M Beaton: Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

“Or Mrs. Witherspoon, anxious for more attention, did it herself,” said Agatha.

“Come on, Agatha,” protested Bill. “She’s an old lady!”

“A very fit old lady and very strong,” said Agatha.

“Anyway,” said Paul, “I’m going over to Mircester to identify it and pick it up. Feel like coming?”

Bill noticed the way Agatha’s face lit up, and his heart sank. Paul was a very attractive man. Bill didn’t want to see Agatha getting hurt again.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “Let’s finish talking about this haunted-house business.” Bill’s almond-shaped eyes gleaned. “Was there any more mist?”

“No, none at all.”

“Did you search around? Any canisters?”

“Nothing.”

“Any wet patches on the floor outside the room where you were sitting?”

“I didn’t look. Why?”

“Dry ice does not really need to be wet with water to give off a visible vapour; it will freeze water vapour in the air near it, producing visible vapour all by itself. However, if you add water, it works at an accelerated rate and you’ll get a lot more mist.”

“So you think there might be something in this?” asked Paul.

“Probably not. Funnily enough, the police on both occasions came to the conclusion that she wanted attention. I’ve got to go.” To Agatha’s irritation, he rose out of the deck-chair in one fluid movement. Bill was young, in his late twenties. Oh, God, her inability to get out of that hell-chair must be the first creaking signs of age.

Agatha walked him to the door. “Be careful,” whispered Bill. “Of what? Ghosts?”

“Of falling in love again.”

“I won’t. He says he’s married.”

“Let’s hope that damps your ardour.”

Agatha retreated into the house. “Going to the loo,” she shouted. She nipped quickly up the stairs and put on fresh make-up.

“We’ll take my car,” she said to Paul when she made her appearance in the garden again.

“Fine.” He rose to his feet. “I think I’ll buy myself an old banger for driving around. I’d better take care of my MG in future.”

Honestly, thought Agatha, I bet he’s even got a name for the damn thing.

“I would have thought they’d want to keep your CD player for forensics,” said Agatha as she drove competently along the Fosseway to Mircester.

“It’s a minor crime,” said Paul. “They won’t bother. I wonder if Mrs. Witherspoon is schizophrenic.”

“What makes you say that?”

“In some of the initial newspaper reports it referred to crashes and bumps and things falling down. Poltergeists are people with the knack of telekinesis. They can move objects with their minds. Usually it’s a three-year-old or someone in their forties, don’t ask me why. It’s something to do with the pineal gland. But schizophrenics also can manage it.”

“See any pills in her bathroom cabinet to do with that?”

“Nothing but diuretics, pain-killers and high blood pressure pills.”

“Oh, well,” said Agatha, “case closed. It seems as if she only wanted to draw attention to herself.”

“I don’t know about that,” he said slowly. “She’s a crusty old lady but I wouldn’t have thought she would have needed the attention. She struck me as being pretty self-contained.”

They both fell silent. Agatha thought, should I ask him out for dinner? A nice candle-lit dinner? Eyes meeting across the table. “Agatha, I would like us to be more than friends. Dear Agatha…”

“Are you listening to me?” Paul’s voice suddenly cut through her dreams.

“No, I wasn’t. What did you say?”

“About this evening…”

Ah, two minds with but one single thought.

“What about this evening?” asked Agatha in a husky voice.

“If you’re up to it…Oh, I don’t know…”

“I’m up to anything,” said Agatha, her hands suddenly clammy on the wheel. When did she last shave her legs? Did her toenails need cutting?

“I thought it might be an idea to sit outside the cottage tonight and watch it. I mean, if someone else other than Mrs. Witherspoon is behind these hauntings, we might see someone hanging about the house. In fact, it might be exciting. Be a good chap and say yes.”

“I am not a chap,” said Agatha, irritable in her disappointment. Why did fellows never speak the script one had written for them?

But going on with the investigation meant going on in his company. “All right,” she said.

“Grand. We’ll pick up the machine and then get a bite to eat. My treat.”

Agatha’s spirits, which had plummeted, soared up again.

While Paul was led off to identify his CD player and sign the relevant papers, Agatha asked the sergeant at the desk whether she could use the loo. Once inside a white-tiled institutionalized toilet smelling strongly of disinfectant, she opened her capacious handbag and got to work, cleaning off the makeup she had so recently applied and adding a new coat of foundation, powder, blusher and eye shadow. Then she sprayed herself liberally with Ysatis and returned to the reception area. Where would he take her for dinner? Surely somewhere nice.

Paul finally reappeared, accompanied by Bill Wong and a small blonde policewoman whom Bill introduced as Haley. “I’ve asked them to join us,” said Paul cheerfully. “Bill says the Dog and Duck does a good meal.”

Agatha stifled a sigh. Bill’s taste in food was appalling.

The Dog and Duck was one of those pubs that the modern taste for smart bistro-style hostelries had passed by. A snooker table dominated one end of the room. Fruit machines flashed and blinked in the dim smoky light. The bar was crowded with plain-clothed and uniformed police and CID. A menu was chalked up on a board. Agatha gloomily read it. Lasagne and chips, curry and chips, egg, sausage and chips, hamburger and chips, fish and chips, and quiche and chips. So much for her idea of a romantic evening.

Bill started to ask Agatha how various people in Carsely were getting on and when she had finished replying, she noticed, with extreme irritation, that Paul appeared to be flirting with Haley, who was giggling appreciatively.

Haley had a round face and narrow blue eyes. Her hair was what Agatha privately described as “cheap blonde”-but what man had ever been put off by that?

“Paul’s ever so clever,” said Haley, “He’s promised to come round to my place one day and help me with my computer.”

“Oh,” said Agatha sharply. “I thought all you police were computer-literate these days.”

“I only know the basics,” said Haley. She pulled out a notebook. “Here! Let me write down my address and phone number for you.”

Agatha and Bill watched her gloomily as she wrote down her details and handed them to Paul.

“How old are you?” asked Agatha abruptly.

“Twenty-seven,” said Haley. She giggled again. “Ever so old.”

“You’ve a long way to go before you are as old as either me or Paul,” said Agatha sweetly.

“Terrible for a woman to be old,” said Haley. “I mean, doesn’t matter so much for men. I fancy older men. Here’s our food.”

The food was as awful as Agatha had thought it would be. She had ordered fish and chips, thinking that even this pub could not muck up such a simple dish, but the fish was thin and dry and the chips of the frozen variety.

She watched with horrified fascination as Haley dredged her lasagne in ketchup and began eating with every sign of relish.

Bill and Paul had both ordered sausage, egg and chips.

Haley ate steadily and then leaned back with a sigh of satisfaction. “That was good.”

She surveyed Agatha. “I hear you’re a bit of a Miss Marple.”

A vision of Miss Marple as played on television rose before Agatha’s eyes and she began to feel ancient.