“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.
“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!”
With his arm around her waist, supporting her, he hustled her through the village and out to where her car was parked. He took the keys from her and unlocked the doors. Despite her drunkenness, Agatha noticed he had had the forethought to bring his bag along with him. “I’ll drive,” he said.
He drove off, not accelerating until he was well away from the village. “I shouldn’t have drunk so much,” mourned Agatha.
“My fault,” he said. “I’m sure there was someone there.”
“Could have been a fox or a sheep.”
“Maybe. Get some sleep and we’ll try again another time.”
“So you think he’s lying about being married?” asked Mrs. Bloxby the next day. “Why should you think that?”
Agatha shuffled her feet like a schoolgirl. “Well, he kissed me.”
“Oh, Mrs. Raisin. Really. You said you had both been drinking. The fact that he is married does not necessarily stop him from making a pass at you. Haven’t married men ever made a pass at you before? You must have attended a lot of boozy functions during your PR work.”
“But that was London and this is a village!”
“And when did village life ever bestow sainthood on a married man? Wishful thinking can be very dangerous. I mean, before you left him, did he kiss you again or say any endearments?”
“No-o. But we’d both had a fright, what with me knocking the dustbin over. Anyway, where is this mysterious wife?”
“Probably in Spain, just like he said.”
“You do spoil things,” remarked Agatha crossly.
“I care for you. I don’t want to see you getting hurt.”
Agatha sighed. “You can’t fall in love without getting hurt.”
“Now, listen to me, falling in love is an addiction for you. Your trouble is you do not really like yourself half enough. So the minute you find your brain empty of some obsession or other, you race around trying to fill the gap.”
“Thank you for sharing that with me, Oprah Winfrey.”
“I mean it. Oh, never mind. I didn’t mean to upset you. I’ll say a prayer for you.”
Agatha shifted awkwardly in her chair, suddenly embarrassed. Mrs. Blockley hardly ever pulled what Agatha privately thought of as “the God bit” on her.
I mean, saying that she was trying to fall in love. Ridiculous!
But when Agatha left the vicar’s wife, she could feel the first chill wind of reality creeping into her brain. Better to forget about that kiss.
As the day dragged on, she began to wonder about his marriage. She hadn’t been inside his cottage. Maybe he had photographs of the two of them. Maybe there were some Spanish things lying around. She could call on him. Why not? He had said they would try again another time.
She fed her cats and made herself a couple of sandwiches for lunch and then headed for the cottage next door.
Paul looked surprised to see her, but said, “Come in. Have you any more news?”
“Nothing. I wondered when you wanted to try again.”
“I don’t know,” he said uneasily. “Want a coffee?”
“Please.”
He went through to the kitchen. Agatha’s eyes roamed around the room. No photographs. Crowded bookshelves, nice leather winged armchair, chintzy sofa and easy chair, a computer desk with computer and printer, a pleasant oil painting depicting a rural scene over the fireplace and a faint smell of tobacco smoke. James would have hated that, thought Agatha. He never liked her smoking in the house. Agatha felt herself relax. It was a bachelor’s house, of that she was sure.
Paul came back with a tray with mugs of coffee. “I know you like yours black,” he said. “I can’t talk very long. I’m waiting for a phone call.”
“About work?”
Hesitation. Then he said, “Yes, something like that.”
Uneasy silence while Agatha sipped her coffee and tried to think of something to say.
The phone rang. “Do you mind…?” said Paul.
Agatha stood up. “See you soon,” she said.
She left, feeling empty. Mrs. Bloxby was right. That kiss had meant nothing. Still, there was nothing in that cottage living-room to show he was married.
For the next two days, Agatha mooched around, feeling time lie heavy on her hands. She had seen nothing of Paul. She had tried to phone him, but there had been no reply. On Saturday evening she set out for the vicarage to attend a meeting of the ladies’ society, glad of something to do.
Mrs. Bloxby opened the proceedings, Miss Simms read the minutes, and Agatha went off into a dream where Paul Chatterton was telling her he loved her and only jerked out of it when she realized she was being addressed. “The catering?” Mrs. Bloxby was saying, looking directly at her. “Fund-raising for the Alzheimer’s Society?”
