Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

by M C Beaton

  “Somehow the idea of Scrabble seems a bit flat,” said Jennifer in her deep voice. “But I suppose that’s all we’ve got on the cards tonight.”

  But when they returned to the hotel, it was to find that the colonel had taken the liberty of booking seats for them all at a local production of Gilbert and Sullivan’s Mikado and had arranged an early dinner.

  This is like a girl’s dormitory, thought Agatha amused as Daisy and Mary and Jennifer called in at her room to ask her to vet what they were wearing.

  They all went downstairs together. “By George, ladies, you’ve youthed,” said old Harry, his eyes twinkling.

  “That blue suits you, Daisy,” said the colonel, “and your hair’s pretty.” Daisy’s eyes shone and she squeezed Agatha’s arm.

  The theatre was an old-fashioned one bedecked with plaster gilt cherubs and a large chandelier.

  The colonel, who had been carrying a large box of chocolates, passed it along, and there was much fumbling for spectacles as they tried to read the chart of flavours.

  Agatha had never seen a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta and feared it would all prove to be a bit arty-farty, but from the overture on, she was riveted. In that evening, for a brief time, she became the child she had never really been. It was a novelty to her to have the capacity of sheer enjoyment. Pleasure for Agatha had always been bitter-sweet, always had a this-won’t-last feeling. But that evening, the glory of escapism and warmth and security seemed to go on forever.

  As they filed out after the performance, the colonel could be heard saying to Daisy, “The Lord High Executioner could have been better,” but Agatha could find no fault with the performance.

  They went to a nearby pub for drinks. The colonel told an amusing story about a Gilbert and Sullivan performance in the army. Jennifer made them laugh by saying she had once played Buttercup in Pirates of Penzance and had forgotten all the words and so had tried to make them up.

  It was only when Agatha was undressing for bed that she suddenly thought it curious that not one of them had mentioned the murder, or was curious about the murder. Maybe they considered it bad form. Maybe their elderly brains had already forgotten about the whole thing.

  But in the following week, as she went places with her new-found friends, she, too, discovered that, for the first time, she wasn’t much interested in finding out who had murdered Francie, largely because she was convinced the culprit was the son-in-law and the police with the aid of forensic would soon arrest him. And Jimmy had not called, not once.

  James Lacey was shopping in Mircester when he ran into Detective Sergeant Bill Wong. Bill was looking round and chubby, a sure sign he had no love in his life. When Bill was smitten by some girl, he always slimmed down,

  “I see Agatha’s got herself involved in another murder,” said Bill. “Heard from her?”

  “No,” said James. “Have you?”

  “Not a word. I thought she would have been on the phone asking me to help. Why don’t you go down there and see her?”

  “I can’t manage. I’m thinking of going abroad again. Friends of mine have a villa in Greece and they’ve invited me over.”

  Poor Agatha, thought Bill. James was hardly the impassioned lover.

  When he got back to police headquarters, he got a telephone call from Baronet, Sir Charles Fraith. “What’s our Aggie been up to?” demanded Charles.

  “I only know what I’ve read in the papers,” said Bill. “Then I gather Wyckhadden police have been checking up on her background.”

  “If you’re speaking to her, give her my love.”

  “Why don’t you go and see her?”

  “Shooting season. Got a big house party. Can’t get away.”

  Poor Agatha, thought Bill again. I hope she isn’t too lonely.

  Agatha was taking a brisk walk along the pier ten days after the murder when she saw the tall, slim figure of the colonel in front her and quickened her steps to catch up with him.

  “Fine morning,” said Agatha. It had turned quite mild for mid-winter, one of those milky grey days when all colour seemed to have been bleached out of the sea and the sky, and even the sea-gulls were silent.

  “Morning, Agatha,” said the colonel. “All set for the dance tonight? More our style.”

  He pointed to a poster advertising OLD-TYME DANCING. “Yes, we’ve all got new gowns to dazzle you,” said Agatha. “Colonel, why do none of you ever talk about that dreadful murder?”

