M Beaton - Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

“Oh, now I know who you are,” lied Agatha, anxious to keep him helpful. “So what can you tell us about Mrs. Witherspoon?”

“To put it bluntly, she is a bitch from hell,” he said. “Ah, I shock you by my plain speaking, Mrs. Raisin, but that is what she is. She reported this shed to the planning officer and I had to employ a lawyer at Great Expense to clear things up. I told her to mind her own business in future and she told me to go and…” His face turned a delicate pink. “Well, I will not sully your ears with such language. Of course she’s making it all up. She’s lonely and bored and her hobby is creating fuss and chaos.”

Agatha felt disappointed. Three people in this small village all said roughly the same thing. It looked as if there was no case and no case meant no more outings with Paul.

Paul got to his feet. “Thank you for your time. So you really believe there’s nothing in it? We thought someone might be trying to frighten her to death.”

“Her! My dear fellow, all the dragons of Gorth could not frighten that old hag.”

“What’s Gorth?” asked Agatha.

“It is a planet in my latest book. I would offer you a copy, but on the other hand, I feel people should buy my books and not expect free copies.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it,” said Agatha in all sincerity.

As they approached his MG, Paul said ruefully, “Nothing to investigate after all.”

Agatha looked at the parked car. “I’m afraid there is.”

“What?”

She pointed to the soft top of the car, which Paul had left up. Someone had sliced through it with a sharp knife. Paul gave an exclamation and opened the car door. “My CD player has gone.”

He looked wildly around. “Who could have done this?”

Agatha took out her mobile phone. “I’ll call the police.”

Bill Wong made a detour into the ops room on his way out of police headquarters in Mircester. He rather fancied the new blonde recruit called Haley. She was just taking a call. He heard her say, “Any units in the area of Hebberdon. Car-radio theft. Owner a Mr. Paul Chatterton.”

Bill stood deep in thought while she gave further instructions. Not so long ago, a policeman from the nearest village would have been sent, but with the government closing so many rural stations, calls went out to patrol cars. Chatterton. Now that was Agatha’s new neighbour and Hebberdon was that village where the old woman had been frightened by a ghost. So Agatha was investigating that business after all.

A patient policeman took down the details of the theft of Paul’s radio-cum-CD player. “We’ll do our best, sir,” he said, finally closing his notebook. “But in future, you should keep your car locked.”

“And what difference would that make?” demanded Paul angrily. “They assumed it was locked anyway and just sliced through the roof. Someone must have seen something. It’s such a small village.”

They turned and looked up the winding road and then down but nothing moved in the patchy sunlight. “Let’s try the pub,” suggested Agatha.

“Just leave the investigating to us,” said the policeman. “I have your phone number, Mr. Chatterton. We’ll let you know if we find anything.”

He stood there until they drove off.

“I feel sick,” said Paul. “I love this car.”

“Then you should take better care of it,” snapped Agatha.

“Are you always so insensitive and rude?”

They arrived back in Carsely in an angry silence. Before she got out of the car, Agatha tried to heal the breach. “Look, Paul, I’m sorry I made that crack about you taking better care of your car.”

But he sat at the wheel, staring straight ahead.

Agatha climbed out and stomped off into her cottage. Rats, she thought. I’ve blown it. She walked through to the kitchen and opened the back door and let her cats out into the garden. She made herself a cup of coffee and followed them out and sank down into the deck-chair. Now what should she do? To tell the truth, she admitted to herself, she had rather enjoyed stealing a march on the other women of the village by cruising around with Paul Chatterton. She probably wouldn’t have a chance to talk to him again. Now that there appeared to be no mystery to solve, he would probably take on another work contract.

The doorbell shrilled from the front of the house. She tried to struggle to her feet and ended up rolling the whole deck-chair to the side so that she fell out onto the grass. She hurried through the house. Please let it be Paul, please let it be Paul, went her mind. I’m sure it’s Paul. She threw open the door.

Bill Wong stood on the step.

Agatha’s face fell.

“Expecting someone else?” asked Bill.

“No, no. Come in. Another visit, and so soon! Come through to the garden. Coffee?”

“No, it’s a flying visit.”

They walked into the garden. “I’ll bring out a chair,” said Agatha. “Try the deck-chair,” she added, malicious in her disappointment. “It’s very comfortable.”

She carried out a hard kitchen chair. Bill settled himself in the deck-chair.

“I heard a report from Hebberdon that your neighbour’s car was broken into.”

“And you came all the way here just for that!”

“I wondered what you pair were up to. The only thing that would take you to Hebberdon, Agatha Raisin, is ghost-hunting.”

“Oh, well, you may as well hear it all. Okay, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I thought you wouldn’t want me to interfere.”

“Quite right. Anyway, what did you find out?”

“Nothing much. I made a fool of myself.”

His brown eyes smiled up at her from the depths of the deck-chair. “You? Never! What happened?”

“Paul persuaded Mrs. Witherspoon to let us spend the night. At first it was all very quiet and boring. Then this cold mist began to creep into the room. I ran upstairs to see if Mrs. Witherspoon was all right. There was this horrible sight with a green face and a long white gown. I ran screaming out of the house. Paul phoned me to say that the apparition had been Mrs. Witherspoon in her nightie with a face pack on. No wonder she looks so sour. You’re not supposed to sleep with a face pack on.”

Bill chortled with laughter and stroked Boswell, who had jumped onto his lap.

“Anyway,” Agatha went on, “we went there today to ask around. Mrs. Witherspoon doesn’t want to have anything to do with us. We were told by three of the neighbours that she was only doing it to get attention.”

“And you believe that?”

“I think that old ratbag would do anything to upset people.”

“Maybe. The police sat it out in that cottage a couple of nights but nothing happened. This cold mist…?”

“Probably carbon dioxide, dry ice; they use it on stage sometimes.”

“Well, that’s something. Didn’t you find that odd?”

“After what the neighbours say, I suppose she was playing tricks on us. The stuff ’s pretty easy to get, I suppose.”

The doorbell rang. “Excuse me,” said Agatha. This time, she did not expect it to be Paul, but it was the man himself who stood there.

“Oh, Paul,” said Agatha faintly. “I did say I was sorry.”

“It’s all right,” he said, his black eyes gleaming with excitement. “I’ve just had a call from the police. They’ve found my radio.”

“Come in. I’ve got a detective friend here.” She led the way through to the garden. “Bill, this is Paul Chatterton. Paul, Detective Sergeant Bill Wong.”

Paul sank down onto the grass beside Bill. “Yes, the police have just phoned. They found my car radio and CD player in a dry ditch beside where my car was parked.”

“That’s odd,” said Bill. “Maybe someone came along and whoever stole it just dropped it.”