“Snakes and bastards!” cried Agatha, jumping to her feet. “I’m not having this!” She grabbed the photograph and headed for the back door. Ignoring the stone chips scuffing the heels of her shoes, she stomped out into the garden, where she spotted the figure just a few yards ahead of her.
“Hey, you!” she called. “John Cornish! What are you doing here?”
The figure turned to face her. She avoided his eyes and stood her ground even as she felt her knees begin to fold.
“Doin’ the garden, ain’t I?” said Cornish. “What’s it to you?”
“I am Agatha Raisin, private investigator.”
“What you got to investigate in my garden?” said Cornish, walking towards her.
“This!” said Agatha, holding up the photograph.
“Where’d you get that?” Cornish asked. “That’s my old dad with Auntie Joan.”
“Your father?” said Agatha, with a sigh of relief. “You’re not dead, then?”
“Is that what she’s been tellin’ you?” Cornish laughed, stroking his beard. “Think I’d better shave this off. Beards is trendy nowadays, right? Makes me look the spitting image of my old man, though. He’d be about my age in that photo. Taught me all I know about gardens, he did.”
“She really does think you are him.”
“Ah.” Cornish nodded. “Things ain’t always what they seem, eh?”
“She thinks you’re a ghost who sneaks in at night and rearranges her cupboards.”
“Ah,” Cornish repeated. “I should ’ave guessed. Kitchen’s new. She keeps forgettin’ where she put things. Auntie Joan’s not been herself recently.”
“She’s your aunt?”
“Not really, but I grew up around this house, what with my dad workin’ here. She liked me to call her auntie and always treated us like family. Uncle Tom did the same until he passed a couple of years back and left her on her own. Suppose that’s when she started to lose it.”
“She seems perfectly all right. She doesn’t seem confused at all.”
“Like I said—things ain’t always what they seem. Do me a favour, would you? Keep her occupied for a little while an’ I’ll sneak indoors to the bathroom and get rid of this.” He tugged at his beard.
Agatha headed back inside. After a few minutes spent reassuring Mrs. Jessop and Toni that there was no ghost stalking the garden, Cornish breezed into the kitchen, freshly shaved.
“Auntie Joan!” he called. “Any more tea in that pot? I’m parched.”
“Of course, John!” Mrs. Jessop’s face lit up at the sight of him. “You’ll be wanting a biscuit or two, I should think. I’ve got your favourites … somewhere.”
“Don’t worry, Mrs. Raisin.” Cornish winked a sparkling blue eye at Agatha. “I’m round here most days. I’ll look after her.”
* * *
The tale of the ghostly gardener kept everyone at Raisin Investigations amused over the following days. There was a spate of practical jokes, mostly aimed at Toni, Agatha not being well renowned for tolerating jokes at her expense: spring-loaded spooks popping out of her desk drawers and eerie messages from the spirit world appearing on her computer screen. The pranks, Agatha knew, were perpetrated by Simon, but he appeared to have cleared up the phantom dumper case, promising to have his report ready for the next catch-up meeting, and was throwing himself into whatever other work came his way, so she allowed the fun to run its course. She had Toni find out about Mrs. Jessop’s circumstances, and since she appeared to be a woman of means, she ordered a bill to be prepared for their time. “Business is business,” she reminded herself, although somehow she never quite got round to sending the bill to Mrs. Jessop.
Agatha had spent the morning at home, sifting through paperwork at the kitchen table and mulling over yet another conversation she had had with James the previous evening about rekindling their relationship. She knew that she was leading him, having been the one who had first raised the matter, but he didn’t seem at all reluctant to follow. But what, she thought, do I really want? Is this thing with James just a reaction to what Charles has done? What would Charles have to say about it? She could practically hear his voice.
“Hello, Aggie.”
She could hear his voice! She looked up to see the lithe figure of Sir Charles Fraith standing in her kitchen. He was, as always, immaculately dressed. His crisp pale-yellow short-sleeved shirt showed off his sun-bronzed face and arms and his fine fair hair had taken on golden Mediterranean highlights. At one time the sight of him looking as handsome as he did at that moment might have set Agatha’s pulse racing. She was strangely disappointed that all she now felt was mild annoyance at the intrusion.
“How did you get in?” she demanded.
“Keys,” he said, holding up the spare set Agatha had given him sometime in the distant past.
“Aren’t you on your honeymoon?”
“Got back last night.”
“What do you want?”
“Look, after all that’s happened, I can understand you feeling a bit frosty towards me, sweetie—”
“Don’t call me that.”
“All right, all right. I just wanted to say how sorry I am for everything—and to apologise for Mary coming round here before we left. I heard about the fracas you had. I would promise that it won’t happen again, but I really have no control over her whatsoever. Quite frankly, she is driving me mad.”
“I can imagine,” said Agatha, watching him run his hand through his hair. That was a bad sign—a telltale Fraith trait that meant he was feeling particularly stressed, anxious and upset. “Sit down.” She sighed. “You look like you could use a drink.”
They were sitting with glasses of gin and tonic, beginning to relax into each other’s company, Charles relating ever more disturbing stories of his young wife’s outrageous behaviour, when the doorbell rang. Agatha opened the front door to find Chris Firkin standing on the step.
“Chris!” she said. “You’re back.”
“I am indeed.” He grinned. “Are you ready to go?”
“Go?” Agatha asked. “Go where?”
“Lunch—I promised you lunch as soon as I got back and…” The smile faded from his face when he spotted Charles standing in the hallway.
“Hello, Chris.” Charles nodded. Agatha sensed a distinct awkwardness between the two men. “Don’t mind me, old chap. I was just leaving.”
He brushed past Agatha and Chris, pausing on the garden path for a moment.
“Thank you for listening, Aggie,” he said. “Let’s stay in touch.”
“What was all that about?” Chris asked, stepping into the hall.
“Oh, nothing,” Agatha said. “He’s just having a few problems with—”
“His tenants? That doesn’t surprise me. I’ve just been hit with a massive rent increase for the workshop I rent on his estate.”
“I think that’s more to do with his wife than with Charles.”
“Whatever. It’s all part of the decision that I’ve made to—”