“What? asked Agatha.
“You should be interested,” sniggered Mrs. Davenport, implying that Agatha showed signs of having the disease.
“I’m sorry,” said Agatha. “My thoughts were elsewhere.”
“We’re joining forces with the Ancombe Ladies’ Society on June tenth to raise money. It’s to be a sale of work. We need someone to do the catering.”
“Okay, I’ll do it,” said Agatha, thanking her stars that she had enough money to hire a good catering firm.
“Excellent!” The meeting moved on and Agatha relapsed back into her dreams.
During the tea and cakes afterwards, Agatha found herself accosted by Mrs. Davenport. “A word of warning,” said Mrs. Davenport. “About Mr. Chatterton. He is married, you know.”
“That’s what he says. But it’s only to keep the old frumps of the village from bothering him,” said Agatha.
“Like you?” said Mrs. Davenport sweetly and moved away.
Agatha eyed her narrowly. Mrs. Davenport had gone back to wolfing the delicate little ham sandwiches supplied by Mrs. Bloxby. Agatha slid off into the kitchen, where more sandwiches and cakes were laid out on the kitchen table, ready to be brought into the drawing-room. Agatha opened the fridge and searched around until she found a bunch of hot chilli peppers. She quickly sliced them up and put them on as many of the little sandwiches as she could and then picked up the plate and carried it back into the drawing-room.
“You shouldn’t have bothered,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I made too many. They’ve all started on the cakes.”
“A pity to waste such good food,” said Mrs. Davenport, sailing up, her massive bust making her look like the figurehead on a ship. “I’ll take a few.” She took about six onto her plate.
Agatha slid to the back of the crowd. There were two remaining chilli pepper sandwiches. She popped them in her handbag.
Mrs. Bloxby swung round in alarm as Mrs. Davenport, red in the face, gasping and spluttering, staggered about the room. The plate with most of the sandwiches still uneaten had fallen to the floor. One of them had broken open, revealing the chilli peppers. While the other women rushed to get Mrs. Davenport a glass of water, Mrs. Bloxby looked around the room for Agatha Raisin.
But there was no sign of her.
Agatha decided on Sunday that it was time she attended church again. The fact that Paul might be there, she told herself, was nothing to do with it. She owed it to Mrs. Bloxby to put in the occasional appearance.
The day was cloudy and overcast, threatening rain. She put on a soft wool suit and her Burberry over it, collected her umbrella and made her way to the church where the bells were pealing out under the lowering sky.
The church was full. Although the government kept saying the foot-and-mouth plague was under control, pyres of dead animals still smoked and smouldered across Britain, and, as usual in times of adversity, people went to church.
Agatha managed to squeeze into a pew near the front and then regretted it. If she had sat at the back of the church, she would have been able to see if Paul was at the service.
She kept twisting her head around until she had to give up because Mrs. Davenport was in the pew directly behind her and looking daggers.
So while most of the congregation sang the hymns, said the prayers and listened to the sermon, Agatha Raisin wrapped herself in a dream of announcing her engagement to Paul Chatteron in the Times, where with luck James Lacey would read it.
Finally it was over. Agatha got to her feet. “I want a word with you,” boomed Mrs. Davenport.
“Not now,” hissed Agatha, pushing her way down the aisle. She could see Paul’s white head of hair ahead of her.
Outside the church, she stood suddenly stock-still. For Paul was standing talking to the vicar, his arm around the waist of a small pretty woman with long dark hair.
Realizing that people were pushing to get past her, Agatha moved reluctantly forwards. It couldn’t be. Could it?
She suddenly didn’t want to know. A crowd had gathered around Paul and the woman with him. Agatha tried to edge past but Paul, taller than the people surrounding him, saw her and shouted, “Agatha!”
The crowd parted. Agatha walked slowly forward. “Agatha, my wife, Juanita. Darling, this is my neighbour, Agatha Raisin.”
