Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden ar-9

by M C Beaton

  "It's going nowhere. The super doesn't agree with me. I think it's the work of a lucky amateur. I think in each murder, he or she saw the opportunity and took it."

  "But the murder of Francie was planned, surely. The money that was taken. I really don't think it can be any of them at the hotel, Jimmy. I mean, the idea that one of them could murder Francie and then calmly sit and play Scrabble is beyond belief. And wait a bit, wait a bit! You say she wasn't murdered in the middle of the night?"

  "No. Early in the evening."

  "So what was she doing in bed? She was murdered in bed?"

  "Yes."

  "So she could have been waiting for a lover!"

  "Could be. We're still trying to find out if there was anyone she was playing around with over in Hadderton."

  "Any sign of the murder weapon?"

  "Not yet. But we're pretty sure now what was used."

  "What?"

  "Cliff told us the other day that Francie always had one of those marble rolling-pins in the kitchen and it's gone."

  "Took his time about it."

  "He was only making a suggestion. I mean, it's not something that Cliff, or probably even Janine, would notice was missing."

  "What was he doing in the house?" asked Agatha. "I thought he didn't inherit anything."

  "We took him back there and made him go through everything. It was my idea. I was sure it was in a way a murder committed out of fright and rage. The more I think about it, the more I am sure Francie had something on someone."

  "Blackmail?"

  "It's possible, and it's possible her daughter knew who she was blackmailing."

  "That lot at the hotel all went to her, and Harry and Daisy knew her seances were a trick."

  "But you forget, Agatha, quite a lot of people in Wyckhadden went to her as well, including people from Hadderton who preferred her skills to her daughter's."

  Agatha sighed. "I suppose it will end up one of those unsolved mysteries."

  "Something usually breaks. I've not had any experience of murder apart from that one case I told you about. But I've read about cases and heard about them from other police officers. Just when you think you're at a dead end, the murderer does something to betray himself."

  "Have that lot at the hotel all got alibis for earlier that evening, I mean the evening of Francie's murder?"

  "None of them was seen leaving the hotel."

  "But the murder could have been committed in broad daylight!"

  "Hardly. It gets dark at four-thirty in the afternoon."

  "Wait a bit," said Agatha. "I've just thought of something. When I left the hotel, I didn't want to run into Daisy and so I left by the fire-escape. It leads down the side of the building. Any of them could have gone that way and re-entered that way."

  "Oh, let's forget about it and enjoy the day."

  "We seem to have been driving through miles of bleak countryside. What's up ahead?"

  "There's a pretty fishing village called Coombe Briton I'd like you to see. Only another couple of miles."

  Agatha drove on until she saw a sign COOMBE BRITON pointing to the right and swung off the main road and down a twisty road towards the sea.

  It was a picturesque village with cottages painted pastel colours and narrow cobbled streets. "There's an old inn down at the harbour," said Jimmy. "I thought we could have a drink there, go for a little walk and then have lunch."

  Agatha parked outside the inn and they walked inside to a low-raftered room. Agatha was disappointed. Everything inside had been done up in mock-Tudor: fake suits of armour, a bad oil painting of Queen Elizabeth over a fireplace where fake logs burned in the gas fire. But Jimmy seemed delighted with the place and told Agatha it was famous for its 'atmosphere.'

  Agatha's dream of being an inspector's wife flickered and began to fade. She tried to remind herself that pre-James and pre-Carsely she would not have even noticed that this pub was in dreadful taste, and what was good taste anyway? But it did seem silly to have such a genuinely old pub and put fake things in it. A real fire blazing away would have been lovely. Then there were those friends of his, Chris and Maisie at the dance. If she married Jimmy, would she be expected to entertain people like that? Come on, she chided herself, Wyckhadden's a small town and it stands to reason that Jimmy's on nodding terms with most of the population.

  "What are you thinking about?" asked Jimmy.

  "I was remembering that couple at the dance, Chris and Maisie. Known them long?"

  "Oh, yes. Chris was a police constable but he left the force. Does security for a factory over at Hadderton. He's a good friend. He and Maisie were a tower of strength when my wife died."

