Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

by M C Beaton

  Agatha began to look around the room. Nothing else seemed to have been touched. Even her jewel case, open on the dressing table, still had all her pieces of jewellery in it.

  She called the night porter and explained tersely what had happened and that she had called the police. “I’ll be up right away,” he said.

  After a few moments, there was a knock at her door. The night porter was young for an establishment such as the Garden Hotel, being somewhere in his forties. He had an unhealthy open-pored grey face, a droopy moustache and dyed black hair. He stared in awe at the wreckage of Agatha’s coat. “Did you forget to lock your room?” he asked.

  “I did not forget. I was playing Scrabble with the others. I locked my door and kept the key in my handbag.”

  “Some of our residents are very forgetful,” he said.

  “I am not senile!” howled Agatha. “If I say I locked my door, then that is what I did!”

  Elderly people do not sleep very well and somehow the other residents must have sensed something was going on. The door to Agatha’s room was open. Mrs. Daisy Jones, wrapped in a pink silk quilted dressing-gown, appeared, peering in, shortly followed by the colonel, still dressed. They both exclaimed in horror over the vandalism.

  “I blame the welfare system,” said the colonel. “They’ve got young people down here who’ve never done a day’s work in their lives.” The rest of the residents soon crowded in, chattering and exclaiming.

  “I think you should all go away,” said Agatha desperately. “The police will want to dust the room for fingerprints.”

  “Which of you is Mrs. Raisin?” called a voice from the doorway. The residents parted to reveal a squat burly man in a tight suit and anorak and a policewoman who looked as if she was half asleep.

  The residents shuffled out into the corridor. “Detective Constable Ian Tarret,” said the man, shutting the door on the elderly residents. “This the coat?”

  “That was the coat,” said Agatha bitterly.

  “Let’s begin at the beginning, Mrs. Raisin. You are a visitor?”

  “Yes. I’ve only been here a few days.”

  “Why Wyckhadden? Know people here?”

  “No, I wanted someplace for a holiday, that was all.”

  “Have you worn the coat since your arrival?”

  “Yes, I wore it to a dance on the pier last night. I went with Inspector Jimmy Jessop.”

  “I thought you didn’t know anyone in Wyckhadden.”

  “He picked me up in a pub,” said Agatha, and despite her distress she maliciously hoped that bit of gossip would get round the police station.

  “Now, there are people around who attack people wearing fur. Anyone have a go at you?”

  “Yes, this morning, on the prom, just before I got to the hotel. There were some young people sitting on a wall. A girl with spiky hair, noserings and earrings attacked me.”

  “Didn’t you report it?”

  “Would you have done anything about it?”

  “Certainly. You should have reported it. Anyone else make adverse comments?”

  Agatha thought guiltily of the witch of Wyckhadden, Francie Juddle. She did not like to confess she had been consulting a witch. And what if it came out that she had asked for a love potion?

  “No,” she lied.

  “We’ll have the fingerprint men along in the morning.”

  “Why the morning? Why not now?”

  “We’re a bit pushed. Lots of work.”

  “A crime wave in Wyckhadden?”

  “It’s not that. It’s lack of funds. We’re only a small station. The forensic boys have to come from Hadderton, the main town. Perhaps you’d like to drop into the station in the morning and make a full statement.”

  “Yes,” said Agatha wearily.

  “Is the coat insured?”

  “No. I mean if I’d been at home it might have come under the house-contents insurance, but I never thought of taking out travel insurance to go to a place like this.”

  “You’ll know better next time,” he said in a heavy, sententious way that made Agatha want to hit him.

  Agatha looked at the policewoman. She was sitting on the bed, her chin drooped on her chest, her eyes closed. “Your policewoman’s asleep,” she said.

  “Constable Trul!” barked Tarret.

  “I wasn’t asleep,” she said. “I was thinking.” Tarret turned to the night porter. “We’ll go downstairs. You’d better tell us who could have had access to a key to this room.”

