M Beaton - Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

They rang the doorbell of Frampton’s cottage, but there was no reply.

“I suppose he must be out working at something,” said Agatha. “There’s a general store along the street. We’ll try there.”

A woman behind the shop counter told them that Mr. Frampton owned a building and demolition works in the new industrial estate outside Moreton-in-Marsh.

“So that’s where he gets his money from,” said Agatha as they got back into the car. “I wonder if that sort of demolition work means he could get his hands on cyanide.”

“Shouldn’t think so. I know cyanide is used in mining. We’ll see what he has to say for himself.”

“Have you any cards on you?” asked Agatha.

“Yes, why?”

“I think he’s a snob and I’m hoping to melt him with your title.”

“You’re an old-fashioned girl, Aggie. I’m a mere baronet, not a duke. And a title doesn’t melt anyone these days with so many odds and sods in the House of Lords.”

“Let’s see anyway.”

“Where is this industrial estate?”

“Turn off on the Oxford road. It’s just a few miles out of town.”

Frampton’s Building Works was a large, prosperous-looking modern building. And inside a glittering reception area which seemed to have been fashioned out of steel tubes and then decorated with plants sat Zena Saxon behind a desk. She had toned down her dress and make-up for work, or so it seemed. She was wearing a neat white blouse and subdued make-up, but when she stood up to greet them and walked round the desk, she revealed that on the lower half of her body she was wearing brief sky-blue shorts and very high stilettos.

“Wow!” whispered Charles.

He presented his card, introduced Agatha, and asked if they could speak to Peter Frampton.

“What about? I think he’s busy right now,” said Zena. She had a nasal singsong Birmingham accent.

“Please ask,” urged Charles.

She shrugged. “Wait here.” She swayed off into the nether regions.

“Frampton’s a lucky man,” said Charles. “That must be the best bum in the Midlands.”

“Control yourself,” snapped Agatha, reflecting moodily on the plight of middle-aged women who had to watch equally middle-aged men lusting after girls young enough to be their daughters.

She was gone quite a long time but eventually reappeared, followed by Peter Frampton, impeccably tailored and carrying a hard hat in one hand.

“Is this important?” he asked.

“It is,” said Charles. “Did you know a Mrs. Robin Barley?”

He frowned. He pressed one long finger against his forehead. Then his face cleared. “Can’t say I do.”

“You don’t seem surprised at the question,” said Agatha.

“Should I be?”

“Mrs. Robin Barley is the woman who has just been so dramatically murdered with cyanide.”

“Oh, that Mrs. Robin Barley. That’s why the name sounded familiar and gave me pause. But, no, sorry.”

“But the rector of Wormstone said you were advising her on the historical details of the Battle of Worcester, which was being re-enacted in the village,” lied Agatha.

“Was I? Dear me, when was this?”

“I’m not quite sure,” said Agatha, wishing in that moment she’d asked the rector when the village Battle of Worcester had taken place.

He shook his handsome head. “I can’t help you, I’m afraid. I meet a lot of people.”

“Why did you ask Mrs. Witherspoon to sell her house to you?” asked Charles.

“It’s an interesting building and my passion is the seventeenth century.”

“But it’s a Tudor house, isn’t it?”

“I am fascinated with old buildings, that’s all.”

“I asked you this before,” said Agatha, “but I’ll ask you again. Did you hope to find Sir Geoffrey Lamont’s treasure?”

“I am sure that is long gone and I am sure previous owners of Ivy Cottage searched the place from the cellar to the rafters.”

“But why do you want to move into such a large house?” pursued Agatha.

“Meaning a single man should not want space? My dear Mrs. Raisin, I have an extensive library of historical books, some of them valuable and quite a lot in storage because at the moment I do not have room for them. Now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.”

They reluctantly left, unable to think of any more questions.

When they got back to Agatha’s cottage, Paul ran along to meet them. “The case is over,” he said. “Harry’s been arrested.”

“Why? How?” asked Agatha.

“He was over at Hebberdon around the time of the murder. The landlord of the local pub in Hebberdon saw him and was blackmailing him. Harry cracked and went to the police. He was seen going up to the house just before eleven o’clock at night.”

“But surely the cast said he was at the party after the show?” exclaimed Agatha.

“Well, you can’t imagine someone like Harry being the life and soul of the party. He could easily slip away and come back without anyone noticing.”

“I suppose the landlord’s been arrested,” said Charles.

“They’re looking for him. He’s disappeared.”

“I suppose you got all this out of Haley,” said Agatha.

“Yes, she was very excited about it all.”

Agatha hesitated and then said, “Let’s all go inside.”

Paul looked at Charles and shrugged. “I’ll leave you to it. I’ve got work to do.”

“I thought you were taking a break.” Agatha looked at him pleadingly.

“Can’t afford to always be on holiday. See you around.”

He walked away.

“He would have stayed if you hadn’t been here,” said Agatha sulkily.

“He’s married, Aggie. No hope there.”

“How do you know that?” howled Agatha. “His wife’s in Spain. His marriage is on the rocks.”

Mrs. Davenport, idling on the other side of the lane with her dog, listened avidly.

Agatha suddenly saw her and dragged Charles inside. “That awful woman,” she said. “She always seems to be snooping around.”

“Same could be said for you, Aggie. Like a drink?”

“No. I think I’d like to go and see Bill. I don’t believe it’s Harry.”

“If it’s not Harry, why didn’t he tell the police he was there?”

“He may have found her dead.”

“He didn’t have a key. Maybe he just knocked at the door and getting no answer, went back to the party. When he heard she’d been found murdered, he panicked.”

“Maybe, maybe, maybe. I’m going to phone Mircester and see if Bill’s there.”

“Suit yourself. I’m having a drink.”

Agatha phoned and then joined Charles in the sitting-room. He sat cradling a large whisky and with the cats on his lap.

“Bill’s gone home,” said Agatha. “I’m going over to see him. Coming?”

“If I must. Wait till I finish this drink.”

“No!”

“Okay, I’ll take it with me. You drive.”

Fortunately for both of them, it was Bill himself who answered the door and not one of his formidable parents. “Come in,” he said. “My parents are out. It’s their bingo night.”

“We hear Harry’s been arrested and that landlord was blackmailing him and now he’s gone missing and I don’t think it’s Harry and there’s been some terrible mistake…”

“Whoa, Agatha! Hold your horses. Who told you? Nothing’s been issued to the press.”

Agatha suddenly did not want to tell him about Haley, in case he was hurt, in case Paul got into trouble. “We have our sources,” she said.

“Sit down,” said Bill, his face impassive. “That friend of yours, Paul Chatterton, took Haley for lunch.”

“Oh, Bill, does it really matter how we know? What do you think about it?”

“It’s all circumstantial evidence. There’s no forensic evidence and the one witness who says Harry was there has disappeared. But Harry does inherit a lot of money and he lied to the police. Mrs. Barley was asking around about where he was during the evening and suddenly she’s murdered. Runcorn is determined it is Harry and he’s holding a press conference tomorrow. Mrs. Barley had been phoning various members of the cast. We’ve checked her phone calls. She must have made about twenty calls. And look at it this way. If it’s not Harry, then who else could it possibly be?”