Don’t get interested in men again, she told herself severely and looked so grim when she opened the door to Paul that he took a step back and asked her whether anything was the matter. “No, nothing,” said Agatha. “I’ll get the coffee.”
“I forgot to tell you. Sometimes I prefer tea, and this is one of those sometimes.”
Agatha threw him a filthy look and went through to the kitchen and picked up the huge Thermos. At least all the coffee she had made should keep her awake.
“We’ll take my car,” she said firmly. The evening was chilly and she did not relish the idea of bucketing through the lanes in Paul Chatterton’s MG.
Outside, Paul loaded a picnic basket into Agatha’s new Audi. “You’ve brought a lot,” commented Agatha.
“I haven’t eaten yet. Have you?”
“I had something,” lied Agatha. Somehow she felt guilty about having wasted so much time changing in and out of clothes and putting on full make-up with mascara and eye shadow and then wiping it off and replacing it with a lighter maquillage. Her stomach gave a rumble and she added quickly, “But only a sandwich.”
“Just as well I’ve got enough for two,” he said.
Agatha drove off, wondering how many curtains in the village were twitching as they cruised past.
“Isn’t this exciting?” said Paul.
“Yes,” said Agatha doubtfully. She didn’t believe in ghosts. Old houses, such as her own and Mrs. Witherspoon’s, were full of creaks and noises. Ahead of her lay a sleepless night with a man she didn’t really know.
They arrived at Ivy Cottage and unloaded the car. Mrs. Witherspoon answered the door wearing a voluminous scarlet dressing-gown which clashed with her red hair.
“Oh, it’s you,” she said ungraciously. “Go into the living-room and settle yourselves. If you need the bathroom, it’s the door off the landing. Otherwise, don’t bother me, and don’t wake me. I’m a light sleeper.”
“You’d think she didn’t want us to find her ghost,” grumbled Agatha after Mrs. Witherspoon had retreated upstairs.
“Never mind. I’m going to eat.” Paul opened up the hamper, took out several plastic boxes, and plates and knives and forks. “There’s cold chicken, salad and French bread,” he said cheerfully. “Help yourself, and then we’ll have a game of Scrabble.”
Agatha ate gratefully and accompanied her plate of food with several cups of strong black coffee. Paul had brought a Thermos of tea.
“So what brought you to Carsely?” asked Agatha.
“A desire for somewhere pretty and quiet. I usually live in London but it’s become so noisy and crowded and dirty. Besides, Carsely is only an hour and a half away, so it’s not exactly isolated.”
“Have you always worked with computers?”
“Yes, I was lucky. I started right after university. I got in pretty much on the ground floor.”
“What exactly do you do?”
“I’m a programmer. What about you? Retired?”
“Mostly, although I still take the odd job. I had my own PR firm in London but I sold up and took early retirement,” said Agatha, stressing the word early.
“And how did you get into amateur detection?”
“By accident,” said Agatha. “You know, things happen and I get curious.”
“How do you go about it?”
“Go around asking questions. The police don’t often have time to get to know people and people will talk more freely to a civilian than they will to the police.” Agatha had an impulse to brag, which she quickly suppressed. She had an uneasy feeling that Paul found her more amusing than attractive.
After they had finished, he neatly packed the plates away. So much for Juanita, thought Agatha. Bachelors are always neat and domesticated. She suddenly remembered James Lacey and felt a stab of pain. Her eyes filled with tears.
“What’s the matter?” asked Paul.
“I bit my tongue by accident.”
“Nasty, that. Let’s play Scrabble.”
He arranged the board and tiles on the table. He started. He put down “xenon” on the board.
“That’s not a word,” said Agatha crossly.
“It is, you know. It’s a gas. Here!”
He took out a copy of the Oxford Dictionary and handed it to her. Agatha looked it up. “Okay,” she said sulkily. The game progressed. Paul won easily. They started another. An old marble clock on the mantel ticked drearily and then its rusty chimes sounded midnight.
The time crawled by. Paul won two more games. “I’m bored,” said Agatha.
“Why don’t you have a sleep? I’ll keep watch.”
“I’ll stay awake a little longer. The house is very quiet. I wish we could do something amusing to pass the time.”
He smiled at her. “Well, there is something we could do.”
Agatha felt a frisson of sexual tension. “And what’s that?” she asked.
“I’ve a pack of cards. We could play poker.”
“No, that’s even more boring than Scrabble, and you only want to play to make me look as silly as you’ve made me look over the Scrabble board. Does Juanita really exist?”
“Of course she does.”
“So why isn’t she with you?”
“I told you, she’s visiting relatives in Spain.”
“So you did. It’s getting cold in here. What’s that?”
Cold white mist was beginning to seep under the living-room door. Agatha stared at it as it crept around their legs.
“Come on,” said Paul, getting to his feet. “Someone’s playing tricks. Nip upstairs and see if Mrs. Witherspoon’s all right and I’ll search the downstairs.”
“Do I have to?”
“Go on.”
Paul opened the living-room door and crossed the small hall to the kitchen at the back. Agatha mounted the stairs, her feet feeling like lead. “Mrs. Witherspoon!” she called in a quavering voice and then louder, “Mrs. Witherspoon.”
A door at the top of the stairs opened and a terrible apparition stood there, tall and white, with a green face and staring red eyes. Agatha screamed. She tumbled down the stairs and yanked open the front door. She got into her car, fumbling for her keys. She was dimly aware of Paul shouting something, but she’d had enough. She roared off and did not stop until she had reached her own cottage. She did not feel safe until she was in her own bed with the duvet pulled up over her ears. Despite her fear, she fell into a heavy sleep from which she was aroused two hours later by the phone ringing. Assuring herself that ghosts surely did not know how to use the telephone, she answered it.
Paul’s voice sounded down the line. “Could you come and pick me up? You left me stranded.”
“I saw an awful thing…” began Agatha.
“That awful thing was Mrs. Witherspoon in a face pack. She’s furious with you. You’re not very courageous for a detective.”
“See you soon.” Agatha slammed down the phone. She dressed hurriedly and went out to set off again for Hebberdon, feeling like a fool. Paul was waiting for her on the doorstep.
“I’m sorry,” said Agatha as he packed the picnic basket in the car. “But how was I to know it was her? And all that cold mist.”
“That, I am convinced, was nothing more than carbon dioxide gas. There’s no sign of anyone having broken in and the windows were all closed and locked. She says no one else has a key, but they must have.” He got into the passenger seat. “Anyway, you’ve blown it. She’s so furious with you, she doesn’t want to see us again.”
“I’ve said I’m sorry,” shouted Agatha, moving off. “What else can I say?” He began to laugh. “What’s so funny?”