  They had a drink and then walked along the harbour. How the sea changed from one day to the next, marvelled Agatha. Today it was black with great white horses racing in to crash against the old harbour wall.

  "Hope it doesn't snow before we get back," said Jimmy, looking at the sky.

  "Do you think it will? We haven't had a bad winter for ages."

  "Forecast's bad. Here, come against the shelter of the wall. I've got something to show you."

  Jimmy fished in the pocket of his coat and took out a small jeweller's box. "Open it," he urged.

  Agatha opened it. Nestling in the silk inside was a ruby-and-diamond ring. She looked up at him, startled.

  "I want to marry you, Agatha," said Jimmy. "Will you?"

  Agatha forgot about the pseudo-pub, about Chris and Maisie. All she felt was a surge of gladness mixed with power that this nice man wanted her for his wife.

  "May I put it on?"

  And as shyly as a young miss, Agatha held out her left hand. Jimmy slipped the ring on. He bent and kissed her, his lips cold and hard. Agatha felt a surge of passion. Somewhere at the back of her mind a little superstitious voice was screaming that she had tricked Jimmy into this with a love potion, but she ignored it.

  Arm in arm, they walked back to the pub for lunch. "I ordered in advance," said Jimmy.

  The first course was Parma ham, like a thin slice of shoe leather on a weedy bed of rocket. The main course, billed as rack of lamb, turned out to be one minuscule piece of scragend of neck surrounded by mounds of vegetables, and followed by sherry trifle--heavy sponge with no taste of sherry whatsoever. The old Agatha would have called for the manager and told him exactly what she thought of the food, but she was about to be Mrs. Jimmy Jessop, and such as Mrs. Jimmy Jessop did not make scenes. "I have friends in London," said Agatha. "Would you mind if I sent a notice of our engagement to the Times?'

  He smiled at her fondly. "I want the whole world to know about us, Agatha."

  So let James Lacey read it and let James Lacey make what he likes of it, thought Agatha defiantly.

  "I hope you like cats," she said. "I've got three."

  "Three! But of course you've got to bring them."

  "I've a lot of furniture and stuff."

  "I'll leave it to you to redecorate," said Jimmy.

  So that's all right, thought Agatha.

  They finished their meal and went out into a white blizzard. "Damn," said Agatha, "I didn't notice any salt on the road as we came along."

  "I'll drive if you like," said Jimmy.

  "No, I'm a good driver," said Agatha, who was actually a fair-to-middling driver but always liked to be in the driving seat, metaphorically and physically.

  Getting out of the village was a nightmare. Going up the steep cobbled street, the wheels spun and struggled for purchase on the icy surface. "Pull on the hand brake and change sides," said Jimmy. "I think I can manage."

  Agatha reluctantly surrendered the wheel and then wondered sulkily how Jimmy managed to urge the little car up that icy street when she had failed. When they reached the main coast road, it was to find a gritter had recently been along, although the road in front was whitening fast despite the mixture of grit and salt.

  "I hope we make it to Wyckhadden," said Jimmy, staring out into the blinding whiteness of the blizzard.<
br />
  "I could drive now," said Agatha in a small voice.

  "No, darling, better leave it to me."

  Now wasn't that just what every woman should like to hear? No, darling, leave it to me? But Agatha felt useless and diminished. Only the thought of that announcement appearing in the Times cheered her up.

  "We won't be going far tonight," said Jimmy, parking outside the hotel at last after a gruelling journey. "I've got to go home and make a few calls. I must tell my children about our engagement. I'll come back for you later."

  "Can't I run you home?"

  "No, it's safer to walk." Jimmy got out and locked the car and as she came round, handed her the keys. He bent and kissed her. "See you later," he said, and hunching his shoulders against the blizzard, he hurried off.

  Agatha went into the reception. Daisy came shooting out of the lounge as if she'd been on watch.

  "I want a few words with you," she began.

  Agatha pulled off her glove and exhibited the engagement ring. "Congratulate me!"

