M Beaton: Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

“I’m a programmer. What about you? Retired?”

“Mostly, although I still take the odd job. I had my own PR firm in London but I sold up and took early retirement,” said Agatha, stressing the word early.

“And how did you get into amateur detection?”

“By accident,” said Agatha. “You know, things happen and I get curious.”

“How do you go about it?”

“Go around asking questions. The police don’t often have time to get to know people and people will talk more freely to a civilian than they will to the police.” Agatha had an impulse to brag, which she quickly suppressed. She had an uneasy feeling that Paul found her more amusing than attractive.

After they had finished, he neatly packed the plates away. So much for Juanita, thought Agatha. Bachelors are always neat and domesticated. She suddenly remembered James Lacey and felt a stab of pain. Her eyes filled with tears.

“What’s the matter?” asked Paul.

“I bit my tongue by accident.”

“Nasty, that. Let’s play Scrabble.”

He arranged the board and tiles on the table. He started. He put down “xenon” on the board.

“That’s not a word,” said Agatha crossly.

“It is, you know. It’s a gas. Here!”

He took out a copy of the Oxford Dictionary and handed it to her. Agatha looked it up. “Okay,” she said sulkily. The game progressed. Paul won easily. They started another. An old marble clock on the mantel ticked drearily and then its rusty chimes sounded midnight.

The time crawled by. Paul won two more games. “I’m bored,” said Agatha.

“Why don’t you have a sleep? I’ll keep watch.”

“I’ll stay awake a little longer. The house is very quiet. I wish we could do something amusing to pass the time.”

He smiled at her. “Well, there is something we could do.”

Agatha felt a frisson of sexual tension. “And what’s that?” she asked.

“I’ve a pack of cards. We could play poker.”

“No, that’s even more boring than Scrabble, and you only want to play to make me look as silly as you’ve made me look over the Scrabble board. Does Juanita really exist?”

“Of course she does.”

“So why isn’t she with you?”

“I told you, she’s visiting relatives in Spain.”

“So you did. It’s getting cold in here. What’s that?”

Cold white mist was beginning to seep under the living-room door. Agatha stared at it as it crept around their legs.

“Come on,” said Paul, getting to his feet. “Someone’s playing tricks. Nip upstairs and see if Mrs. Witherspoon’s all right and I’ll search the downstairs.”

“Do I have to?”

“Go on.”

Paul opened the living-room door and crossed the small hall to the kitchen at the back. Agatha mounted the stairs, her feet feeling like lead. “Mrs. Witherspoon!” she called in a quavering voice and then louder, “Mrs. Witherspoon.”

A door at the top of the stairs opened and a terrible apparition stood there, tall and white, with a green face and staring red eyes. Agatha screamed. She tumbled down the stairs and yanked open the front door. She got into her car, fumbling for her keys. She was dimly aware of Paul shouting something, but she’d had enough. She roared off and did not stop until she had reached her own cottage. She did not feel safe until she was in her own bed with the duvet pulled up over her ears. Despite her fear, she fell into a heavy sleep from which she was aroused two hours later by the phone ringing. Assuring herself that ghosts surely did not know how to use the telephone, she answered it.

Paul’s voice sounded down the line. “Could you come and pick me up? You left me stranded.”

“I saw an awful thing…” began Agatha.

“That awful thing was Mrs. Witherspoon in a face pack. She’s furious with you. You’re not very courageous for a detective.”

“See you soon.” Agatha slammed down the phone. She dressed hurriedly and went out to set off again for Hebberdon, feeling like a fool. Paul was waiting for her on the doorstep.

“I’m sorry,” said Agatha as he packed the picnic basket in the car. “But how was I to know it was her? And all that cold mist.”

“That, I am convinced, was nothing more than carbon dioxide gas. There’s no sign of anyone having broken in and the windows were all closed and locked. She says no one else has a key, but they must have.” He got into the passenger seat. “Anyway, you’ve blown it. She’s so furious with you, she doesn’t want to see us again.”

“I’ve said I’m sorry,” shouted Agatha, moving off. “What else can I say?” He began to laugh. “What’s so funny?”

“You,” he spluttered. “You should have seen your face.”

“Have you not considered,” said Agatha coldly, “that if someone is ruthless enough to frighten that old woman to death, they might have wanted to put an end to us?”

“No, I don’t think so. I wanted to find out if she had much money and who would inherit, but she told me to mind my own business. I think we should go over to Hebberdon later today and ask the locals about her.”

Agatha felt ashamed of herself, and that shame was making her cross and irritated. She did not like not being in control, but grudgingly admitted to herself that to refuse to go on investigating would be childish. “All right,” she said ungraciously. “What time?”

“Oh, we’ll get some sleep first. Say, eleven in the morning?”

“Right.”

He began to laugh. “You must admit, it was very funny. You ran off screaming like a banshee!”

“Drop it. I feel a fool.”

“Well,” he said, conciliating, “who would expect old Mrs. Witherspoon to go in for a face pack at her age?”

“That carbon dioxide gas. At least we know there’s someone human behind it. It was carbon dioxide, wasn’t it?” asked Agatha.

“It might be. But surely the police would have thought of that.”

“I don’t know. This government has been closing down so many country police stations that the police that are left are overloaded with work. Anyway, tomorrow’s another day.”

When they set out again the following morning, Agatha resolved that nothing about this “ghost” would scare her again. But she felt rather shy of Paul. He did not seem to feel in the least awkward around her, but then why should he? Probably regarded her as some sort of middle-aged eccentric, all right for a bit of amusement, only good enough to play Dr. Watson to his superior brain. Agatha mentally checked her appearance. She was wearing a scarlet cashmere sweater over a pair of jersey wool trousers and flat sandals. She edged the sweater down a bit over her stomach. Time for more exercise and diet. What a bore ageing was! Things drooped and sagged and bulged unless one worked ferociously on them. The flesh under her chin was really showing a slackness which alarmed her. She had slapped herself again under the chin sixty times that morning and had performed several grimacing exercises in order to try to tighten the flesh up, which had resulted in a red neck. She hoped the red had faded. And yet why should she mind what Paul thought of her appearance? Because he’s a man, she thought dismally, and she was mentally tied to her generation who considered every man as a prospective lover.

“Here we are,” said Paul, cruising to a stop. “What we want to suss out is whether Mrs. Witherspoon is regarded as eccentric and also who would get the house if she died. I mean, someone must be trying to frighten her to death.”

“Then someone doesn’t know her very well,” commented Agatha.

“She’s got high blood pressure.”

“How do you know that?”

“I went to the loo and checked out her pills in the bathroom cabinet.”