BY the time Agatha went downstairs that evening, she left the bedroom behind her in a mess. She had tried on just about everything in her wardrobe, veering from the chic to the shoddy, and had finally settled on wearing a pair of comfortable woollen trousers, a checked shirt and a cashmere sweater.

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.