  Daisy went quite white and put a shaking hand onto the reception desk to support herself.

  "Yes, Jimmy has just proposed," said Agatha brightly.

  "Oh!" Colour began to appear in Daisy's cheeks. "You mean your inspector. I am so very happy for you, Agatha. I thought... never mind."

  "What weather," said Agatha cheerfully. "Has it been like this before?"

  "Sometimes. But it never lasts very long. Engaged! I must tell the colonel."

  Daisy tripped off. Agatha went up to her room and showed the ring to Scrabble. Then, taking out her credit card, she phoned the Times and arranged for the announcement of her engagement to be placed in the newspaper on the following morning.

  After she had replaced the receiver, the phone rang. She picked it up. It was Jimmy. "I'm afraid I've been called out, Agatha."

  "Anything to do with the murders?"

  "No, something else."

  "How can they expect you to go out in weather like this?"

  "They do. I'll call you when I'm through to say good night. You've made me a very happy man, Agatha. I love you."

  "Love you too, Jimmy," lied Agatha. "Hear from you later."

  She sat down suddenly on the bed and automatically stroked Scrabble's warm fur. "I'll need to go through with it," she said. "I want to go through with it," she added fiercely. "I don't want to spend my old age alone."

  Then she decided to phone Mrs. Bloxby. She told the vicar's wife the news. There was a little silence and then Mrs. Bloxby said, "Do you love him? I mean, are you in love with him?"

  "No, but I think that will come."

  "And is he in love with you?"

  "Yes, he is."

  "It can be very suffocating and guilt-making to be married to someone who is deeply in love with you and then find yourself faced daily with a love you cannot return."

  "I'm not a young thing anymore," said Agatha crossly. "Love is for the young."

  Again that little silence and then Mrs. Bloxby's voice came down the line. "I am only saying this because I care for you. James will be upset, yes, but then it will pass and you will be married to a man you don't love. Never try to get even, Agatha. It doesn't ever work."

  "Jimmy is a good man and I am very fond of him and I will be delighted to spend the rest of my life with him," said Agatha. "I haven't thought about James once since I met him."

  "Will it be in the papers?"

  "The Times tomorrow."

  "I don't think James is the sort of man to read the social column."

  But someone else in the village will, thought Agatha. And someone else will tell him.

  She asked after her cats and about what was going on in the village and then rang off, feeling flat. "I did not get engaged to Jimmy just to get revenge on James Lacey," she told the cat fiercely. Scrabble gave her a long, studying look from its green eyes.

  Agatha went down to dinner that evening to find that although it was freezing and snowing outside, the atmosphere inside had thawed towards her. Daisy had told them the news of her engagement and they all crowded around her table to admire the ring and congratulate her.

  After dinner, the colonel suggested the usual game of Scrabble and they all gathered in the lounge just as all the lights went out.

  "Power cut," said the colonel. "They'll be in with candles in a minute."

  They sat in front of the fire. Agatha thought the light from the flames flickering on their faces made them look sinister.

  Two elderly waiters came in carrying not candles but oil-lamps. Soon the room was bathed in a warm golden glow.

  "Very flattering light. You like quite radiant tonight, Agatha," said the colonel. Daisy glared, little red points of light from the fire dancing in her eyes. "In fact," went on the colonel, "I have always found that one wedding leads to another. Who's next? You, Harry?"

  "Who knows?" said Harry. "I may be lucky."

  Daisy smiled at the colonel coquettishly. He quickly averted his eyes from hers and said, "Let's get started."

  The newspapers were delivered in Carsely the following morning as usual, for the blizzard which was blanketing England on the south coast had not yet reached the Midlands.

  James read his Times as usual but without reading the social column and then turned to the crossword. For some reason, Monday's crossword was usually easier than the rest of the week and to his disappointment he finished it in twenty minutes. Nothing left to do but get on with writing his military history. Then, like all writers, as he sat down at the word processor, his mind began to tell him he ought to do something else first. He was nearly out of coffee. Of course he had enough to last the day but with the blizzard coming, it wouldn't do any harm to get in supplies.

