M Beaton: Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

They worked on until Charles said with a sigh, “No Battle of Worcester. No Peter Frampton. Let’s go back and see if the obliging Elizabeth can let us get into the house in Wormstone. I’ll put the boxes back where we found them.”

Agatha, who had been sitting on the sofa, stood up. She felt flat. Her eyes fell on the canvases. Had Robin been a good painter? She began to turn some around. They were indeed paintings of the Cotswolds, drawn precisely from photographs, competent and lifeless. She turned round some more and came across the portrait of a woman.

“What are you doing?” asked Charles.

“Looking for a portrait of Peter Frampton.”

“Oh, Aggie, I’m getting a bad feeling about this. The man’s probably innocent.”

Agatha ignored him and continued to search the paintings. “Well, well,” she said. “Come and look at this.”

She heaved a large canvas out and turned it around so that Charles could see it. It was a portrait of Peter Frampton wearing nothing but a hard hat. It was not very well executed but nonetheless the subject was clearly Peter Frampton.

“Got him!” said Agatha triumphantly.

“So what do we do now? Go and confront him?”

“Not on your life. I decided to never confront murderers again. Too dangerous. We’ll tell Bill about it and let the police take it from there.”

Paul was puzzled. He had confronted Peter Frampton at the building works about the diary. Peter had simply laughed and said he must be mad if he thought anyone would murder three people over a diary. Paul had tried to get him to betray himself by saying that he had the diary. But Frampton showed no reaction. He was so much at ease and so friendly that Paul began to feel ridiculous.

“Anyway, now you’re here.” said Peter, “come and I’ll give you the royal tour.”

“I really should be getting back.”

“Oh, come on. I’m proud of the place. Where is this mysterious diary, by the way?”

“At my cottage in Carsely.”

“How did you get it?”

“Bit of detective work,” said Paul vaguely.

“Ah, you amateur detectives.” He led Peter through metal sheds piled high with bricks, sheds full of sacks of concrete, and other-what Paul privately termed-dreadfully boring machinery.

“I really should be going,” said Paul. “Thank you for your time.”

“There’s just one other place you should see. It’s where I keep all the history books in storage that I haven’t room for at home. You’ll be amazed at the amount I’ve got.”

Might as well see it, thought Paul. Might just be something there.

Frampton strode ahead. They were reaching the end of the development and Paul could not see any building in sight. The main buildings seemed a long way behind them.

Frampton came to a stop. “Down here.”

“Down where?” asked Paul.

Frampton laughed. “Can’t see anything yet, can you? It’s an old Anderson shelter left over from World War Two.”

He pointed, and now stepping forward, Paul could see steps leading down underground. The shelter on the surface was totally covered in grass and weeds.

“Damn, I’ve something in my shoe. Go on down and I’ll join you.”

Paul went down the steps and pushed open the door. It was pitch-black inside. He groped forward, feeling for a light switch. The door behind him slammed shut. He whipped round and flung himself at the door just as he heard a bar being lowered on the outside.

“Stay here until you come to your senses.” Frampton’s voice came faintly through the door. “I’ll come every day. If you tell me where that diary is, I’ll let you out. Twenty-four hours in here and you’ll feel like talking.”

Paul hammered on the door and shouted until he was exhausted. Then he groped his way around his “prison” until his hands felt the outline of a candle. He remembered he had picked up a book of matches in the French restaurant. He was wearing his best suit, the one he had worn the night before. He fished out the matches and struck one and lit the candle. There was a bench running along the earthen walls. He was too young to remember Anderson shelters, but he suddenly remembered hearing about them in a documentary about the war. There must have been houses here at one time. They were usually built at the bottom of gardens, the idea of the underground shelters being that they could not be seen from the air. He slumped down on the bench. He would have to tell Frampton where the diary was. He would go mad if he was locked in here for days.

Bill and two policemen called at the building works in the late afternoon, to be told that Mr. Frampton had gone home. But when they called at his house, there was no answer.

“Paul still isn’t home,” fretted Agatha. “Do you think we should go along to his cottage and get the diary?”

“We can’t break in.”

“I’ve still got a key. The lock hasn’t been changed since James lived there.”

“Okay,” said Charles. “It’s better than sitting here doing nothing.”

They walked along and went into Paul’s cottage.

“His MG isn’t outside,” said Agatha.

Inside the cottage, Charles went straight to the bookshelves. “It’s not here!” he said. “Maybe the silly bugger took it somewhere.”

“I don’t think he would. Look around.”

They searched carefully through the books and behind the books. Then they went through the drawers in his desk. “I’ll try upstairs,” said Charles. “You look in the kitchen.”

“Why the kitchen?”

“People always seem to think the kitchen’s a safe hiding place. I had a great-aunt who kept a diamond necklace inside a bag of frozen peas.”

Agatha discounted the freezer and the fridge. Surely Paul would not be stupid enough to hide a valuable diary there. She checked behind the cans and boxes of groceries, in the rubbish bin, and behind the plates on the dresser. She remembered taking plates off this very dresser and smashing them on the floor in a rage in one of her fights with James. She sat down at the table, suddenly torn with memories. Would she ever see James again? Her eyes blurred with tears and she wiped them angrily away. She found herself looking at a neat row of canisters on the counter of the dresser-sugar, coffee, flour and pasta.

She got to her feet and began to prise open the lids. In the pasta one, she found the diary.

Agatha went to the foot of the stairs and called, “Found it!”

Charles came pattering lightly down the stairs. “Good, let’s keep it until Paul comes back.”

“If the police ever find we’ve got it, we’ll be in real trouble,” said Agatha.

They walked to Agatha’s cottage. The village was quiet and peaceful. This is the last case, thought Agatha. To throw away peace and quiet for all this business-it’s ridiculous.

“What are you thinking?” asked Charles as they walked through to the kitchen and petted the cats.

“I’ve just been thinking that I could have such a pleasant quiet life in this village if I left it all to the police in future,” said Agatha.

“You’d go mad with boredom. Ever think of moving back to London?”

“I don’t fit in there any more. It doesn’t seem the same.”

“Ever think of opening a detective agency?”

“I’ve been asked that before. It would involve missing cats and messy divorces.”

“Still, it might be better than just sitting here.”

“I wouldn’t just sit here,” protested Agatha. “I’d become like Mrs. Bloxby and involve myself in good works.”

“You’re not Mrs. Bloxby and never could be.”

“Oh, she’s a saint and I could never rise to her heights?”

“Don’t quarrel, Aggie. Let’s go out for dinner. Bill will contact us if he’s got anything.”