“How nice to meet you,” said Agatha with a crocodile smile. Juanita was young, possibly in her early thirties, and that was young to the likes of Agatha Raisin. Her golden skin glowed with health and her wide brown eyes were fringed with thick lashes. The only consolation-and it wasn’t much-that Agatha could notice was that her long black hair was thick and coarse. She was wearing a neat little black suit which emphasized her generous bust and her trim waist.
“Are you staying long?” asked Agatha.
Juanita laughed and said with a pretty accent, “I think it is time I spent as long as possible with my husband.”
“I’m just next door,” Agatha forced herself to say. “Call on me if I can be of any help in any way.”
Juanita thanked her and Agatha made her way home, legs as heavy as lead, mind snapping, “You old fool.”
She was blindly fumbling in her handbag for her house keys when a voice behind her said, “You look awful. Been to a funeral?”
Agatha swung round. Roy Silver, Agatha’s ex-employee who now worked for a big public relations firm in the City, stood there.
“ Roy!” exclaimed Agatha, more delighted to see him than she had ever been before. “Come on a visit?”
“Just for the day.” He gave her a peck on the cheek.
“Well, come in and make yourself at home.”
Roy followed her into the kitchen. “I should use the living-room more often,” said Agatha. “I’ll just feed the cats and we’ll go through and have a drink. You’re looking well.”
Roy did indeed look marginally better than his usual weedy self. He was wearing a sweater, checked shirt and jeans and his limp hair had recently had a conventional cut. “In fact,” said Agatha, bending down and filling two feed bowls, “you look quite respectable. No studs, no earrings. Is this the new image?”
“I’m handling a baby food account and they’re very square.”
“And no raincoat. Did you drive down?”
“Yes, the roads aren’t too bad on Sundays. How’s foot-and-mouth?”
“Hanging on.” Agatha straightened up. “Come through. What’ll you have?”
“A G and T, thanks. Small, I’m driving.”
“Okay, sit down and I’ll get some ice.
“So,” said Agatha after she had fixed their drinks, “what brings you?”
“I’ll be honest with you,” said Roy.
“Makes a change.”
“Still taking on free-lance work?”
“From time to time. What have you got?”
“You know Dunster and Braggs?”
“The chain store, yes. Everyone knows them.”
“They’re launching a new line, Youth Fashion. Boss wants your ideas.”
“I know what Youth Fashion means,” said Agatha gloomily. “Same as Mr. Harry clothes. Cheap clothes made out of T-shirt material and all of it made in the sweat-shops of Taiwan.”
“We’d pay well. He wants you to start as soon as you can.”
“If you wait until I pack a suitcase, you can drive me up to London.”
Roy looked at her in surprise. “I never thought it would be this easy. What gives?”
“Just bored, that’s all.”
“No murders?”
“Not one. Oh, there was this house that was supposed to be haunted, but it turned out to be just some old lady trying to get attention. I’ll go and pack.”
Agatha was gone for a month, taking her cats with her this time. Paul Chatterton landed a short contract with a firm in Milton Keynes, which meant he had to leave early in the morning and did not return until late in the evening. Mrs. Bloxby called on Juanita as part of her parish duties and found the lady highly discontented.
“It’s so boring here,” was Juanita’s complaint. “I want to go back to Madrid. Paul could get work there. I should have married someone nearer my own age and a Spaniard. That’s what my mother said. If only I’d listened to her.”
“Mr. Chatterton will soon have finished his contract,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “and then he’ll be able to take you about. Maybe you could go to London for a visit.”
“I don’t want to go to London,” said Juanita. “I want to go to Madrid.”
Outside, the rain was drumming down, making puddles in the grass. “It’s sunny in Madrid.”
In vain did Mrs. Bloxby try to rope her in to take over the catering duties that Agatha Raisin had so cavalierly forgotten about. All Juanita would say was that it was boring.
After three weeks, she arrived at the vicarage carrying her suitcase and asked for a lift to the station. Mrs. Bloxby pleaded with her to at least stay until Paul came home that evening. Juanita said stubbornly that she had made up her mind. If Paul wanted her, he knew where to find her.
