“It’s possible. As I say, I am not on the case. So whoever was frightening Mrs. Witherspoon and then murdered her must have got into the house by way of the secret passage,” said Bill.
“If they’re both one and the same person,” said Agatha.
Bill eyed her narrowly. He knew that in the past, just when Agatha seemed to be bumbling about in an infuriating way, she had been capable, nonetheless, of sudden flashes of intuition.
“I don’t know,” said Agatha slowly. She took a mug of coffee for herself, lit a cigarette and sat down again. “I think the murder was quite clever. If Mrs. Witherspoon hadn’t been so hale and hearty, it might well have been assumed it was an accident. When someone’s very old, people don’t inquire too closely into the reason for the death. If the doctor had signed the death certificate, the murderer would have been safe. Somehow, the haunting strikes me as a bit, well…childish. By the way, surely the police went over the house very carefully. Why didn’t they look for a secret passage?”
“Because it didn’t cross their minds. Runcorn is still sure Harry did it, so he hasn’t even been looking in any other direction.”
Bill finished his coffee and got to his feet. “Be careful, you two. I do hope you had nothing to do with this.”
“As if we would,” said Agatha and saw him out
She hurried back to the kitchen. “That tea-gown and wig. I’d better get them back to Mrs. Bloxby.”
“And the vacuum. I’ll throw it away. We’d better wash all the clothes we had on last night. Look, Agatha, I’m sorry I was so rude to you, but I couldn’t believe we had been so stupid.”
“You can take me for dinner later. Let’s get rid of the evidence…now.”
By early evening, Agatha was just comforting herself with the thought that the wig and tea-gown were back in the vicarage and that the clothes she had worn while they were cleaning the cellar and passage were all clean and dry and the shoes she had worn had been thoroughly washed and cleaned when the phone rang. It was Paul. “Runcorn’s here,” he said in a low voice. “He wants you to step along.”
Agatha, with feet like lead, made her way along to Paul’s cottage. Detective Inspector Runcorn and Sergeant Evans were waiting for her in Paul’s living-room. Paul was sitting quietly at his desk.
“Right, Mrs. Raisin. Sit down,” ordered Runcorn. Agatha seized a hard chair and placed it next to Paul and sat down.
“Where were both of you last night between the hours of two A.M. and three A.M.?”
“In bed,” said Agatha and Paul at the same time.
“Any witnesses?”
“No,” said Agatha coldly.
“I am particularly interested in your movements, Mrs. Raisin.” Runcorn fixed her with a hard stare. “Someone put a note through the door of the Moreton police station. The note stated that there was a secret passage in Ivy Cottage.”
“And is there?” asked Paul. Again Agatha felt relief.
“Yes, there is, and everything has been wiped clean. A vacuum was used as well. We can get a search warrant but I would like the vacuums from both your houses.”
“Okay,” said Agatha quickly, not wanting them to come back with a warrant and search her whole cottage in case they found something incriminating, like a strand of wig hair.
“Mr. Chatterton?”
Paul shrugged. “All right with me.”
He rose and went to a cupboard under the stairs and pulled out an upright vacuum cleaner. Sergeant Evans wrote out a receipt.
“I’ll go and get mine,” said Agatha.
“If you have a vacuum for the car, bring that as well,” ordered Runcorn.
“I don’t have one of those,” said Agatha over her shoulder.
She was back in a very short time, still uneasy about leaving Paul alone with them. She sensed Runcorn was disappointed by their apparent eagerness to help.
But curiosity prompted her to ask, “What makes you think we could have anything to do with it? Why on earth would we want to murder Mrs. Witherspoon?”
“There’s a legend that a fortune was hidden in that old house. With Mrs. Witherspoon dead and the house empty, some crazy people might have decided to go on a treasure hunt.”
“Whereas the intelligent interpretation would be that the killer went back to make sure he had left no traces,” said Paul.
“And left a note at the police station?”
“Could be someone else. Could be someone who knows the murderer.”
“Ah, that reminds me. A witness said that the woman who left the note, or rather, some woman who was having a fight with a drunk, was wearing an old-fashioned tea-gown. Do you possess such an item, Mrs. Raisin?”
“I’m not old enough.”
“But you would not mind if Sergeant Evans here took a look in your wardrobe?”
“He can look now if he likes.”
When Agatha had left, Runcorn leaned forward and said in a man-to-man voice, “Now, Mr. Chatterton, sir, that is a woman who has interfered in police investigations before. It would go badly for you if you were found to be involved. Wouldn’t mind an excuse to put her away for a bit and keep her out of mischief. So you can tell me. What’s she been up to?”
“Mrs. Raisin is a neighbour and a friend of mine,” said Paul. “It was entirely my idea to investigate the haunting of Mrs. Witherspoon. Mr. Harry Witherspoon and his sister, Carol, asked us after the funeral to help to find the murderer.”
Runcorn’s face darkened. “I hope you didn’t agree.”
“We said we would do what we could. Nothing we do can possibly interfere with your investigations. If we do find out anything of significance, we will tell you immediately.” Paul glanced nervously towards the bookshelves where the diary was in plain view, placed among glossy new books on computer science.
“Take my advice and don’t do anything at all.”
They sat in silence until Agatha returned with Evans. “Nothing,” said the sergeant.
Runcorn rose to his feet. “That will be all…for now.”
“Phew!” said Agatha when they had left. “That was hairy.”
“Something’s puzzling me,” said Paul.
“What?”
“It was so dusty in the cellar, as if nothing had been moved for years. I think Runcorn’s in trouble. I think the police just looked around the cellar and didn’t do a proper search.”
“Probably. But you would think the murderer would have left some trace.”
“You know,” said Paul, “I think we should try to have a word with Harry and Carol tomorrow. I cannot believe that two people brought up in that house, however bullied, didn’t explore the cellar.”
“But would two children find that false bottom in the trapdoor?”
“Maybe not. And I’ve just remembered something. That trapdoor leading up to the garden, it was fairly new. It looks as if someone had stumbled across the way in and decided it was a useful way of having secret access to the house.”
“We’re forgetting about Peter Frampton,” said Agatha. “He’s a local historian. He might have found out about it and he might have known where to look. Remember, he wanted to buy the house. I think we should try to find out a bit more about him.”
“Right. But we’ll have that dinner first and then tackle Harry and Carol.”
Robin Barley sat in front of the mirror in her dressing-room that evening after a dress rehearsal of Macbeth, in which she had played Lady Macbeth, feeling her ego had been thoroughly bruised. It had been an exciting day playing detective, making multiple phone calls to ascertain whether Harry could have slipped out. And he could have! Should she tell that Raisin trout creature? No, she would persevere and then go to the police, first making