  He drove to Tesco's at Stow-on-the Wold and found the car-park almost full. A wartime mentality had hit everyone because of the approaching storm. People were trundling laden trolleys past him to their cars.

  Infected by the shopping mania, he bought not only coffee, but a lot of other stuff he had persuaded himself he needed. He was just pushing his shopping cart out to the parking area when he was stopped by Doris Simpson, Agatha's cleaner.

  "Well, our Agatha's full of surprises," said Doris.

  James smiled down at her tolerantly. "What's she got herself into now?"

  "John Fletcher phoned me from the Red Lion just before I went out. It's in the Times."

  "What is?"

  "Why, our Agatha's engagement. Someone called Jessop she's going to marry. Mrs. Bloxby says he's a police inspector. Did you ever?"

  "I knew that was in the cards," lied James.

  "There you are. I hope she gets married in Carsely. I like a wedding. Not that she can wear white. Miss Perry over at Chipping Campden got married the other week. Now she's about our Agatha's age. She wore rose-pink silk. Very pretty. And the bridesmaids were all in gold."

  "I must go," said James. "Snow's arrived."

  "So it has," said Doris as a flake swirled down past her nose. "Must get on."

  She can't do this, thought James. She's only doing it to get at me. I'll go down there and reason with her.

  But by the time he got home, the flakes were falling thick and fast. He phoned the Automobile Association and found all the roads to the south were blocked.

  Sir Charles Fraith was having a late breakfast with his elderly aunt. She put down the newspaper and said, "Don't you know someone called Raisin? Didn't she come here?"

  "Agatha Raisin?"

  "Yes, that's her. It's in the paper."

  "What is?" asked Charles patiently. "She's engaged to be married to some fellow called Jessop," said his aunt.

  "Fast worker, Aggie. I'll phone Bill Wong and see if he knows about it."

  Charles got through to Detective Sergeant Bill Wong at Mircester police. "She's getting married!" exclaimed Bill. "Who to?"

  "Fellow called Jessop."

  "That'll be Inspector Jessop of the Wyckhadden police."

  "I thought Aggie
was eating her heart out for James Lacey."

  "She must have got over it."

  "She's probably doing it to annoy him. I know Aggie. I'll go down there and put a stop to it."

  "You shouldn't, and anyway, you can't," said Bill. "The roads are blocked."

  "I should stop the silly woman. I bet she doesn't give a rap for this inspector."

  "She's over twenty-one."

  "She's twice over twenty-one," said Charles nastily.

  "Why don't you phone her? It said in the papers when they were writing about the murder that she was staying in the Garden Hotel."

  "Right. I'll do that."

  But the lines in Wyckhadden were down.

  * * *

  Agatha was never to forget the suffocating claustrophobic days that followed, inurned up in the hotel. No electricity. No phones. No television.

  On the Wednesday morning, Agatha found Harry sitting alone in the lounge. "Not even a newspaper," he mourned. "I've never known it as bad as this. And no central heating. You would think a hotel as expensive as this would have a generator. I'm bored."

  Agatha walked to the window. "It's stopped snowing," she said over her shoulder.

  "Sky's still dark and more has been forecast," said Harry, rising and joining her.

  "We could build a snowman," joked Agatha.

  "Splendid idea." To Agatha's surprise, Harry was all enthusiasm. "Let's put on our coats and build one right outside the dining-room window where they can see it at lunch-time."

  Soon, well wrapped up, they both ventured out. The snow lay in great drifts. "I'll go first," said Harry. "Clear a path."

  He headed to a spot in front of he dining-room window. Agatha, like Wenceslas's page, followed in his footsteps.

  "I used to be good at this," said Harry. "I'll shape the base if you roll a snowball for a torso."

  "Where are the others?" asked Agatha.

  "In their rooms, I think." Harry worked busily.

  "You never talk about the murders," said Agatha.

  "No, I don't. Nothing to do with me. Why should I?"

  "You knew Francie. Had a seance with her."

  "Oh, that. Maybe that's one reason I don't want to talk about it."

  "Why?"