So Mrs. Bloxby drove her to the station and waved goodbye to her as she boarded the London train.
Now Mrs. Raisin’s dreams will start up again, thought Mrs. Bloxby crossly. I only hope Mr. Chatterton decides to follow his wife.
But when she spoke to Paul that evening, he heard her in silence, looking angry and resigned.
“Why don’t you go after her?” suggested Mrs. Bloxby.
“My wife insists on living with her mother and three brothers. We had a flat of our own in Madrid for four weeks after we were married and then we moved to London. She would not settle and kept making excuses to go home. At first I kept going over there, but I could not get her to move out of the family home again. She’s thirty-two and yet they all treat her like a child and so that’s the way she behaves. The last time she said she had heard the English countryside was pretty and why didn’t we live there? So I bought this cottage, but this is the result. Damn women. Where’s Agatha, by the way?”
“Working in London.”
“I might be going up there for a day. Know where’s she’s staying?”
“No,” lied the vicar’s wife and silently asked God to forgive her. Agatha had phoned her with the address of the service flat she would be staying in.
Agatha was happy to be back. Her conscience, never usually very active, had nonetheless continued to jab her over promoting clothes which were shoddy and badly designed. Summer had arrived at last and the taxi bearing her home from Moreton-in-Marsh station cruised down under the arches of green trees which leaned over the Carsely road.
After she had released the cats from their travelling boxes into the sunshine of the garden, she took a deep breath of sweet air and then went indoors to unpack.
At least the time in London had got Paul Chatterton firmly out of her head. Juanita might be fun to know, a change anyway from nasty trouts like Mrs. Davenport.
The expensive block of service flats she had been staying in-expensive mainly because they allowed pets-had boasted a gym and Agatha had made good use of it. Her waist was trim and her stomach flat-well, nearly. She changed into a pair of sky-blue shorts and a blue-and-white gingham blouse and walked along to the post office-cum-general stores to buy groceries.
She was paying for the groceries when she noticed a bundle of local papers on the counter. The headline on the top one said: OWNER OF HAUNTED HOUSE FOUND DEAD. Agatha bought a copy and hurried home with it. She stacked away her purchases and settled down at the kitchen table to read the story.
Mrs. Witherspoon had been found by her daughter lying at the bottom of the stairs with her neck broken. Daughter Carol Witherspoon, aged sixty-seven, of Holm Cottage, Ancombe, said that she had not heard from her mother and became worried because her mother usually phoned her every Friday. She had let herself into her mother’s house with her key and had found her dead. Mrs. Witherspoon had reported to the police on several occasions that her home was haunted. Agatha pushed the paper away and sat deep in thought. The staircase, she remembered, had been carpeted, and the stairs themselves, shallow.
Of course something or someone might have frightened Mrs. Witherspoon so much that she had lost her footing. Even so, how did she manage to break her neck? She had shown no signs of suffering from brittle-bone disease. Her back had been ramrod-straight.
The doorbell rang. Agatha went and opened the door and looked up into Paul Chatterton’s black eyes. “Oh, it’s you,” she said weakly. “Come in.” She peered round him. “Where’s your wife?”
“Gone back to Spain.”
“Oh.” Agatha walked ahead of him into the kitchen. He noticed idly that she had long smooth legs, not a varicose vein in sight.
“You’ve lost weight,” he said.
“There was a gym at the flats I was staying at. I used it as much as possible. Coffee?”
“You’ve forgotten. Tea, please.”
Agatha plugged in the kettle. “Would you do me a favour, Paul? Just before I left I bought four decent garden chairs. They’re stacked at the shed in the bottom of the garden. Here’s the key. Could you bring out two of them?”
“Sure.” He took the key and headed off out into the garden to a rapturous welcome from the cats.
Agatha made tea for him and coffee for herself and carried both into the garden to where Paul had set up two garden chairs with comfortable cushioned seats and backs.
“Did you have time to read about Mrs. Witherspoon?” he asked. “I find it all very odd.”
“So do I,” said Agatha, suddenly happy. “What are we going to do about it?”