presented Mr. Chatterton with one of her best chocolate cakes and followed it up with two jars of homemade jam? And hadn’t he just politely accepted the gifts without even asking her in for a coffee?
Mrs. Davenport continued on her way. The news rankled. In the manner of British ex-patriates who lived on a diet of rumours, she stopped various people, embellishing the news as she went. By evening, it was all round the village that Agatha was having an affair with Paul Chatterton.
At six o’clock that evening, Agatha’s doorbell rang. She hoped that perhaps it was Paul inviting her out for dinner. Detective Sergeant Bill Wong stood on the doorstep. Agatha felt immediately guilty. Bill had been her first friend when she had moved down to the country. She didn’t want to tell him about the search for the ghost in case he would try to stop her.
“Come in,” she said. “I haven’t seen you for while. How are things going?”
“Apart from chasing and fining ramblers who will try to walk their dogs across farmland, nothing much. What have you been getting up to?”
They walked into the kitchen. “I’ve just made some coffee. Like some?”
“Thanks. That’s the biggest Thermos I’ve ever seen.”
“Just making some coffee for the ladies’ society,” lied Agatha. “I hear James was back in Carsely-briefly.”
“Yes,” said Agatha. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Still hurts?”
“I said, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Okay. How’s the new neighbour?”
“Paul Chatterton? Seems pleasant enough.”
Bill’s round face, a mixture of Asian and Western features, looked at her curiously. Agatha’s face was slightly flushed.
“So you haven’t been getting up to anything exciting?”
“Not me,” said Agatha. “I did some PR work in London, but down here I’ve been concentrating on the garden. I made some scones. Would you like one with your coffee?”
Bill knew Agatha’s baking was bad, to say the least. He looked doubtful. “Go on,” urged Agatha. “They’re awfully good.”
“All right.”
Agatha put a scone on a plate and then put butter and jam in front of him.
Bill bit into it cautiously. It was delicious, as light as a feather. “You’ve really excelled yourself, Agatha,” he said.
And Agatha, who had received the scones as a gift from Mrs. Bloxby, smiled sweetly at him. “You’ll never believe how domesticated I’ve become. Oh, there’s the doorbell.”
She hurried to open the door, hoping it would not be Paul Chatterton who might start talking about their planned vigil at the haunted house. But it was Mrs. Bloxby.
“Come in,” said Agatha. “Bill’s here.” She hoped Bill had finished that scone.
But to her horror, as she entered the kitchen with Mrs. Bloxby, Bill said, “I wouldn’t mind another of those scones, Agatha.”
“Oh, do you like them?” asked Mrs. Bloxby. “I gave Mrs. Raisin some this morning because I’d made too many.”
“Coffee?” Agatha asked the vicar’s wife.
“Not for me. The attendance at the ladies’ society is not very good, so I called round to make sure you would be at it this evening.”
“I can’t,” said Agatha, aware of Bill’s amused eyes on her face.
“Why not?”
“I’ve got to see a man about some PR work.”
“Working again so soon? I thought you wanted a quiet summer.”
“Oh, well, it’s just a little job.”
“What is it this time? Fashion?”
“It’s a new anti-wrinkle face cream.”
“Really? Do you think those creams work?”
“I don’t know,” said Agatha loudly. “It’s all too boring. Can we talk about something else?”
There was a silence. Agatha felt her face turning red.
“You’re getting quite a name for yourself in the village,” teased Mrs. Bloxby. “It’s all over the place that you and Paul Chatterton are an item.”
“Nonsense.”
“You were seen out in his car.”
“He was giving me a lift.”
“Oh, is your car off the road?”
“Look,” said Agatha, “I was leaving to go to Moreton and he came out of his house at the same time and said he was going to Moreton as well and offered me a lift. That’s all. Honestly, the way people in this village gossip.”
“Well,” said the vicar’s wife, “a lot of noses have been put out of joint by your apparent friendship with him. Why should you succeed when so many others have failed? I’d better go.”
Agatha saw her out and then returned reluctantly to the kitchen. “You haven’t let me have another of those scones yet,” said Bill.
“I must have made a mistake and given you one of Mrs. Bloxby’s scones instead of one my own,” said Agatha, who, once she was in a hole, never knew when to stop digging.
“Then I’ll have one of yours.”
Agatha went through the pantomime of opening an empty tin. “Sorry,” she said. “Mine are all finished. What a pity.”
She put another of Mrs. Bloxby’s scones in front of him,
“Have you heard of a Mrs. Witherspoon who claims she is being haunted?” asked Bill.
“Yes, it was in the local papers.”
“And you didn’t feel impelled to do anything about it?”
“No, I want a quiet life. She’s probably gaga.”
“She’s not. I went a couple of times to investigate. The police couldn’t find anything. I’ve got this odd feeling you’re hiding something from me, Agatha.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I mean, I ask you about this new neighbour of yours and you don’t tell me he took you down to Moreton.”
“What is this?” demanded Agatha. “The third degree?”
Bill laughed. “I still think you’re holding out on me. Well, I’m sure a bit of ghost-hunting won’t hurt you.”
“I never said-”
“No, you didn’t, did you? I would ask you about this face cream and where you are meeting this man, but I don’t want to stretch your imagination any further.”
“Bill!”
He grinned. “I’ll see you around.”
Agatha sighed with relief when he had left and went upstairs to take a shower. She felt hot and clammy after all her lies.
Now what did one wear for ghost-hunting?
Two
BY the time Agatha went downstairs that evening, she left the bedroom behind her in a mess. She had tried on just about everything in her wardrobe, veering from the chic to the shoddy, and had finally settled on wearing a pair of comfortable woollen trousers, a checked shirt and a cashmere sweater.