  “Not the sort of thing one talks about,” said the colonel. “Nasty business. Best forgotten.”

  “You went to Francie, didn’t you?”

  “My liver had been playing up and my quack couldn’t seem to come up with anything sensible. Kept telling me to stop drinking. May as well be dead in that case. Went to Francie. She gave me some powders. Haven’t had any trouble since.”

  Agatha thought that as the colonel did not drink very much, and had probably received a bad health scare to slow down his drinking, it was probably due to that rather than Francie’s powders that he hadn’t had any more trouble.

  “What did you make of her? Francie, I mean.”

  “All right. I’d expected a lot of mumbo-jumbo. But she seemed a sensible sort of woman. I’m surprised her daughter’s moved in and set up in business so quickly.”

  “She has?”

  “Yes, there was a small ad in the local paper this morning.”

  Agatha’s detective curiosity was roused again. “That is odd.”

  “I don’t think it’s odd,” said the colonel. “Tasteless, maybe. I think she’s cashing in on the publicity about her mother’s death.”

  “I wonder if people will go to her,” mused Agatha.

  “Bound to. There was also a bit in the local paper about Francie’s cures, saying there was a lot to be said for old-fashioned herbal medicine.”

  “That’s what she used? Herbs?”

  “Or grass.”

  “Grass?”

  “Grass. Pot. Hash. We had a lady who was resident at the Garden—she’s dead now, poor old thing. She was subject to fits of depression and so she went to Francie, who gave her something. Well, after that, whenever she had taken some of what Francie had prescribed, she used to get all giggly and silly. I’ve seen the effects of pot and I thought Francie had given her something with hash in it.”

  “Didn’t you report it?”

  “Old lady had terminal cancer. I thought, if it keeps her happy, so be it.”

  “And yet you went to her yourself?”

  “She seemed to be all right generally. Mary was plagued with warts and she cured those, things like that. I had high blood pressure once, everything seemed to outrage me—politics, modern youth, you name it. I went on a diet and decided not to worry about anything, interfere in anything, just look after myself. Worked a treat. That’s why I let things like this murder alone.”

  “Did you know Daisy’s husband?”

  “Met him once. Gloomy sort of fellow.”

  “What did he die of?”

  “Lung cancer. Sixty-cigarettes-a-day man.”

  Agatha, who had been fighting with the craving for a cigarette, felt the longing for one sharply increase. Odd that the minute she heard something awful about the effects of cigarettes, the longing for one should hit her. Maybe that’s why the cigarette manufacturers didn’t balk at putting grim warnings on cigarette packets. They probably knew that at the heart of every addict, there’s a death wish.

  “You’ve done wonders with the ladies’ appearance.” The colonel strolled on with Agatha at his side. He seemed happy to change the subject. “Daisy’s looking really pretty.”

  “Thinking of getting married?” teased Agatha.

  “What me? By George, no! Once was enough.”

  “Wasn’t it happy?”

  “Wonder if those chaps have caught any fish?” The colonel waved his stick at men fishing at the end of the pier. So the subject of his marriage was closed.

  As they turned back and walk
ed towards the hotel, Agatha stumbled and he tucked her arm in his. “Better hang on to me,” he said. “Don’t want you twisting an ankle before this evening. You should wear flats.”

  “I always like a bit of a heel,” said Agatha. She looked towards the hotel. There was a flash at one of the windows. Could be binoculars, thought Agatha. I wonder whose room that is.

  When they went into the warmth of the hotel, to the Victorian hush of the hotel with its thick carpets, thick curtains and solid walls, Agatha felt all her old restlessness coming back. She went up to her room and unwound the scarf from her head. There was not enough hair covering the hitherto bald patches. She shook the bottle. Only a little left.

  She could kill two birds with one stone. She could go along and have a look at this Janine and see what she was like and also see if she had any of her mother’s hair lotion left. She didn’t want to use up the last little bit in case it turned out that Janine didn’t have any and that last bit must be kept for analyses.

