M Beaton: Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House

“I have done some detective work, yes,” she said.

“Anything at the moment?”

“Came to nothing,” said Agatha, pushing her plate away. “We were supposed to be investigating a haunted house.”

Haley clutched Paul’s arm and let out a shriek. “I’m ever so afraid of ghosts.”

“Have you seen one?” asked Paul, smiling down at her.

“No, but my gran has. She was up in this old hotel in the Highlands of Scotland once and she woke up during the night and saw a man standing at the foot of her bed.”

“Was he wearing a kilt?” asked Agatha cynically.

“Yes, he was. And he looked ever so fierce. My gran, she got the Gideon Bible out of the drawer beside the bed and held it up and he disappeared.”

“Gosh!” said Paul. “How scary. I remember hearing a story about…”

He proceeded to relate several ghost stories while Haley alternately giggled and shrieked and clutched his arm more tightly.

Agatha was relieved when Bill finally looked at his watch and said, “I have to go.”

“I don’t,” said Haley, and Agatha’s heart sank.

“But we do,” said Paul firmly. “It’s been a delight to meet you, Haley.”

“You will let me know when you’re coming round?”

“Absolutely.”

“What a disgusting meal,” said Agatha as they drove off.

“Yes, wasn’t it? Anyway, we’d better get back and prepare for our night watch.”

“What time do you want to set out?”

“About midnight.”

“Do you really think we should?”

“Why not? Let’s have a go anyway. Is Haley Bill’s girlfriend?” asked Paul.

“Not yet, and possibly not ever after the way you went on tonight.”

“Oho! Jealous, Agatha?”

“Don’t flatter yourself, Humbert Humbert. You didn’t give Bill a chance.”

“She didn’t give Bill a chance. Don’t let’s quarrel. I think we should park outside the village and wear dark clothes.”

Agatha looked at her watch as they neared Carsely. Eleven o’clock. Just time to get something to eat to make up for having barely touched the fish and chips, and then get changed.

She resolved not to torture herself anymore by trying on outfit after outfit. It was time to grow up and move on. Dressing for men meant never feeling secure, never feeling comfortable. She had eaten a microwaved curry, without ever reflecting on the irony of a woman such as herself who could sneer at pub food and yet hardly ever prepared a decent meal. She put on a pair of black trousers, a black sweater, flat shoes and the minimum of make-up and was ready when Paul rang her doorbell.

Paul thought briefly that there was something rather sexy about grumpy Agatha. Her skin was good and her mouth generous, her bust and hips very beddable, but then he concentrated on the night ahead.

Fortunately it was quite warm and the sky above was clear. Like Agatha, he was dressed in black trousers and a black sweater. “I hope you’ve got something for your head,” she said. “That white hair of yours shines out like a beacon.”

“I’ve got something. We’ll need to use your car again. I’m taking mine to the garage tomorrow. I’ve ordered another top for it, but I’ll also buy something to run around in, the type of old banger I won’t care about too much if it gets vandalized.”

“You should get a security alarm put in that old MG of yours,” said Agatha.

“I probably will.” He put a heavy bag in the back seat of Agatha’s car and then got into the passenger seat at the front.

“What’s in the bag?” asked Agatha.

“Some refreshments and a pair of binoculars. It’s going to be a long night.”

As they approached Hebberdon, Paul said, “Slow down. There’s a good place. That farm entrance under the trees. Reverse into it.”

Agatha went in, nose-first. “Don’t you know women drive forwards, not backwards?”

They got out of the car. “We have to walk through the village to get to her place,” said Paul. “But I don’t think anyone will be awake.”

That did seem to be the case as they walked past silent dark cottages. Even the pub showed no signs of life. “There’s a field opposite with a pretty high hedge,” said Paul. “We’ll settle down there and watch.”

They squeezed through a gap in the hedge. “Ground should be dry,” said Paul. “Look, if we settle down here, there’s a big hole in the branches right opposite. We’ll get a good view.”

Mrs. Witherspoon’s cottage was all dark. Somewhere an owl hooted. Paul opened up his bag and took out a bottle of malt whisky and two glasses. “Drink?”

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” said Agatha. “I’m driving.”

“The effects will have worn off before morning. Go on.”

“All right, just a small one. Have you ever noticed,” said Agatha, “how many people urge one to drink? I mean, it’s always drink. Say you don’t like fish. No one says, ‘Oh, go on, have one. Why not half a fish? Go on, why not a fish finger?’ No, it’s always drink, like drug pushers.”

“You only had to say no,” said Paul mildly. “Cigarette?” He pulled out a packet.

“You smoke!” exclaimed Agatha with all the delight of one member of an endangered species meeting another.

“From time to time.”

They sipped their whisky and smoked and stared across at the cottage. Nothing moved, nothing happened.

“What happened to your marriage?” asked Paul, filling up her glass again.

“It just fell apart. James was a genuine copper-bottomed bachelor. We didn’t get on. What about your marriage to the supposed Juanita?”

“Well, she’s in Spain a lot and I’m here, but we get on pretty well when we meet up.”

“Children?”

“No. You?”

“No, none.”

“So what brought you to the Cotswolds?”

“It’s pretty,” said Agatha. “It’s pretty everywhere you look. London ’s not the same. It’s getting violent and dirty. Of course, I notice all the faults when I go up on business but maybe if I still lived there, I wouldn’t pay all that much attention to what’s wrong. Sometimes Carsely seems a bit boring and I get restless, but something always happens. There’s murder and mayhem here, just like in the cities.”

“And what about men?”

“What about them?”

“I mean, do you have a lover?”

“No,” said Agatha curtly.

“And yet your reputation in the village seems to be that of a sort of Cotswolds femme fatale.”

“There are women in Carsely who’ve got nothing else to do but invent stories about me. I’m just a stuffy middle-aged woman.”

He filled her glass again. Agatha felt dimly that she ought to protest but the whisky was soothing and warming and she had always maintained she had a strong head for drink.

“I wouldn’t call you stuffy.” He had put on a black woollen cap to eclipse his white hair. His black eyes glinted in the darkness. He leaned forward and surprised her by planting a warm kiss on her lips. Agatha gazed up at him, mesmerized. He bent his head towards her again. A twig snapped.

He straightened up and whispered, “That came from across the road.”

Agatha tried to get up and stumbled and fell. Her head swam. “Shhh!” He deftly put bottle, glasses and binoculars back in his bag. He pulled her to her feet. “Let’s get over there.”

He nimbly eased through the gap in the hedge. Agatha weaved after him. There was a metal dustbin outside the cottage gate, ready for collection. Agatha stumbled into it and the whole thing rolled over with a crash.

“Now that’s torn it.” Paul seized hold of her as a light went on in an upstairs window. “Run!”