Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

by M C Beaton

  Agatha looked at him anxiously. “Lager all right?”

  “I suppose so,” said Jimmy. “Funny sort of back taste, but there’s all these odd foreign lagers around these days. Where was I?”

  “You were insulting me,” said Agatha. “You were saying I probably ripped up my own coat and then went out and killed Francie Juddle.”

  “I’m sorry. I told you. Look, I’ll tell you what got up my nose about you. No, I don’t think you did it because as you say, you would hardly put your fingerprints over everything and then phone the police. The fact is … I told you about that other murder we had in Wyckhadden?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was a disaster. A woman in one of the old fishermen’s cottages was found dead, beaten to death, quite savagely, an old woman. Her jewellery had gone and the contents of her purse. We suspected the grandson who had form, and we were closing in on him. He shared a flat with two other ne’er-do-wells in the council estate at the back of the town. But along comes this Miss Biddle, a local resident, spinster in her fifties. Had read every detective story ever published and fancied herself as the local Miss Marple. It was common enough gossip around the town about the grandson, everyone saying they were pretty sure he did it. So she decided to go and confront the grandson herself, lying to him, telling him she had proof positive he had done it. So he bashes her to death. We catch up with him in Brighton and get him on both counts. Miss Biddle used to waylay me on the street, bragging about how she had solved the case of the missing cat or had found someone else’s lost handbag, so when you started up at the pier dance about all your adventures, I thought, oh God, we’ve got another one here.”

  “If you check up with Mircester Police, they can confirm my stories,” said Agatha frostily.

  “I did phone Mircester police this morning and talked to a Detective Inspector Wilkes. He didn’t exactly confirm your stories about being the great detective. The way he put it, it was more like you had a habit of blundering into things.”

  “After all the help I’ve given them!” Agatha was outraged.

  “Anyway, Agatha,” said Jimmy, suddenly smiling at her, “butt out of this one.”

  “As soon as you give me permission to leave this hell-hole, I’m going,” said Agatha. She picked up her gin and tonic and took a swallow and shuddered. “Too early in the day for me.”

  “It’s two in the afternoon.”

  “I’ve missed lunch.”

  “Come on and I’ll take you for a bite of something.”

  Agatha stared at him. He was smiling again. Was there something in that love potion after all?

  “I’ll just go up and get my coat.”

  Once in her room, Agatha unwound the scarf from her head, picked up the bottle of hair restorer and rubbed the lotion into the bald patches. If that love potion could make Jimmy smile at her again, then there might be something in the witch’s products. Then she wound the scarf round her head again, put on her coat, and went downstairs.

  “Aren’t you supposed to avoid socializing with suspects?” she asked.

  “I have a few hours off, and if anyone sees us, they’ll only think I’m grilling you for more information.”

  “Have you questioned the other residents of this hotel?”

  “The police have been taking statements from them all morning.”

  They went outside. The press clamoured to know if Agatha was being arrested.

  “No,” said Jimmy curtly. “And don’t follow us or you’ll get no more information out of me. And move away from the entrance of the hotel. I’ve already warned you.” But cameras clicked in Agatha’s face and a television camera was shoved in her face. Head down, and taking Jimmy’s arm, she walked with him along the promenade.

  He turned up one of the side streets and led her to a small café. There was a NO SMOKING sign on the door. Agatha thought that perhaps she should have asked the witch for a cure for smoking.

  They sat down at a table. Agatha picked up a small menu. The café specialized in “light snacks.” She ordered quiche and salad and Jimmy ordered a pot of tea.

  “So you were playing Scrabble with the other residents?” began Jimmy.

  “Yes, I told you.”

  “What are they like?”

  “I haven’t really got to know them that well. It was Daisy Jones who recommended Francie. She seems quite keen on Colonel Lyche, but he doesn’t notice her. He seems pretty set in his ways. Then there’s Jennifer Stobbs and Mary Dulsey and Harry Berry. What did we talk about? Well, Scrabble, letters, words. Nothing personal apart from ‘Would you like another drink, Mrs. Raisin?’”