  She brushed her hair and decided there was no longer any reason to wear a scarf.

  Agatha called in at the dining-room on her way out to tell the others she would be skipping lunch. The waistband of her skirt felt comfortably loose for the first time in months and she did not want to sabotage her figure with one of the hotel’s massive lunches.

  “Where are you going?” asked Mary.

  “I’m going to see Francie Juddle’s daughter.”

  They all stared at her. “Why?” asked Jennifer.

  “It’s my hair. Remember I had these bald patches? Francie gave me some hair tonic and it worked a treat. I’m going to see if she has any of her mother’s stuff left.”

  Agatha turned away and said over her shoulder, “If she’s such a witch, she may even be able to rouse the spirits of the dead to tell me who murdered her mother.”

  There was a sudden stillness behind her, but she went on her way. They probably all thought her visit was bad form.

  FOUR

  AGATHA felt quite excited as she made her way along the promenade to Partons Lane.

  At the cottage, a surly-looking young man answered the door. “You got an appointment?” he demanded.

  “No.”

  “Well, you’ll need to come back. Two o’clock’s the first free appointment.”

  “Put my name down,” said Agatha. “Agatha Raisin.”

  “Right you are.”

  “You won’t forget?”

  “Naw.”

  So that’s that for the moment, Agatha thought. She made her way to the pub where she had first met Jimmy. To her surprise and delight, he was sitting at a table with a half-finished glass of lager in front of him.

  “Agatha!” He rose to his feet. “Sit down and I’ll get you something. The usual?”

  “Thanks, Jimmy.”

  Jimmy returned with her drink. “So how are things?” he asked.

  “I’ve been jauntering around with the people from the hotel. We’re going to the dance tonight. Have they found out when the murder was committed?”

  “Can’t ever be exact. She hadn’t had any supper. Nothing in her stomach to indicate she’d eaten anything since lunch-time. The pathologist thinks it might have been between five and six o’clock, going by rigor mortis and all that sort of business.”

  “Oh, but that means it could have been done by one of them at the hotel. Surely the neighbours saw who went in and out.”

  “There’s the problem. The cottages on either side and across the road are weekend cottages. And the only permanent resident four doors away is nearly blind.”

  “But someone carrying a cash box and emptying out the contents and throwing it over the sea-wall would surely be noticed.”

  “Not really. Have you been around Wyckhadden at six o’clock? It’s the ideal time for a murder. All the shops and offices are closed and everyone indoors having their tea. Only the really posh still have dinner in the evening down here. The murderer could have transferred the money into coat pockets and then just have dropped the empty box over the wall. It was high tide and the sea would have been up.”

  “But the appointments book. Was anyone booked in for six?”

  “She always took the last appointment at four-thirty. That was a Mrs. Derwent, who took her little boy along who’s got trouble with asthma.”

  “What about the weapon? Surely that would have been dropped over the sea-wall with the box?”

  “Maybe. But there’s everything down there at low tide that could have been used—empty bottles, iron bars, bits of wood. The sea’s rough and the pebbles would have scoured any evidence clean away.”

  “So are you looking for anyone?”

  “We suspected Janine’s husband, Cliff. But he has a cast-iron alibi. He was playing bowls from early afternoon to late evening at the bowling alley over at Hadderton. Masses of witnesses.”

  “Rats.”

  “As you say, rats. Don’t worry about it, Agatha. At least you lot at the hotel seem to be in the clear.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a young man’s murder. I’m sure of that. That blow that killed her was done with one brutal bashing to the head.”

  “They’re pretty spry, and Jennifer Stobbs, for example, is still a powerful woman.”

  “It’s usually someone with a bit of form, and they’re all respectable people who don’t need the cash. It takes a lot of money to pay the Garden’s prices, year in, year out. Your hair’s grown back in. Very nice.”

  “I wonder if it was that lotion I got from Francie.”

