“I wonder when the funeral is,” said Paul. “I’d like to see who turns up for it. Now the daughter didn’t like her mother, so a call from us wouldn’t shock her or upset her. We can just say we’re friends of her mother and that we would like to pay our respects at the funeral.”
“We could do that. I’ll get the phone book.”
“Better if we call in person.”
“I know, but I’ll get the phone book and find out her address.”
Agatha came back after a few minutes. “I’ve written it down. She lives at Four Henry Street. I know Henry Street. It’s in a council estate at the far end of the village.”
“No time like the present. Let’s go.”
“I’d better change.”
“Pity,” he murmured, eyeing her legs.
“Are you a flirt, Paul?”
“Just an appreciative comment.”
Agatha went upstairs and changed into a long summer skirt, remembered him looking at her legs and changed into a short one, thought that might look as if she was giving him a come-on, and changed back into the long skirt, worried that it looked frumpy, and put on a blue linen dress with a medium-length skirt, redid her make-up and finally went downstairs.
“You were ages,” complained Paul. “I nearly went up to look for you.”
“I’m here now,” saw Agatha, reddening slightly under his gaze.
“So let’s go.”
Most of the council houses on the estate had been bought by the residents from the government, and to advertise their new homeowning status, some had added “picture” windows and fake Georgian porticoes. Number Four, unlike its neighbours, had a neglected air. The garden was weedy and the front door and window frames were badly in need of fresh paint.
Paul pressed the bell and then knocked on the door. “I don’t think the bell works,” he said.
The door was opened by a large, bony woman with grey hair. A strong smell of whisky emanated from her and her faded blue eyes were red-rimmed and watery.
“What?” she demanded.
“We were friends of your late mother,” said Paul. “We wondered whether you could tell us the time of the funeral so we could pay our last respects.”
“I don’t know. Ask Harry. He’s in charge of arrangements.”
“Who’s Harry?”
“My brother.”
“Where can we find him?” asked Agatha.
“Oh, come in. I’ll write the address for you. He’s over in Mircester. I haven’t seen him in years.”
They followed her into a dingy living-room. Agatha’s sharp eyes noticed a half-empty whisky bottle and glass behind a chair. Carol went over to a table by the window and began to search among a pile of papers until she found a notebook. “Here it is,” she said, opening it. “ Number Eight-four Paxton Lane.” She scribbled the address on a piece of paper and handed it to Paul.
“When did you last see your mother?” asked Agatha.
“You mean before I found her dead?”
“Yes.”
“The Saturday before that. I always went over on Saturdays, God knows why. All I ever got was a mouthful of abuse. Did Harry go near her? You bet your life he didn’t. Didn’t give a monkey’s for her and yet she leaves it all to him.”
Carol began to cry, tears rolling down her face and cutting channels in the thick make-up she was wearing. They waited in awkward silence until she finally blew her nose and wiped her eyes. “Mother never forgave me for leaving,” she said. “Wanted me to stay there like a slave. Well, I showed her!”
“Were you ever bothered by the hauntings your mother was complaining about?” asked Agatha.
“No. I think she dreamed all that up to try to get me to go back and live there. I feel sick about the whole thing. I’ve got to go to the inquest.”
“When’s that?” asked Paul.
“Mircester Coroner’s Court tomorrow at ten in the morning. How come you’re friends of hers? She didn’t have any friends.”
“We called on her to help lay her ghosts,” said Paul.
“Then you’re fools. There weren’t any ghosts. She was my mother, God rest her soul, but she was a nasty old bitch.”
“So that’s where we’ll go tomorrow,” said Paul. “It’ll be interesting to see who turns up at the coroner’s court.”
“Aren’t we going to see this Harry?”
“He’ll be there tomorrow.”
“But we might not get a chance to speak to him,” said Agatha.
“Maybe he’ll be at work.”
“With his mother so recently dead? Oh, if you’ve got better things to do…”
“Don’t sulk. Let’s go.”
“He’s a lot better off than his sister to live here,” commented Paul when Agatha parked in Paxton Lane. “These little gems of houses are all seventeenth-century.”
“I wish we’d asked her what he worked at, just in case he isn’t at home,” said Agatha.
“Too late now. Come on.”
There were no gardens in front of the houses, only small paved areas, but all were decorated with bright tubs of flowers.
Paul rang the bell. A curtain twitched at the side of the door and then after a few moments, it was opened.
“Mr. Harry Witherspoon?” asked Paul.
“Yes, who are you?”
“We are friends of your mother’s. We would like to pay our respects at the funeral.”
He was surprisingly short in stature, compared to his tall mother and sister. He had thick grey hair and a round face crisscrossed with red veins. A small toothbrush moustache decorated his upper lip. His grey eyes were wary.
“The funeral’s on Friday,” he said. “Saint Edmund’s in Towdey. At eleven o’clock. No flowers.”
Agatha remembered that Towdey was a village near Hebberdon. The door began to close.
“Might we have a word with you?” asked Paul.
The door reluctantly opened. “Come in, but just for a minute. Have to get round to the shop.”
“And what shop’s that?” asked Agatha as they followed him in.
“Mircester Antiques in the Abbey Square.”
The parlour into which he led them was furnished with various pieces of antique furniture. Paul recognized a pretty George III table and a Sheraton cabinet.
Harry did not ask them to sit down. He took a position in front of a marble mantelpiece. “Who exactly are you?”
“I am Paul Chatterton,” said Paul, “and this is Agatha Raisin. We visited your mother to see if we could catch the ghost for her.”
“Oh, that nonsense. She was old, you know, and I think her mind was going. Her death was a mercy in a way.”
“When did you last see her?”
“I dunno. Might have been Christmas.”
“That long,” exclaimed Agatha.
