M Beaton - Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

“Sister Carol?”

“I don’t see the sister having the strength or the expertise to deliver a blow like the one that killed Mrs. Witherspoon. Furthermore Harry says he did not take part in the production of Macbeth because of his hay fever. And yet there were no hay fever treatments at his house.”

“If it was just the death of his mother, I might, I just might think it was Harry,” said Agatha. “But all that business with cyanide! It just doesn’t make sense.”

“If we ever find Barry Briar, then we might have a clearer idea.”

“I suppose the police are looking for him everywhere?”

“Of course.”

“I can’t believe in the fact that if Harry is innocent, he has nothing to fear,” said Agatha. “Not with a twit like Runcorn running things.”

“Runcorn put your back up, Agatha. He may have an abrasive manner, but he’s a conscientious policeman.”

Agatha muttered something that sounded like pah.

“I haven’t offered you anything to drink,” said Bill. “Would you like some sherry?”

“No, thanks,” said Charles and Agatha together, knowing by experience that the brand of sweet sherry, the only drink the Wongs kept for visitors, was vile.

“The only advice I can give you,” said Bill, “is the advice I gave you before. Keep out of it. If it’s not Harry, then for the moment the murderer will believe himself safe. If you keep poking around, you could be in danger. Where’s Paul, or has Charles’s presence driven him away?”

“Not at all. He thinks it’s all over and has gone back to work.”

“How is your wife, Charles?”

“Ex.”

“Ah. There’s nothing more I can help you with.”

Agatha and Charles went to dinner in Mircester. To Agatha’s amazement, Charles paid. As Agatha drove them home, she said, “Planning on staying with me for a bit?”

“Why not? Paul’s a non-starter, Aggie. You have a genius for chasing after men who are going to hurt you.”

“I wasn’t thinking about Paul,” lied Agatha, who had been thinking about him on and off all evening.

“Anyway, let’s get a good night’s sleep and maybe go over to Hebberdon in the morning and ferret around.”

After she fell asleep, Agatha had a nightmare in which she was meticulously scrubbing and cleaning the secret passage. Thick cobwebs brushed her face and she clawed them away. She felt she should not go on because there was something terrible awaiting her at the end of the passage. She awoke with a start and lay there with her heart thudding. What a horrible dream. She stared up at the beamed ceiling wondering where the landlord, Barry Briar, had got to. Then she wondered why whoever had killed Mrs. Witherspoon, because she still could not believe the murderer to be Harry, had not just put her body down into the secret passage. It could have lain there, undiscovered, for ages. Marvellous place to hide a body.

She sat up straight. What if the murderer had killed Barry? If he had been blackmailing Harry, then why not someone else?

Would the police think of searching for a body? What better place to dump a body than down in the secret passage in a house that had already been gone over thoroughly by the police?

She got out of bed and went through to the spare bedroom and shook Charles awake. He switched on the bedside light and surveyed the glory of Agatha Raisin in a diaphanous black nightie which she had recently bought without admitting to herself that she hoped Paul might see her in it.

“Why, Aggie,” said Charles with a grin. “Welcome! Come and join me.”

“Charles! Listen! I think the landlord’s body might be down in that secret passage.”

“So? Phone Bill in the morning and put it to him.”

“No, I want to go now and look.”

Charles yawned. “Good hunting!”

“You are coming with me!”

“Oh, Aggie.” He twisted his head and looked at the bedside clock. “It’s three in the bloody morning.”

“Please.”

“Oh, very well.” He threw back the blankets and eased his naked body out of bed. He stretched and walked over and stared out of the open window. Mrs. Davenport drew back into the shrubbery across the road, gazing avidly at the lamplit tableau under the thatched roof. Agatha Raisin in a see-through black nightie. She could not see Charles’s head because the low window only afforded her a view of his naked torso.

As Charles turned away, Mrs. Davenport scuttled off down the lane, her conscience eased. After she had written to Juanita, she had been frightened that she had exaggerated. But now she had just seen proof positive of Agatha’s affair with Paul. She was so determined to find Agatha guilty that she discounted the fact that Charles was staying with Agatha. Charles, she decided, must have left. Hadn’t Mrs. Bloxby told her the other day that Sir Charles Fraith was simply an old friend?

If she had waited, she would have seen Charles and Agatha emerge from the house and drive off.

“All this because you had a nightmare,” grumbled Charles. “I assume we can get to the damned passage from the garden. I don’t feel like housebreaking.”

“Yes, we can. I hope the police haven’t sealed off the trapdoor.”

“No reason why they should. It’s not their property.”

“Drive right up to the house,” ordered Agatha. “I don’t care if anyone sees us.”

“We’re trespassing, even if it is only the garden.”

“Harry’s the owner and I’ve got his permission to investigate the case. That’s what I’ll say if we’re caught. Turn up here.”

“It’s certainly isolated,” said Charles, switching off the engine. “I wonder what the landlord was doing skulking around.”

“Let’s go and get it over with.” Agatha got out of the car. The night was very still. A small moon riding overhead silvered a mackerel sky and a breeze sent the ivy which covered the old cottage rippling and whispering.

“Creepy,” muttered Charles. “Are you really sure you want to go through with this?”

“May as well. We’re here now. Better put our gloves on.”

They made their way round the side of the house and into the garden. “Right down at the end,” said Agatha. “It’s in that clump of shrubbery.”

An owl sailed overhead, making them jump. They crept into the shrubbery. Agatha took out a small torch and shone it on the ground.

“There’s the trapdoor,” she said.

“If we have to go down there, we’ll leave footprints,” cautioned Charles.

“So? I mean, if there’s no body, we don’t have to worry.”

Charles heaved open the trapdoor. “Shine the torch down,” said Charles. “It’s so dark I can’t even see the stairs.”

Agatha shone the thin beam of the torch down the stairs, let out a squawk and dropped the torch and clutched at Charles so hard he fell back with a crash into the bushes.

“Aggie,” he complained. “What the hell…?”

“Eyes,” stammered Agatha. “Eyes. Down there.”

“Where’s the damned torch?” demanded Charles, struggling to his feet. He felt around the ground until he located it.

“Get out of my way and I’ll have a look.”

Charles shone the torch down. He gave a muttered exclamation and went down a few steps. Then he retreated back up.

“It’s a dead body.”

“Is it Barry Briar?”

“I don’t know. Never met the man. Have a look.”

“No, I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Leave everything as it is. I’m calling the police.”

“Must we? I mean, they’ll be awfully angry.”

“Aggie, someone’s dead down there. We can’t just walk away.”

“How do you know he’s dead?”

“If a man’s lying with his neck twisted and his lifeless eyes glaring up at you, it’s ten to one he’s dead. Let’s get out of this shrubbery.”