  “Did any of them leave during the game?”

  “Daisy Jones went to powder her nose but she used the downstairs loo. Colonel Lyche went to get drinks from the bar. So did Mr. Berry. I don’t suppose any of them have a horrible past.”

  “We’re digging into it. Francie Juddle kept an appointments book. They all consulted her.”

  “Ah!” Agatha’s eyes gleamed.

  “Daisy Jones consulted her because she ran seances and Daisy wanted to get in touch with her late husband. The colonel has a liver complaint. Jennifer Stobbs asked for a love potion.”

  “Who for? I mean, who was she going to use it on?”

  “She insists it was for a friend. Mary Dulsey for warts, Harry Berry for rheumatism.”

  “What a gullible lot!”

  “You went to Francie yourself,” said Jimmy.

  “Did she have me in her book?” asked Agatha.

  “Yes, hair tonic.” Agatha heaved a sigh of relief. No mention of love potion.

  “But apart from the residents at the hotel,” Jimmy was saying, “an awful lot of the townspeople went to Francie.”

  “Did she make a good living out of it?”

  “Yes, I believe she was a wealthy woman, but we’re checking with her solicitor to see how much she left.”

  “What about family?”

  “She has a daughter, Janine, who will probably inherit and who may take over the business.”

  “It’s probably her.”

  “Doubtful. She visited her mother often and appeared very fond of her.”

  “Is she married?”

  “Yes, to a layabout called Cliff Juddle.”

  “Juddle! Did she marry her cousin, or what?”

  “Something like that. The Juddles are gypsies.”

  “So couldn’t this Cliff have bumped her off?”

  “Anything’s possible,” said Jimmy. “But folk say that Janine is a very bossy woman, very tough. If Cliff killed the mother hoping to get his hands on the daughter’s money, he wouldn’t have much of a chance. Janine holds the purse-strings.”

  “What does she do?”

  “Same as her mother, but over in Hadderton. She may move here because the mother’s was the more profitable business. There’s a lot of old residents in Wyckhadden and the old have ailments and some of the older generation are superstitious. We raided a couple of her seances but could find nothing phoney, like muslin, or tapes, or things under the table to make it move. Mind you, these things do leak out and I always felt she had been forewarned.”

  “But there must be trickery somewhere!”

  “Oh, I’m sure there is but we were never able to find any.”

  Agatha’s quiche arrived. After she had eaten it she still felt hungry and looked longingly at the display of cakes.

  “Like a cake?” asked Jimmy, following her gaze.

  “Well…”

  “I’ll have one as well.”

  “Oh, in that case …”

  May as well make a good job of it, thought Agatha, ordering a slice of chocolate fudge cake. The menu boasted, “We sell the best gateau cakes.” I wonder what the French tourists make of that one, thought Agatha.

  The cake was delicious.

  “So do I still have to stay in Wyckhadden?” asked Agatha.

  “Yes, I’m afraid you do. And I forgot to tell you, my detective sergeant,
Peter Carroll, will be on duty soon and he wants to ask you a few more questions. I’ll walk you round to the police station when you’re ready.”

  “Aren’t you coming?”

  “I’m going home for a couple of hours’ sleep. Ready to go?”

  Detective Sergeant Peter Carroll was a thin-faced man with a courteous manner which belied his seemingly endless capacity for asking probing questions. Agatha described again the events of the previous night, although now the whole thing was beginning to seem unreal. The interview room had a high window through which sunlight shone. Dust motes floated in the sunbeams. The table at which Agatha sat was scarred and stained with the rings of many coffee cups and cigarette burns. The walls were painted that sour shade of lime green so beloved by bureaucracy in Britain.

  Agatha was beginning to feel sleepy again. “So we go back to the reason you left in the middle of the night to wake up a woman you just thought might have vandalized your coat. Why?” asked Carroll.

