M Beaton: Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

“So you haven’t been getting up to anything exciting?”

“Not me,” said Agatha. “I did some PR work in London, but down here I’ve been concentrating on the garden. I made some scones. Would you like one with your coffee?”

Bill knew Agatha’s baking was bad, to say the least. He looked doubtful. “Go on,” urged Agatha. “They’re awfully good.”

“All right.”

Agatha put a scone on a plate and then put butter and jam in front of him.

Bill bit into it cautiously. It was delicious, as light as a feather. “You’ve really excelled yourself, Agatha,” he said.

And Agatha, who had received the scones as a gift from Mrs. Bloxby, smiled sweetly at him. “You’ll never believe how domesticated I’ve become. Oh, there’s the doorbell.”

She hurried to open the door, hoping it would not be Paul Chatterton who might start talking about their planned vigil at the haunted house. But it was Mrs. Bloxby.

“Come in,” said Agatha. “Bill’s here.” She hoped Bill had finished that scone.

But to her horror, as she entered the kitchen with Mrs. Bloxby, Bill said, “I wouldn’t mind another of those scones, Agatha.”

“Oh, do you like them?” asked Mrs. Bloxby. “I gave Mrs. Raisin some this morning because I’d made too many.”

“Coffee?” Agatha asked the vicar’s wife.

“Not for me. The attendance at the ladies’ society is not very good, so I called round to make sure you would be at it this evening.”

“I can’t,” said Agatha, aware of Bill’s amused eyes on her face.

“Why not?”

“I’ve got to see a man about some PR work.”

“Working again so soon? I thought you wanted a quiet summer.”

“Oh, well, it’s just a little job.”

“What is it this time? Fashion?”

“It’s a new anti-wrinkle face cream.”

“Really? Do you think those creams work?”

“I don’t know,” said Agatha loudly. “It’s all too boring. Can we talk about something else?”

There was a silence. Agatha felt her face turning red.

“You’re getting quite a name for yourself in the village,” teased Mrs. Bloxby. “It’s all over the place that you and Paul Chatterton are an item.”

“Nonsense.”

“You were seen out in his car.”

“He was giving me a lift.”

“Oh, is your car off the road?”

“Look,” said Agatha, “I was leaving to go to Moreton and he came out of his house at the same time and said he was going to Moreton as well and offered me a lift. That’s all. Honestly, the way people in this village gossip.”

“Well,” said the vicar’s wife, “a lot of noses have been put out of joint by your apparent friendship with him. Why should you succeed when so many others have failed? I’d better go.”

Agatha saw her out and then returned reluctantly to the kitchen. “You haven’t let me have another of those scones yet,” said Bill.

“I must have made a mistake and given you one of Mrs. Bloxby’s scones instead of one my own,” said Agatha, who, once she was in a hole, never knew when to stop digging.

“Then I’ll have one of yours.”

Agatha went through the pantomime of opening an empty tin. “Sorry,” she said. “Mine are all finished. What a pity.”

She put another of Mrs. Bloxby’s scones in front of him,

“Have you heard of a Mrs. Witherspoon who claims she is being haunted?” asked Bill.

“Yes, it was in the local papers.”

“And you didn’t feel impelled to do anything about it?”

“No, I want a quiet life. She’s probably gaga.”

“She’s not. I went a couple of times to investigate. The police couldn’t find anything. I’ve got this odd feeling you’re hiding something from me, Agatha.”

“Don’t be silly.”

“I mean, I ask you about this new neighbour of yours and you don’t tell me he took you down to Moreton.”

“What is this?” demanded Agatha. “The third degree?”

Bill laughed. “I still think you’re holding out on me. Well, I’m sure a bit of ghost-hunting won’t hurt you.”

“I never said-”

“No, you didn’t, did you? I would ask you about this face cream and where you are meeting this man, but I don’t want to stretch your imagination any further.”

“Bill!”

He grinned. “I’ll see you around.”

Agatha sighed with relief when he had left and went upstairs to take a shower. She felt hot and clammy after all her lies.

Now what did one wear for ghost-hunting?

BY the time Agatha went downstairs that evening, she left the bedroom behind her in a mess. She had tried on just about everything in her wardrobe, veering from the chic to the shoddy, and had finally settled on wearing a pair of comfortable woollen trousers, a checked shirt and a cashmere sweater.

Don’t get interested in men again, she told herself severely and looked so grim when she opened the door to Paul that he took a step back and asked her whether anything was the matter. “No, nothing,” said Agatha. “I’ll get the coffee.”

“I forgot to tell you. Sometimes I prefer tea, and this is one of those sometimes.”

Agatha threw him a filthy look and went through to the kitchen and picked up the huge Thermos. At least all the coffee she had made should keep her awake.

“We’ll take my car,” she said firmly. The evening was chilly and she did not relish the idea of bucketing through the lanes in Paul Chatterton’s MG.

Outside, Paul loaded a picnic basket into Agatha’s new Audi. “You’ve brought a lot,” commented Agatha.

“I haven’t eaten yet. Have you?”

“I had something,” lied Agatha. Somehow she felt guilty about having wasted so much time changing in and out of clothes and putting on full make-up with mascara and eye shadow and then wiping it off and replacing it with a lighter maquillage. Her stomach gave a rumble and she added quickly, “But only a sandwich.”

“Just as well I’ve got enough for two,” he said.

Agatha drove off, wondering how many curtains in the village were twitching as they cruised past.

“Isn’t this exciting?” said Paul.

“Yes,” said Agatha doubtfully. She didn’t believe in ghosts. Old houses, such as her own and Mrs. Witherspoon’s, were full of creaks and noises. Ahead of her lay a sleepless night with a man she didn’t really know.

They arrived at Ivy Cottage and unloaded the car. Mrs. Witherspoon answered the door wearing a voluminous scarlet dressing-gown which clashed with her red hair.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said ungraciously. “Go into the living-room and settle yourselves. If you need the bathroom, it’s the door off the landing. Otherwise, don’t bother me, and don’t wake me. I’m a light sleeper.”

“You’d think she didn’t want us to find her ghost,” grumbled Agatha after Mrs. Witherspoon had retreated upstairs.

“Never mind. I’m going to eat.” Paul opened up the hamper, took out several plastic boxes, and plates and knives and forks. “There’s cold chicken, salad and French bread,” he said cheerfully. “Help yourself, and then we’ll have a game of Scrabble.”

Agatha ate gratefully and accompanied her plate of food with several cups of strong black coffee. Paul had brought a Thermos of tea.

“So what brought you to Carsely?” asked Agatha.

“A desire for somewhere pretty and quiet. I usually live in London but it’s become so noisy and crowded and dirty. Besides, Carsely is only an hour and a half away, so it’s not exactly isolated.”

“Have you always worked with computers?”

“Yes, I was lucky. I started right after university. I got in pretty much on the ground floor.”

“What exactly do you do?”