She opened the door. “Come in,” she said. “We’ll have coffee in the kitchen.”

“I’d rather have tea,” he said, trotting in after her.

“What kind?” asked Agatha. “I’ve got Darjeeling, Assam, Earl Grey, and something called Afternoon Tea.”

“ Darjeeling will do.”

Agatha put the kettle on. “Aren’t you working at the moment?”

“No, I’m between contracts. Going to take a brief holiday.”

Agatha leaned against the kitchen counter. Paul’s intelligent black eyes surveyed her and Agatha suddenly wished she were wearing something more attractive, or, at least, had some makeup on. He was not strictly handsome, and yet there was something about that white hair combined with black eyes in a white face and a long athletic figure which, she thought, would disturb quite a lot of women-except, of course, she reminded herself, Agatha Raisin.

“I believe my cottage once belonged to your ex-husband, James Lacey,” he said. The kettle began to boil. Agatha lifted down two mugs and put a tea-bag in one and a spoonful of instant coffee in the other.

“Yes,” she said. She stirred the tea-bag, lifted it out and put the mug down in front of him. “There’s sugar and milk in front of you.”

“Thanks. Why Raisin? Did you get married again?”

“No, that was my first husband’s name. I kept on using it even when I was married to James. Are you married?”

There was a short silence while Paul carefully added milk and sugar. He stirred his tea. “Yes, I am,” he said.

“And so where is Mrs. Chatterton?”

Another silence. Then he said, “Visiting relatives in Spain.”

“So she’s Spanish?”

“Yes.”

“What’s her name?”

“Um…Juanita.”

Agatha’s bearlike eyes narrowed. “You know what I think? I think you’re not married at all. I think there isn’t any Juanita. Look, I invited you in here, not to get into your trousers, but because I’m interested in this ghost thing.”