  “I am by way of being an amateur detective,” said Agatha. Carroll consulted a fax on the papers in front of him and gave a brief cynical smile. Probably a fax from Wilkes telling them I’m an interfering busybody, thought Agatha. “Since Mrs. Juddle had criticized my wearing of the coat, I thought she might have had something to do with it. I thought if I paid her a surprise visit, she might still have traces of paint on her hands.”

  There was a knock at the door and then it opened and Tarret’s head appeared around it. “A word, sir.”

  “Excuse me.” Carroll went out. A policewoman seated in the corner by the tape machine stared stolidly ahead. Agatha stifled a yawn. Oh, to be home in Carsely in her own cottage with her cats. She had been silly to run away. She wondered if James thought of her.

  Back in Carsely, James Lacey switched off the word processor. He felt restless and bored. He had a dull feeling he refused to recognize that Carsely without Agatha was a lifeless sort of place. No one seemed to know where she had gone. The vicar’s wife, Mrs. Bloxby, probably knew but she wasn’t telling anyone.

  He decided to switch on the television and watch the teatime news. Another government scandal, another murder through road rage, and then the announcer said, “Police in Wyckhadden are investigating the death of a local witch. Mrs. Frances Juddle was found battered to death in her cottage. She was found by a visitor, a Mrs. Agatha Raisin.” There was a still photograph of Agatha in a police car. “Mrs. Raisin from the village of Carsely in Gloucestershire is reported to be a friend of Inspector Jimmy Jessop, who is in charge of the case.” Film of Agatha leaving the hotel with Jimmy, then a long shot of Agatha and Jimmy walking along the promenade, arm in arm. The announcer then went on to describe Wyckhadden as a quiet seaside resort where a great many retired people stayed. Interviews with various neighbours of Francie Juddle, all expressing shock. James watched, bemused. Agatha had never mentioned Wyckhadden. And surely, if she had been friend with a police inspector, she would have bragged about it.

  He switched off the television and went out and along to the vicarage. Mrs. Bloxby answered the door to him. “Why, Mr. Lacey! How nice. Come in. We don’t see much of you these days.”

  “I’ve been busy. What’s this about Agatha?”

  “She felt the need of a holiday.”

  “I have just seen her on television.”

  James told her about Agatha and the murder of the witch of Wyckhadden.

  “Poor Mrs. Raisin. Murder does seem to follow her around.”

  “It said on the television news that Agatha was a friend of some police inspector.”

  “I saw the television news. How shocking! Poor Mrs. Raisin. But I never heard her mention anything about a police inspector.”

  “But why Wyckhadden?”

  “I may as well tell you,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “now that you know where she is. She didn’t know anything about Wyckhadden. She just closed her eyes and stuck a pin in the map.”

  “She might have told me where she was going.”

  “Why?” asked Mrs. Bloxby gently. “You have not been close for quite a time.”

  “But we’re neighbours!”

  “No doubt she’ll tell us all about it when she returns. Tea?”

  “No, I don’t want any more of your filthy tea,” Agatha was saying to the policewoman. The sun had gone down. The interview room was cold.

  The door opened and Carroll came in again. “We got someone for cutting up your coat.”

  “Who was it?” asked Agatha.

  “It was that girl you told Tarret who attacked you on the prom. Her name’s Carly Broomhead. We picked her up. She still had traces of red paint on her hands. Her sister works, or rather worked, now, as a maid at Garden Hotel. She’s been fired.”

  “It would be someone like her,” said Agatha bitterly. “I can sue her until I’m black in the face, but she’ll never be able to pay for another coat.”

  “At least we’ve got that out the way and know it’s not connected with the murder.”

  “Oh, isn’t it? In my opinion, anyone who slashes a coat is quite capable of bashing someone’s head in.”

  “Just leave investigation to the police in future, Mrs. Raisin. You’re free to go but keep yourself available for further questioning.” He turned to the policewoman and said, “Interview with Mrs. Agatha Raisin finished at eighteen hundred hours. Switch off the tape, Josie, and leave us for a moment.”

  When the policewoman had gone, Carroll leaned forward and said, “Jimmy Jessop’s a decent man.”

