Well, there you are. Her murder might not have anything to do with this first one.” Charles finished his breakfast and stood up. Hodge, the cat, slid past him out into the garden, followed by Boswell. Hodge was holding a sausage in his mouth.

“Waste of food,” said Charles crossly. “After all my hard work you’re not supposed to feed your breakfast to the cats. So let’s go.”

Harry Witherspoon’s shop was closed and there was a FOR SALE sign in the window. “Hope he’s at home,” said Agatha. “It’s not far from here.”

Harry answered the door to them, blinking in the sunlight. “Oh, it’s you,” he said ungraciously. “Come in. Who’s this? Where’s the other fellow?”

“This is Sir Charles Fraith, who has helped me on cases before.” Oh, the magic of a title, thought Agatha, as Harry smiled and began to fuss. “Must offer you something. Too early for a drink?”

“Nothing for us,” said Agatha firmly. “What about this Robin Barley business?”

“I can’t understand it,” said Harry, looking bewildered. “She was an infuriating woman. But to kill her, and in such an elaborate way!”

“And you weren’t at the theatre?” asked Charles.

“No, thank God. At the time she was being murdered I was over in Broadway in a pub having drinks with this chap in the antiques business who is going to offer a good sum for my stock and may take over the shop as well. I need some ready cash. The lawyers say they can advance me money on Mother’s will because I haven’t been charged with anything, but I want to have the whole thing settled.”

“Did Robin have any lovers?” asked Agatha.

“I don’t know. She went around in the company of a lot of young gays. Then she was friendly with her local rector. We all rather kept clear of her.”

“I want to ask you about that secret passage,” said Agatha. “When Paul and I wanted to search the house, you refused permission. Why? Did you know about the passage?”

He shook his head. “You’ve no idea what our upbringing was like. After school we were sent up to our rooms and locked in, only to be let out for half an hour for supper and then locked in for the night. I often climbed out of the window and escaped, just to get away. Mother found out and said Carol had told her. When I got into trouble, she always said it was Carol who had told her. Now, I see it was never Carol, it was just her way of divide and rule.”