The Agatha Raisin Series, page 231
“I forgot to tell you. Sometimes I prefer tea, and this is one of those sometimes.”
Agatha threw him a filthy look and went through to the kitchen and picked up the huge Thermos. At least all the coffee she had made should keep her awake.
“We’ll take my car,” she said firmly. The evening was chilly and she did not relish the idea of bucketing through the lanes in Paul Chatterton’s MG.
Outside, Paul loaded a picnic basket into Agatha’s new Audi. “You’ve brought a lot,” commented Agatha.
“I haven’t eaten yet. Have you?”
“I had something,” lied Agatha. Somehow she felt guilty about having wasted so much time changing in and out of clothes and putting on full make-up with mascara and eye shadow and then wiping it off and replacing it with a lighter maquillage. Her stomach gave a rumble and she added quickly, “But only a sandwich.”
“Just as well I’ve got enough for two,” he said.
Agatha drove off, wondering how many curtains in the village were twitching as they cruised past.
“Isn’t this exciting?” said Paul.
“Yes,” said Agatha doubtfully. She didn’t believe in ghosts. Old houses, such as her own and Mrs. Witherspoon’s, were full of creaks and noises. Ahead of her lay a sleepless night with a man she didn’t really know.
They arrived at Ivy Cottage and unloaded the car. Mrs. Witherspoon answered the door wearing a voluminous scarlet dressing-gown which clashed with her red hair.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said ungraciously. “Go into the living-room and settle yourselves. If you need the bathroom, it’s the door off the landing. Otherwise, don’t bother me, and don’t wake me. I’m a light sleeper.”
“You’d think she didn’t want us to find her ghost,” grumbled Agatha after Mrs. Witherspoon had retreated upstairs.
“Never mind. I’m going to eat.” Paul opened up the hamper, took out several plastic boxes, and plates and knives and forks. “There’s cold chicken, salad and French bread,” he said cheerfully. “Help yourself, and then we’ll have a game of Scrabble.”
Agatha ate gratefully and accompanied her plate of food with several cups of strong black coffee. Paul had brought a Thermos of tea.
“So what brought you to Carsely?” asked Agatha.
“A desire for somewhere pretty and quiet. I usually live in London but it’s become so noisy and crowded and dirty. Besides, Carsely is only an hour and a half away, so it’s not exactly isolated.”
“Have you always worked with computers?”
“Yes, I was lucky. I started right after university. I got in pretty much on the ground floor.”
“What exactly do you do?”
“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.”
“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.
