“A change…” Agatha mused. “Yes, of course you did. We all need a change now and again, don’t we? You don’t need to dash home, Toni, you look fabulous.”
“And you look very elegant, as always,” said Toni. “You look like the boss, like you’re in control.”
“That’s just as it should be,” said Agatha as they set off. She closed the car window, despite the heat of the sun scorching through the windscreen. Toni gave her a quizzical look and Agatha made a wind-rush gesture against the window.
“Ruins the hair,” she said, “and gives you the complexion of a round-the-world sailor.”
* * *
Pulling out onto the A44, they joined light traffic heading north-west towards Moreton-in-Marsh. Prior to snapping up her cottage in Carsely, Agatha had considered moving to Moreton. It was an ancient market town, a settlement having existed on the site for more than two thousand years, yet it seemed somehow more modern than Carsely. The scattering of thatched roofs that graced a few of the buildings in the centre of Carsely were nowhere to be seen in Moreton. The buildings there were of the same mellow Cotswold stone but the roofs were all either stone tiles or slate. Moreton was also bigger than Carsely, yet it still retained the undeniable charm that had lured Agatha away from the glitz and clamour of London life.
As they passed the inevitable clusters of galleries and antique shops, the impressive flank of the Redesdale Market Hall loomed in front of them. Agatha checked her watch against the nineteenth-century black-and-white clock face on the tower that crowned the hall and decided that one of them was not quite right. She cast an eye at the black-and-gold face of the even older clock on the Curfew Tower to their right. That was also slightly different. She opted to back her battery power against the ancient clocks. The differences, after all, were minimal.
Turning right, they headed up the high street past the Black Bear Inn. To the left of the wide thoroughfare was the market area, giving way to an avenue of trees and the imposing presence of the Old Police Station, which the police had long since surrendered to private residences. The high street was very straight, as was the road they turned onto, heading towards Batsford.
“This is all very pretty,” said Toni, admiring the trees that were now almost in full leaf at either side of the road, and the public park rolling into fields that looked lush and green in the spring sunshine. “It’s an incredibly straight road.”
“An old Roman road,” said Agatha. “They knew the quickest route was the straightest route, so they didn’t bother much with curves and corners. I think we turn off to the left here.”
They pulled off the main road onto a farm track that led to a stone-built farmhouse with a tiled gabled roof, dormer windows nestling just below the ridge line. The car tyres crunched on the stone-chip driveway and Toni parked by a bed of roses that decorated the front of the house. Agatha stepped gingerly out of the car. She hated stone chips. They destroyed delicate high heels. Toni strode forward and rang the doorbell.
“Mrs. Jessop?” said Agatha to the woman who opened the door. “I’m Agatha Raisin, and this is my associate Toni Gilmour.”
“Oh, I am pleased to see you.” Mrs. Jessop gave them a welcoming smile and shook their hands. “Please, do come in.” She led them along the hallway towards the back of the house.
She looks, thought Agatha, in good shape. Probably mid to late sixties, slim build, about the same height as myself, well dressed in a neat cardigan and tweed skirt, carefully coiffured hair and modest make-up. This is not the shambling old wreck I expected. She seems quite robust—not the sort to go to pieces over hearing a few bumps in the night.
“Come into the kitchen,” said Mrs. Jessop. “This is where I’ve been having the problem. Would you like some tea?”
“That would be lovely,” said Agatha.
The kitchen was clearly newly fitted, with plenty of wall and base unit cupboards and marble work surfaces arranged around a large wooden kitchen table with six high-backed wooden chairs. Agatha and Toni sat at the table while Mrs. Jessop reached up to open a cupboard door. She hesitated.
“There, you see?” she said. “This is what I’m talking about. This is where I keep the tea caddy and cups, and now they’ve gone.” She opened and closed a few more doors, then crossed to the other side of the kitchen and did the same until she finally found the tea.
“I know it seems silly,” she said, busying herself with a kettle and teapot, “but things in these cupboards are being moved about. I sort it all out just the way I like it, and when I next open a cupboard, it has all changed!”
“How annoying,” said Agatha. “That would drive me crazy.”
“Oh, I’m not crazy, Mrs. Raisin,” Mrs. Jessop assured her. She set a china teapot on the table, along with cups, a milk jug and sugar bowl. “Something very strange is going on around here—something very sinister.”
“You said when we spoke on the phone that you believed you were being visited by a poltergeist,” said Toni. “Have you seen this ghost?”
“Yes, I’ve seen him all right,” Mrs. Jessop admitted. “As plain as you can see me.”
“Did you see him in the kitchen?” Agatha asked.
“No, he comes in here at night to do his mischief.”
“So where have you spotted him?” asked Toni.
“Out there,” said Mrs. Jessop, pointing to the large window that looked out over a stone-chip garden path, beautifully maintained flower beds bursting with spring colour and an immaculate lawn. “In the garden. That is his place, after all.”
“You talk like you know who he is,” said Agatha.
“Oh, I do,” Mrs. Jessop replied, reaching into her cardigan pocket to produce a slightly faded, lightly creased black-and-white photograph. It showed herself as a much younger woman, standing beside a powerfully built man wearing jeans, boots and a checked shirt. He had wavy dark hair, a full beard and, even in this old photo, the most captivating eyes Agatha had ever seen. She could not imagine them to be anything other than a sharp, electric blue.
“Who is this?” Toni asked.
“You mean who was this,” Mrs. Jessop corrected her. “That is John Cornish, my gardener. He died twenty-five years ago.”
“And he’s been … appearing in your garden?” Toni swallowed hard, staring wide-eyed at the photo. Agatha frowned at her, a clear signal to man up.
“Regular as clockwork,” said Mrs. Jessop. There was the unmistakable crunch of boots on stone chips. “That,” she whispered, “will be him now…”
The heavy tread grew louder, subduing all other sounds. The three women sat perfectly still, holding their breath, as the figure of a man drifted into view outside the window—dark wavy hair, a full beard and a checked shirt. He stopped, turning slowly towards them. Agatha felt a paralysing chill run down her spine as he fixed her with eyes of such a startling, intense blue that she could not break his gaze. An instant later, he turned away, resuming a steady pace until he was out of sight beyond the window. A blanket of silence smothered the kitchen. A tear came to Mrs. Jessop’s eye and Toni was sitting bolt upright, pale and frozen to the spot.