  “I am sure he is,” said Agatha stiffly.

  “He was shattered by the death of his wife. I don’t want him getting hurt or mucked about by the likes of you, see?”

  “Why don’t you concentrate on police work and mind your own damned business,” said Agatha, standing up.

  “I am concentrating on police business and I don’t like the way you went out at one in the morning and found that body.”

  “Are you charging me?”

  “Not yet.

  “Then get stuffed.”

  Agatha stormed out. As she hurried back to the hotel, she realized with a little shock that she had not had a cigarette that day. She opened her handbag and took out a packet of Benson & Hedges. Then she took a deep breath of fresh air and put them back. She was free of the stuff at last.

  When she got back to the hotel, she was relieved to see that no press were waiting outside. The manager, Mr. Martin, was waiting for her. “If you would just step into the office, Mrs. Raisin.”

  She followed him into an office off the entrance hall.

  “I am very distressed that a member, or rather, a former member, of my staff should have been party to the destruction of your coat, Mrs. Raisin. We will not be charging you for your stay here.”

  “Thank you,” said Agatha. “I plan to make it as short as possible.”

  “Our offer does not cover drinks,” he said awkwardly.

  “I’ll remember that,” said Agatha drily. Then she remembered that bottle of love potion she had thrust down the cushions of the armchair in the lounge. She was all at once anxious to retrieve it. “Thank you.” She got to her feet and went out.

  The colonel was reading a newspaper in the lounge and sitting in the armchair on which Agatha had sat earlier. Daisy Jones was sitting opposite him, knitting.

  “What are you doing?” cried Daisy shrilly as Agatha plunged her hand down the side of the armchair on which the colonel was sitting.

  “I left my medicine,” said Agatha, retrieving the bottle, although she was tempted to shock Daisy by saying, “Just having a feel.”

  “These are distressing times,” said the colonel. “We are going to play Scrabble tonight as usual, all the same. Do join us.”

  “Thank you.”

  Why not, thought Agatha. Murder and mayhem may have arrived in Wyckhadden but the Scrabble game goes on.

  THREE

  AGATHA rubbed some more lotion into her bald patches before winding a chiffon scarf around he
r head and then went downstairs for dinner. After calling out “Good evening” to the others, she picked up a paperback and began to read to ward them off. She would see enough of them over the Scrabble game.

  The meal was roast pork, roast potatoes, apple sauce, and various vegetables. It had been preceded by Scotch broth and rolls and butter and was followed by meringues and ice cream. I shouldn’t even be eating half of this, thought Agatha, but what the hell, it’s been a bad time and I need some comfort.

  But the heavy meal had the effect of making her feel sleepy again. Only ambition to find out something about these other residents forced her into joining their Scrabble game.

  She refused the offer of a drink from the colonel. Mary Dulsey shook out the Scrabble tiles and old Harry put on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses and laid out pen and notebook to log the scores.

  “It’s nice the weather has cleared up,” said Daisy brightly. “Oh, thank you, Colonel,” to that gentleman, who had returned with a tray of drinks.

  “Aren’t we going to discuss the murder?” asked Agatha.

  “But it’s our Scrabble game,” said Jennifer.

  The others were carefully sorting their tiles in rows. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this lot,” grumbled Mary.

  “They found out who vandalized my coat,” said Agatha.

  “We know,” said the colonel. “Mr. Martin told us. Agatha, you have the highest tile. You start.”

  Agatha looked at her letters. She leaned over the board and put down HOG. “You have a T there and a U and another H,” reproved Daisy. You could have put THOUGH.”

  “No helping,” barked the colonel, and Daisy blushed and whispered, “Sorry.”

  Agatha looked round the bent old heads in amazement. Why weren’t they talking about the murder? But they had all been interviewed all morning, had probably discussed it among themselves, and now all they wanted was their usual game of Scrabble. Perhaps the best thing would be to try to tackle them one by one on the following day.

  When the first game finished, she excused herself, saying she was tired and went up to her room.