“Expecting someone else?” asked Bill.
“No, no. Come in. Another visit, and so soon! Come through to the garden. Coffee?”
“No, it’s a flying visit.”
They walked into the garden. “I’ll bring out a chair,” said Agatha. “Try the deck-chair,” she added, malicious in her disappointment. “It’s very comfortable.”
She carried out a hard kitchen chair. Bill settled himself in the deck-chair.
“I heard a report from Hebberdon that your neighbour’s car was broken into.”
“And you came all the way here just for that!”
“I wondered what you pair were up to. The only thing that would take you to Hebberdon, Agatha Raisin, is ghost-hunting.”
“Oh, well, you may as well hear it all. Okay, I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, but I thought you wouldn’t want me to interfere.”
“Quite right. Anyway, what did you find out?”
“Nothing much. I made a fool of myself.”
His brown eyes smiled up at her from the depths of the deck-chair. “You? Never! What happened?”
“Paul persuaded Mrs. Witherspoon to let us spend the night. At first it was all very quiet and boring. Then this cold mist began to creep into the room. I ran upstairs to see if Mrs. Witherspoon was all right. There was this horrible sight with a green face and a long white gown. I ran screaming out of the house. Paul phoned me to say that the apparition had been Mrs. Witherspoon in her nightie with a face pack on. No wonder she looks so sour. You’re not supposed to sleep with a face pack on.”
Bill chortled with laughter and stroked Boswell, who had jumped onto his lap.
“Anyway,” Agatha went on, “we went there today to ask around. Mrs. Witherspoon doesn’t want to have anything to do with us. We were told by three of the neighbours that she was only doing it to get attention.”
“And you believe that?”
“I think that old ratbag would do anything to upset people.”
“Maybe. The police sat it out in that cottage a couple of nights but nothing happened. This cold mist…?”
“Probably carbon dioxide, dry ice; they use it on stage sometimes.”
“Well, that’s something. Didn’t you find that odd?”
“After what the neighbours say, I suppose she was playing tricks on us. The stuff ’s pretty easy to get, I suppose.”
The doorbell rang. “Excuse me,” said Agatha. This time, she did not expect it to be Paul, but it was the man himself who stood there.
“Oh, Paul,” said Agatha faintly. “I did say I was sorry.”
“It’s all right,” he said, his black eyes gleaming with excitement. “I’ve just had a call from the police. They’ve found my radio.”
“Come in. I’ve got a detective friend here.” She led the way through to the garden. “Bill, this is Paul Chatterton. Paul, Detective Sergeant Bill Wong.”
Paul sank down onto the grass beside Bill. “Yes, the police have just phoned. They found my car radio and CD player in a dry ditch beside where my car was parked.”
“That’s odd,” said Bill. “Maybe someone came along and whoever stole it just dropped it.”
“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.
Three
“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