  “I think it would probably have grown back in anyway. I’ll need to go.”

  “We’re all going to the pier dance tonight,” said Agatha hopefully.

  “If I find a spare minute, I’ll drop in. But don’t waste time worrying anymore about who did the murder. If you ask me, it could have been anyone. She had so many clients over the years and one of them could have seen her putting money away in that box and talked about it at home. Some youth hears about it and tells his pals. I’ve a nasty feeling this one isn’t going to be solved.”

  Agatha walked back to Partons Lane. Again the young man answered the door. “Are you Cliff? Janine’s husband?” asked Agatha.

  “Yes.” He led her into the living-room and said, “Wait there.”

  The white cat was lying on the hearth. It saw Agatha and bared its pointed teeth in a hiss. Agatha eyed it warily in case it flew at her again.

  Janine came in. She had dyed blonde hair piled up on top of her head. She had hard pale blue eyes fringed with white lashes, a thin, long nose and that L-shaped jaw which used to be regarded as a thing of beauty in Hollywood actresses of the eighties.

  “What can I do for you?” she asked, smiling. The smile was not reflected in her hard, assessing eyes. Agatha felt that every item she was wearing had been priced.

  “Your mother—excuse me, my condolences on your sad loss—sold me some hair tonic. I wonder if you have any left.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I threw a lot of that stuff out. I don’t deal so much in potions. I have seances, palm-reading, tarot, things like that. I could read your palm.”

  “How much?”

  “Ten pounds.”

  Pretty steep, thought Agatha, but she was anxious to ingratiate herself with Janine.

  “All right.”

  “Give me your hands.”

  Agatha held out her hands. “You have a strong character,” said Janine. “Like getting your own way.”

  “I don’t need a character assessment,” said Agatha testily.

  “You have suffered a bereavement recently, a violent bereavement.” Agatha’s husband’s murder had been in all the papers. “There are now three men in your life. Each loves you in his own way, but you will never marry again. There has been a great deal of danger in your life up until now, but that is all gone. You will now lead a quiet life until you die. Nor will you have sex with anyone from now on.”

  “How can you tell all that?” Aga
tha was feeling angry.

  “There is an affinity between us. You found my mother. There is a psychic bond between us. That is all.”

  What a rotten ten pounds worth, thought Agatha, and then was about to say something when she was hit by an idea.

  “You said you do seances,” she said.

  “Yes, I call up the spirits of the dead.”

  “So who does your mother say murdered her?”

  “It is too early. Any day now. She is getting established on the other side.”

  Can’t be unpacking anyway, thought Agatha sourly.

  “Look, there’s six of us along at the Garden Hotel. Would you consider doing a seance for us if the others are agreeable?”

  “Certainly.”

  “At the hotel?”

  “No, I always do seances here.”

  I’ll bet you do, thought Agatha. Too many tricks to carry along.

  She said aloud, “I’ll check with the others and let you know.”

  She paid over ten pounds. “How much do you charge for a seance?”

  “Two hundred pounds.”

  “Blimey.”

  “It takes a lot out of me.”

  And a lot out of everyone else’s pocket, thought Agatha as she stumped along the promenade some minutes later.

  When she arrived at the hotel, she took a look in the lounge. Mary was on her own by the fire, knitting. Agatha decided to join her. Mary rarely said anything. Jennifer always acted as spokeswoman for both of them.

  Taking off her coat, Agatha sat down opposite her. Mary gave her a brief smile and went on knitting. She must have been quite pretty once, in a weak, rabbity sort of way, thought Agatha.

  “I went to see Janine,” said Agatha.

  “Francie’s daughter? What was she like?”

  “Read my palm at great expense and talked a lot of bollocks. Still, it might be a hoot if we all went along to one of her seances.”

  “Do you think those things are real?”

  “I can’t see how. But it might be fun. She charges two hundred pounds, would you believe? Still, split up amongst six of us, it isn’t too bad.”