“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
