“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.”