M Beaton: Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

“So where do we start?” asked Agatha, looking around.

“The pub, I suppose.”

They got out of the car. The pub, a small square Victorian building, was called The Railway Arms. “Didn’t know there was a station here,” said Agatha.

“There probably was in the days when trains stopped everywhere. The Hereford line is quite close.”

Agatha looked at her watch. “It’s early yet. Don’t suppose it gets many people at any time.”

“It’s a free house. Hasn’t been bought up by a brewery yet. They probably get ramblers when there isn’t a foot-and-mouth epidemic. Come on.”

“Aren’t you going to lock your car?”

“No, it’ll be all right.”

“I would if I were you,” said Agatha. “I see you’ve got a CD radio fitted.”

“Oh, stop worrying and let’s get started.”

They walked together into the pub. The walls, once white, were now yellow with nicotine. A few framed photographs of steam trains hung on them. There was a scarred wooden bar along one wall and a few wooden tables and upright chairs were dotted about. A man with a balding head and a large beer belly stood behind the bar.

“What’ll you have?” asked Paul.

“Gin and tonic.”

“Right. I’ll have a tomato juice. It’s a bit early for me.”

“I haven’t no ice,” said the barman.

“I would be amazed if you had,” said Agatha.

The barman put their drinks on the counter. “Visiting?” he asked.

“We’re both living over in Carsely,” said Paul. “Funny, that business about Mrs. Witherspoon. We read about it in the papers.”

“You don’t want to pay no heed to that,” he said.

“Why?” asked Agatha.

“Because she’s an old bitch what’d say anything,” remarked the barman.

“That’s interesting,” said Agatha. “But you strike me as a very intelligent man. Do you work here or are you the landlord?”

“I own this pub.” He stuck out a hand. “Barry Briar’s the name.”

Agatha took his hand. He held hers and leered at her.

“So, Mr. Briar,” said Agatha, tugging at her hand until he released it, “do you mean Mrs. Witherspoon made the whole thing up?”

“Course she did. She likes the attention, see? Afore this, her was always calling the police out for something or another.”

“Like reporting you for serving drinks after hours?” said Paul.

“There’s that. But there’s other things.”

“Like what?” asked Agatha. “Here, let me buy you a drink?”

“Ta. I’ll have a malt.” Briar helped himself to a double measure and Agatha reluctantly paid up. “Like there’s Greta Handy at Pear Cottage. Her got the satellite TV in and Mrs. Witherspoon reported her to the council for defacing an old building and they made her take the satellite dish down. Then there’s Percy Fleming, him at Dove Cottage. He’s a writer. He had a shed put in his garden for a place to work. Said he could keep all his computer stuff and manuscripts, like, and use it for an office. Even had the phone put in. Tasty liddle place, it were. Mrs. Witherspoon reports him to the council and says he hasn’t asked for planning permission and it’s got to go. He paid lawyers and got his way, but it cost him a mint.”

“Goodness!” said Agatha, looking suitably enthralled. “Does she have any family?”

“She has a daughter, Carol, lives over Ancombe way. And a son. They never talk.”

“Why’s that?”

“Well, Carol is in her late sixties and never married. She says she never had a chance. Her mother scared them all off. When she got the courage to leave, it were too late, poor old cow.”

“So she made all this ghost business up?” asked Paul.

“Course she did. She likes the fuss. Police and newspapers running around.”

The phone rang in the back premises and Briar went to answer it. Agatha and Paul carried their drinks over to a table.

“So what do you think?” asked Paul.

“Seems like he’s telling the truth,” said Agatha.

“What about that mist?”

“She probably faked that herself. Look, if she was really frightened, she would have been anxious for our help, but she was pretty reluctant.”

“Drink up and we’ll try those two neighbours she riled up.”

Greta Handy was a small, round, muscular woman. Her thick grey hair was scraped up on top of her head and she was wearing a man’s pullover with a pair of torn and faded jeans. When she heard the reason for their call, she invited them in. They stood helplessly in her low-beamed living-room, wondering where to sit. A large dog of mixed breed was stretched out on a sofa and somnolent cats occupied the two easy chairs. The stuffy air was redolent of cat and dog, and various bowls of half-eaten cat and dog food were spread about the floor on the hair-covered carpet. A large television set dominated the room. Agatha noticed a digital box on top of the video machine.

“So you got satellite after all?” she said.

“Yes, that silly old woman. What a fuss. The engineers just took the dish off the wall and put it on a stand in the shrubbery.”

“So what about this ghost business?” asked Paul.

“Load of rubbish, if you ask me. She’s run out of people to make trouble for, so she made the whole thing up. I’m amazed the police ever listened to her. I went round there and told her, I said, ‘You ever interfere again and I’ll stick the bread knife in you.’ So she calls the police. ‘Never said anything like that,’ I told them. I mean, you say things in the heat of the moment that you don’t mean, but if I’d told them I’d actually threatened her, they might have arrested me. But she didn’t bother me again.”

Outside, Agatha and Paul took grateful breaths of fresh air. “May as well try the other one, the writer,” said Paul.

When they rang the bell at Dove Cottage, there was no reply. “Perhaps we should go round the back,” suggested Agatha. “He may be in his shed.”

They walked along a narrow path at the side of the low thatched cottage. The front garden had been a riot of flowers, but the back garden consisted only of a square of lawn and the shed. It was a square wooden structure with a double-glazed window. “Sheds like these cost a lot,” said Agatha. “I wonder what he writes.”

“Maybe he writes under another name, one we’d recognize.” Paul rapped on the door of the shed.

A tall, stooped man opened the door. He had thick silver hair worn long, a black velvet jacket open over a white shirt and silk cravat, and black velvet trousers. “Go away,” he said in a reedy voice. “I am not buying anything.”

“We’re not selling anything,” said Paul. “I am Paul Chatterton and this is Mrs. Agatha Raisin. We spent last night in Mrs. Witherspoon’s house, trying to lay the ghost for her but without success. General opinion around here so far seems to be that she is making the whole thing up.”

“Come in,” said Percy. They walked up the shallow wooden steps and into an office-shed which looked a miracle of order. Neat files in different colours filled the shelves and a computer and printer stood on a metal desk. Percy sat beside the desk and waved Agatha and Paul into two hard chairs facing him. “I am glad you have come to me,” he said, making a steeple of his fingers and looking wise-or trying to look wise, Agatha thought. “I am a writer and I have a writer’s eye for detail.”

Probably can’t write very well and must have a private income, reflected Agatha. She knew from long experience that successful writers rarely glorified their trade.

“Do you write under your own name?” she asked.

“No,” he said proudly. “I am Lancelot Grail.” He opened a drawer in his desk and took out a paperback which he handed to her. The cover showed a muscular man stripped to the waist, wielding an axe and being threatened by a dragon.