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.”