  Agatha saw them out. She felt like a drink but this hotel was too old-fashioned to have anything modern like a minibar. She slumped down in a chair. She shouldn’t have lied about her visit to Francie. Her eyes narrowed. It was Francie who had criticized her coat. Such as that horrible girl on the prom who had attacked her would hardly stroll into an expensive hotel. Her mind made feverish by the wreck of her coat, Agatha suddenly decided it could not have been anyone else but Francie. The residents of the hotel had all been playing Scrabble with her. Daisy Jones had left at one point to “powder her nose,” as she delicately put it, but she had gone in the direction of the Ladies’ on the ground floor. Then the colonel and Mr. Berry had left the game on two occasions to buy drinks. But by no stretch of the imagination could she imagine either elderly gentleman nipping up the stairs to slash her coat.

  It must be that dreadful Francie, Francie who was probably lying in smug sleep at that very moment.

  Agatha decided to go and wake her up. If she was the culprit, then she might still have some evidence of red paint on her hands or under her fingernails.

  She put on a warm anorak and headed downstairs. Tarret and Trul were still questioning the night porter. “Got to get a breath of air,” gabbled Agatha.

  As she walked along the deserted promenade under a small chilly moon, she felt that if she could solve The Case Of The Vandalized Mink Coat, that would show Jimmy Jessop she was a brain to be reckoned with.

  The night was very still and the silence of the town, eerie. Her own footsteps sounded unnaturally loud.

  Her courage was beginning to fail. What if Francie didn’t answer the door? What if the neighbours reported her to the police? But the thought of impressing the hitherto unimpressed Jimmy spurred her on.

  As she turned into Partons Lane, she noticed that the street light at the corner was out, making the entrance to the lane pitch-black. She stumbled slightly on the cobbles. Getting to the pink cottage, she raised her hand and knocked loudly on the door. The door gave and swung slowly open.

  Agatha felt superstitious dread flooding her. It was as if the witch had known she was coming and had magically caused the door to open. She went inside. “Francie!” she called.

  The witch was no doubt upstairs asleep. Agatha fumbled around the hall looking for a light switch and at last found one at the foot of the stairs. Feeling more confident and thinking it might be an idea to surprise Francie asleep and study her fingernails and hands before waking her, Agatha started to creep up the stairs, which were as thickly carpeted as those at the hotel.

  She gingerly pushed open one door. The bathroom. She tried another. A box-room. Another door. In the light from the stairs, Agatha could see it was a bedroom. She felt around inside the door for a light switch, found it, and clicked it on.

  Lying half in, half out the bed was Francie Juddle. Blood from a great wound on her head had dripped onto the white carpet, leaving a dark stain. The white cat was crouched on the edge of the bed. When it saw Agatha, with one spring it flew straight at her face. Agatha screamed and tore it off.

  Her first instinct was to flee. But Francie might still be alive. Agatha could not bring herself to touch the body. There was a phone extension by the bed. Fingerprints, she thought. My fingerprints will be everywhere. Why didn’t I wear gloves? How do I explain my call?

  She had forgotten the number of the police station. She dialled 999 and then in a trembling voice asked for police and ambulance and then went down to the small
hall to wait.

  Agatha wished from the bottom of her heart that she had never run away. She crouched in a small chair in the hall. It would come out that she had visited Francie. And how was she to explain what she was doing at Francie’s cottage at this time of night?

  She heard car doors slam outside the cottage. Detective Constable Tarret came in followed by his sleepy policewoman.

  “What is this about?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”

  “It’s Mrs. Juddle,” said Agatha. “She’s upstairs in the bedroom. I think she’s dead.”

  The ambulance men came in at that moment.

  “Show us,” said Tarret.

  Agatha led the way upstairs and to the bedroom, pointed at the door and stood back while the police and the ambulance men went in. Jimmy Jessop came up the stairs.

  He glanced at her. “In there,” said Agatha faintly.

  She retreated to the hall. Soon the scene-of-crime men arrived with their equipment, then the pathologist with his black bag. Francie must be dead, thought Agatha. There was no rush to bring her out to the ambulance. More police arrived to cordon off the outside of the cottage.

