M Beaton - Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

“But your mother must have known about the passage.”

“I don’t think so. I mean, when that ghost business started, if she’d known, she would have told the police. I know she once told me that when she’d bought the house there was a lot of old junk left in the cellar and she should really get someone to take it off to the tip. But she was penny-pinching, so I guess that was why she left it there.”

“I wonder if the two murders are connected,” said Charles.

“I can’t see that they are.” Harry gave a weary shrug. “Mind you, Robin infuriated a lot of people.”

“Not much there,” said Charles, as they drove towards the village of Wormstone. “Let’s hope the rector, Mr. Potter, can come up with something.”

Mr. Potter was welcoming but puzzled to find that Agatha should think he had anything to add to what he had already told her.

His housekeeper served them tea in the rectory garden, a peaceful place with apricot trees growing against a mellow stone wall and a large round pond where water-lilies opened their waxy petals to the sun. Agatha, looking at Mr. Potter’s mild, tranquil face and then round his peaceful garden, experienced a pang of envy. How pleasant it would be to be comfortable in one’s own skin, to be free of worries and inadequacies.

Charles said, “Perhaps there might be a clue in any relationships Mrs. Barley might have had?”

“I don’t really know of any. She was always busy. You would have thought her art and the theatre would take up all of her time, but she was always organizing something new.”

“Like what?” asked Agatha.

“Oh, so many things. Plays in the church. The village fête-provided she opened it. She had boundless energy.” His face suddenly creased in a smile. “I thought she was going to be killed once.”

Agatha, who had been lounging in her chair, sat up straight. “Tell us about it.”

“She had been over at Stow once, where the Sealed Knot were re-enacting the Battle of Worcester. Mrs. Barley decided we were going to outdo the Sealed Knot in a re-enactment. She divided up the villagers into Roundheads and Cavaliers. It was that very hot summer four years ago. I tried to point out to her that this is a very small village and we hadn’t really enough people to play the parts, but she was determined because she said Midlands Television was going to film it. As I said, it was a very hot summer and she had made the mistake of supplying the ‘troops’ with a plentiful amount of mead and cider. Instead of making everyone cheerful, the drink made a lot of people tetchy, and what with the heat and a general dislike of being bullied into things by Mrs. Barley, tempers began to run high. We had to wait about because no television camera appeared. At last, she shouted to them to go ahead, and the battle began to get nasty. I said to her I was frightened someone would get hurt.

“She strode into the midst of the battle, shouting, ‘Stop it! You are behaving like children.’ She jumped back to avoid being trampled by a horse, tripped and sat down on a cow-pat. The whole crowd erupted into laughter. It was very cruel of the villagers, but it restored good humour. Poor Mrs. Barley just walked away. Her face was scarlet and she was nearly in tears.”

“She would need advice to get it right,” said Agatha slowly. “Did she have some sort of historical expert to help her?”

“Mrs. Barley might have had. But if she had, she didn’t tell me.”

“But don’t you think,” said Agatha eagerly, “that she might have asked for expert advice? Have you heard of a Mr. Peter Frampton?”

“No. You see, a lot of people came and went in Mrs. Barley’s life.”

“Thank you for the tea,” said Agatha, getting to her feet. “There’s someone I’ve got to see.”

“Peter Frampton?” asked Charles. “Who’s he? You didn’t mention him.”

“He heads a historical society at Towdey, which is a village near Hebberdon. Paul and I went to one of his lectures. It was supposed to be on local history, but we got a lecture on the Battle of Worcester instead. There was something else odd. This young girl, Zena Saxon, turned up during the lecture. I think she and Frampton are an item, which is odd.”

“Why?”

“Well, I would guess she’s in her early twenties, sort of local disco chick, and he’s in his late forties-grey hair, stylish, looks like a Conservative MP out of central casting.”

“Why on earth would he murder anyone?”

“He wanted Ivy Cottage, Mrs. Witherspoon’s house. Maybe he thought he could find the treasure. Maybe he knew about the secret passage.”

“What does he do when he’s not giving historical lectures?”

“I don’t know. That’s what we’re going to Hebberdon to find out.”

They were driving through Mircester when Agatha cried, “Stop the car!”

Charles swerved in towards the kerb and parked on a double yellow line. “Be quick,” he urged. “I don’t want to get a ticket for illegal parking. What is it?”

“I just saw Paul going into a pub with Haley.”

“And who’s Haley?” asked Charles patiently.

“She a policewoman. Bill’s quite keen on her. Paul offered to give her computer lessons.”

“So that explains what he’s doing.”

“He could be finding out things about the case from her.”

“If he finds out anything, I’m sure he’ll let you know.”

Agatha hardly ever recognized feelings of jealousy in herself. She persuaded herself that it was in the interests of the case to find out what Paul was doing.

“I’ll just go and join them,” she said.

“I can’t wait here!” complained Charles. “I’ll get booked.”

“Then find somewhere legal to park and join us.”

Agatha got out of the car and hurried off in the direction of the pub.

Paul and Haley were sitting at a corner table when she walked in. “Hullo!” said Agatha with a crocodile smile that contained no humour whatsoever.

Paul looked at her with an expression of dismay on his face. Agatha thought sourly he looked like an adulterous husband caught in the act.

“What are you doing here, Agatha?” he asked.

“I saw you and Haley and thought I’d join you,” said Agatha, preparing to sit down.

“Do you mind not joining us, Agatha? I’m going to talk computer stuff with Haley and I’m sure you’d find it very boring.”

“Oh, in that case…” Agatha turned towards the door.

“I’ll talk to you later,” he called.

Agatha went out and looked up and down the street. Charles was still parked where she had left him.

“You didn’t find a legal parking place?” asked Agatha, sliding into the passenger seat.

“Didn’t even try. I felt in my bones you wouldn’t be long.”

“Why?”

“When a middle-aged gent goes into a pub with a saucy blonde, I don’t think he wants anyone butting in.”

“It’s not like that,” said Agatha. “I met her with Bill and she asked Paul to help her with some computer stuff.”

“And so kindly helpful Paul sends you off with a flea in your ear?”

“I’m sure he’ll explain it all later,” said Agatha huffily.

“And look at it his way. He finds you cosy with me and gets jealous.”

“He wouldn’t have been jealous if you hadn’t implied we were having an affair!”

“You should be grateful to me,” said Charles loftily. “Nothing like a bit of competition to spice things up a bit. You never talk about James.”

“Leave it.”

“Okay.”

“This is an odd village,” said Charles as he parked in Towdey’s main street. “All these little thatched cottages crouched along the road like so many animals. Secretive-looking place.”

“It’s getting dark,” said Agatha, ever practical. “I think it’s going to rain.”