He came back. “We can leave the car here. Bag End is just around the corner.”

Getting out of the car to Agatha was reminiscent of getting out of the deck-chair, but she managed it without having to roll out on the road.

They walked round into Bag End, a narrow lane with only one cottage at the end. Agatha took a final puff at her cigarette and tossed it at the side of the road. Paul retrieved it and stubbed it out. “You’ll set the countryside alight in this weather,” he complained.

“Sorry,” mumbled Agatha, reflecting that she was not really the countrywoman she had thought herself to be. “How old is this Mrs. Witherspoon?”

“Ninety-two, according to the newspapers.”

“She might be gaga.”

“Don’t think so. Let’s see anyway.”

Ivy Cottage was indeed covered in ivy which rippled in the summer breeze. The roof was thatched. Paul seized the brass knocker and gave it a good few bangs. After a few moments, the letter-box opened and a woman’s voice shouted, “Go away.”

“We’re here to help you,” said Paul, crouched down by the letter-box. “We’ll lay the ghost for you.”

“I’m sick of cranks. Sod off!”

Paul grinned sideways at Agatha. “Sounds like a soul mate of yours.” He turned back to the letter-box.

“We’re not cranks, Mrs. Witherspoon. We really do want to help.”

“How can you do that?”

“I am Paul Chatterton with Agatha Raisin. We live in Carsely. We’re going to spend a night in your house and catch your ghost.”

There was a long silence and then the rattle of bolts and chains. The door opened. Agatha found herself looking upwards. She had imagined that Mrs. Witherspoon would turn out to be a small, frail, stooped old lady. But it was a giantess that faced her.

Mrs. Witherspoon was a powerful woman, at least six feet tall, with dyed red hair and big strong hands.