  Agatha began to wonder whether she should slip off back to the hotel. After all, they would know where to find her. But she stayed where she was. The trembling had stopped and now she felt exhausted.

  Inspector Jimmy Jessop came down the stairs. “I’d better ask you to accompany us back to the station,” he said. “Constable Trul will take you there.” His eyes were flat and expressionless.

  The policewoman came down the stairs. Lights were on in all the neighbouring cottages. As she was led out, a flashlight went off in Agatha’s face. The local press had arrived. Agatha cringed and tried to hide her face. She got in the car. Another flashlight went off.

  Numb now with shock and exhaustion, Agatha was borne off to the police station and put in an interviewing room. Constable Trul brought her a cup of milky tea and a digestive biscuit and then sat in the corner, her hands folded in her lap.

  Agatha sipped the tea and wrinkled her nose in disgust. It was the sort of stuff in a thin paper cup that came out of a machine. She pushed it away and laid her head on the desk and immediately fell asleep. She was awakened three quarters of an hour later by someone shaking her shoulder. It was Jimmy Jessop. She looked up at him blearily.

  “Now, Mrs. Raisin,” he said, “let’s get this over with. We all need our sleep.”

  Agatha sat up, blinked and looked around, Jimmy sat down opposite her along with Detective Constable Tarret.

  “Is the tape in?” asked Jimmy over her shoulder and Trul gave a sleepy “Yes.”

  To her amazement, Agatha heard herself being cautioned and then Jimmy’s flat emotionless voice asking her if she wanted a lawyer.

  “No,” said Agatha. “I haven’t done anything.”

  “I have a report here that your fur coat was vandalized. In your preliminary statement, you said nothing about Mrs. Juddle. So why did you go to see her in the middle of the night?”

  Agatha’s mind went this way and that. Then she decided that the truth was the only thing that would serve.

  “I didn’t tell the police I had been to Francie because I was ashamed to say I had been consulting the local witch.” Agatha unwound the scarf from her head and bent it forward. “Some hairdresser shampooed my head with depilatory instead of shampoo and my hair didn’t seem to be growing back properly. Mrs. Daisy Jones at the hotel recommended Francie. I went along to her and bought a bottle of hair tonic. While I was there, she made several remarks about my coat.”

  “Exactly what did she say?”

  “I can’t remember exactly. She said something about all the little animals that had been killed to make it and that I shouldn’t be wearing it. I was upset after the coat had been vandalized. I thought I would go and wake her up and see if she had any red paint marks on her hands or under her nails. I knocked at the cottage door, hard. The door swung open. I went upstairs to look for the bedroom. I wanted to surprise her asleep. I wanted to look at her hands. But when I pushed open the bedroom door and turned on the light, I saw her the way you found her. I should have checked to see if she was still alive, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I phoned for the police and ambulance and then went downstairs to wait. Look here,” said Agatha with some of her usual energy, “if I’d bumped her off, I would simply have run away. My fingerprints are over everything.”

  “So Mrs. Juddle gave you hair restorer. Anything else?”

  “No,” lied Agatha, thinking of that bottle of love potion which was still in her handbag, glad she had not left it in the hotel room for the police to find.

  “So let’s go back to the beginning again …”

  Jimmy carefully took her through her story several times, obviously hoping she would slip up or come out with another bit of information.

  At last, she was fingerprinted and told she was free to go but cautioned not to leave Wyckhadden.

  A police car drove her the short distance to the hotel. She went up to her room and wearily opened the door. The room was in chaos. At first she thought she had been burgled until she realized there was fingerprint dust everywhere. Because of the murder, the forensic team had been sent in immediately. There was a knock at the door. She opened it to find the night porter standing there.

  “I forgot to tell you,” he said, his eyes darting around the room, “that the police took your fur coat away for evidence. Here’s the receipt.”

  “Thanks,” said Agatha.

  “What’s this about a murder?”

  “Do you mind? I want to sleep.” Agatha shut the door in his face.

