“Because there’s still foot-and-mouth around and she may live near a farm and we might have to wade through disinfectant.”
“Right,” said Agatha. “I’ve got a pair by the door. Whose car? Yours or mine?”
“I’ll drive.”
His car was a vintage MG. Agatha groaned inwardly as she lowered herself down into the low seat. She felt as if she were sitting on the road. He set off with a roar and Agatha’s hair blew forward about her face.
“Why is it in films,” she said, “that the heroine in an open car always has her hair streaming behind her?”
“Because she’s filmed in a stationary car in a studio with a film of landscape rolling behind her and a studio fan directed on her hair. If it’s bothering you, I can stop and put the top up.”
“No,” said Agatha sourly. “The damage is done. Whereabouts in Hebberdon does this Mrs. Witherspoon live?”
“Ivy Cottage, Bag End.”
Agatha fell silent as the countryside streamed past, the ruined countryside, the countryside destroyed by foot- and-mouth. If she had still been in London, she wouldn’t have given a damn. But somehow she now felt she belonged in the countryside and what happened there affected her deeply.
Hebberdon was a tiny picturesque village nestling at the foot of a valley. There were no shops, one pub, and a huddle of cottages. Paul stopped the car and looked around. “I’ll knock at one of the doors and ask where Bag End is.”
Agatha fished out a cigarette and lit up. There was a hole where she guessed the ashtray used to be. Still, it was an open car. He could hardly object.
He came back. “We can leave the car here. Bag End is just around the corner.”
Getting out of the car to Agatha was reminiscent of getting out of the deck-chair, but she managed it without having to roll out on the road.
They walked round into Bag End, a narrow lane with only one cottage at the end. Agatha took a final puff at her cigarette and tossed it at the side of the road. Paul retrieved it and stubbed it out. “You’ll set the countryside alight in this weather,” he complained.
“Sorry,” mumbled Agatha, reflecting that she was not really the countrywoman she had thought herself to be. “How old is this Mrs. Witherspoon?”
“Ninety-two, according to the newspapers.”
“She might be gaga.”
“Don’t think so. Let’s see anyway.”
Ivy Cottage was indeed covered in ivy which rippled in the summer breeze. The roof was thatched. Paul seized the brass knocker and gave it a good few bangs. After a few moments, the letter-box opened and a woman’s voice shouted, “Go away.”
“We’re here to help you,” said Paul, crouched down by the letter-box. “We’ll lay the ghost for you.”
“I’m sick of cranks. Sod off!”
Paul grinned sideways at Agatha. “Sounds like a soul mate of yours.” He turned back to the letter-box.
“We’re not cranks, Mrs. Witherspoon. We really do want to help.”
“How can you do that?”
“I am Paul Chatterton with Agatha Raisin. We live in Carsely. We’re going to spend a night in your house and catch your ghost.”
There was a long silence and then the rattle of bolts and chains. The door opened. Agatha found herself looking upwards. She had imagined that Mrs. Witherspoon would turn out to be a small, frail, stooped old lady. But it was a giantess that faced her.
Mrs. Witherspoon was a powerful woman, at least six feet tall, with dyed red hair and big strong hands.
She jerked her head by way of welcome and they followed her into a small dark parlour. The ivy clustered round the leaded windows cut out most of the light.
“So what makes you pair think you can find who is haunting me?” she asked. Her head almost touched the beamed ceiling. Agatha, who had sat down, stood up again, not liking the feeling of being loomed over.
“It’s worth a try,” said Paul easily. “I mean, what have you got to lose?”
Mrs. Witherspoon turned bright eyes on Agatha. “You said your name was Raisin?”
“He did. And yes, it is.”
“Ah, you’re the one from Carsely who fancies herself to be a detective. Your husband ran off and left you. Hardly surprising.”
Agatha clenched her hands into fists. “And what happened to yours?”
“He died twenty years ago.”
Agatha turned to Paul and began to say, “Maybe this is a silly idea after all…” but he hissed, “Let me handle it.”
He turned to Mrs. Witherspoon. “We would be no trouble,” he coaxed. “We could sit down here during the night and wait.”
“Don’t expect me to feed you,” she said.
“Wouldn’t dream of it. We’ll come about ten.”
“Oh, all right. I’ve lived in this cottage all my life and I am not going to be driven out of it.”
“What form do these hauntings take?”
“Whispers, footsteps, a sort of grey mist seeping under the bedroom door. The police have been over the place, but there’s no sign of forced entry.”
“Have you any enemies?” asked Agatha.
“Not that I know of. I’m a friendly sort. Never anything about me to upset people.” She fastened her eyes on Agatha’s face with a contemptuous look as if to imply that there was a lot about Agatha Raisin to get people’s backs up.
Paul edged Agatha to the door, seeing she was about to burst out with something. “We’ll be back at ten,” he said.
“I don’t think I want to help that old bitch,” she railed, when they got into the car. “Believe me, Count Dracula wouldn’t even frighten that one.”
“But it is interesting,” protested Paul. “As a child, didn’t you want to spend the night in a haunted house?”
Agatha thought briefly of the Birmingham slum she had been brought up in. There had been so much earthly terror and violence that as a child she had little need to scare herself with things supernatural.
She sighed and capitulated. “May as well give it a try.”
“I’ll bring a late supper and a Scrabble board to pass the time.”
“A Ouija board might be better.”
“Haven’t got one of those. What would you like to eat?”
“I’ll eat before we go. Lots of black coffee would be a good idea. I’ll bring a large Thermos.”
“Good, then. We’re all set.”
They drove back into Carsely under the watchful eyes of various villagers.
“I saw Mrs. Raisin out with that Paul Chatterton,” complained Miss Simms, secretary of the ladies’ society, to Mrs. Bloxby when she met her outside the village stores later that day. “I don’t know how she does it! Here’s all of us women trying to get a look in and she snaps him up. I mean ter say, she’s no spring chicken.”
“I believe men finds Mrs. Raisin sexy,” said the vicar’s wife and tripped off with her shopping basket over her arm, leaving Miss Simms staring after her.
“Would you believe it?” Miss Simms complained ten minutes later to Mrs. Davenport, a recent incomer and now a regular member of the ladies’ society. “Mrs. Bloxby, the wife of a vicar, mark you, says that Mrs. Raisin is sexy.”
“And what prompted that?” demanded Mrs. Davenport, looking every inch the British expatriate she had recently been-print dress, large Minnie Mouse white shoes, small white gloves and terrifying hat.
“Only that our Mrs. Raisin has been driving around with Paul Chatterton and the pair of them looking like an item.” Under the shadow of the brim of her hat, Mrs. Davenport’s face tightened in disapproval. Had she not