  She was too tired to take a bath or shower. She creamed off her makeup, undressed and went to bed, but went to sleep with the lights on in case darkness should bring back the horrors of the night too vividly.

  Agatha was awakened early in the morning by the shrill sound of the telephone. It was a reporter from the Hadderton Gazette. “Can’t talk now,” she said and hung up. Then she phoned the switchboard and told them that no calls were to be put through to her room and then fell asleep again. She drifted in and out of sleep, vaguely aware that from time to time someone was knocking at her door.

  At last she rose about noon and had just bathed and dressed when the phone rang. “I told you not to put any calls through,” she snapped.

  “Mrs. Raisin? This is Inspector Jessop. I am downstairs and would like a few words with you.”

  Agatha hung up, checked her makeup carefully and adjusted the blue scarf around her head, then went downstairs.

  “We’ll go into the lounge,” said Jimmy. “It’s empty at the moment.”

  “No police sidekick?” said Agatha. “Is this a friendly call?”

  “Hardly.”

  They walked into the lounge and sat down in huge armchairs by the long windows. On a coffee-table in front of them were spread the day’s papers. “Nothing in the press yet,” said Jimmy. “Too late for them.”

  “When did she die?” asked Agatha. “I mean, the other residents will tell you I was in the hotel all evening.”

  “We’re waiting for the report. It is very hard to pinpoint the actual time of any death.”

  “Have you found out how someone could have got into my room and slashed my coat?”

  “No, it could have been a previous resident. We’re checking the maids. Of course, there’s a passkey. About last night, let’s start again now you are rested. Why should you think a woman whom you had consulted about hair tonic should have slashed your coat, all because of a few off remarks?”

  “I was rattled by the vandalism. I was furious. Oh, I may as well tell you the truth. I didn’t like the way you went off me at that dance after I told you I was an amateur detective. I wanted to show you what I could do.”

  “That’s madness,” said Jimmy coldly. “I wouldn’t put it past you to bump off someone or slash your own coat. Women of your age sometimes who fancy themselves as amat
eur detectives will often do anything to get publicity.”

  “I do need a lawyer. If there was a witness to this conversation, I would sue you,” shouted Agatha.

  “You must admit it looks odd. We had a murder in Wyckhadden twelve years ago and that’s it. You arrive, and suddenly we have two incidents connected to you.”

  “I am not a freak and I am not mad,” said Agatha in a thin voice. “Did you come here for the sole purpose of insulting me?”

  He passed a large hand over his face.

  “I’m so tired I don’t know what to think. But you’re right. My remarks were unprofessional and out of order.” He leaned behind him and pressed a bell on the wall. “I’ll get us a drink.”

  “I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

  The manager, Mr. Martin, came bustling up. “Inspector, the press are outside and are troubling our guests. Could you ask them to move on?”

  Jimmy rose to his feet. “I’ll do what I can. Bring Mrs. Raisin here a gin and tonic and me a half-pint of lager.”

  “This has never happened to me before,” said Mr. Martin crossly. He was a plump man in a tight suit with a high colour.

  “I have never had a coat slashed before,” said Agatha crossly. “Are we getting these drinks or not?”

  The manager strode off, his fat shoulders stiff with disapproval.

  Through the window, Agatha could see Jimmy talking to the press. A waiter came in with the drinks. Agatha suddenly realized that the police had made an oversight. They had not searched her handbag. If they had, they would have found that wretched love potion. She opened her handbag and took the small bottle out, planning to shove it down the side of the sofa cushions and then recover it later. But a shaft of sunlight through the windows lit up the glass of lager Jimmy had ordered. Why not? thought Agatha. And I hope it poisons him. Probably only sugar and water. She looked around the empty lounge and then tipped half the bottle into the lager. Then she remembered Francie had said five drops. Agatha stared anxiously at the lager. It had turned a darker colour. She shoved the bottle down the side of the armchair.

  Jimmy came back in, sat down, and took a hefty pull from his glass. There’s no moving the press. But I tried.”