Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

by M C Beaton

  No one replied. Tea arrived and the colonel poured. They all helped themselves to milk and sugar and digestive biscuits.

  “I wonder what happened? I wonder who did it?” Agatha asked desperately.

  “Put lots of sugar in your tea, Daisy,” urged the colonel.

  Agatha looked at them in bewilderment. All of them were avoiding eye contact with her. Were they all in it?

  Jimmy Jessop came into the lounge. “The manager has kindly let us use the office, which will save all of you going down to the police station. I will take you one at a time. You first, Mrs. Raisin. You will all have to come to the police station later on today to make official statements.”

  Agatha followed him into the office, where Detective Sergeant Peter Carroll was waiting. Jimmy looked at her as if he had ever seen her before. “The dead woman’s husband said you were all at a seance last night. Begin there and tell us what happened.”

  So Agatha began. She described the seance. She described how she had heard the supposed voice of her dead husband. “I always thought the voice of the dead was supposed to come from the medium’s mouth,” she said, “but this voice was in the room.”

  “And what did this voice say?”

  “Just a lot of rot,” said Agatha. “How was I, things like that.”

  “And then?”

  “And then the supposed voice of Francie filled the room. She got to the point when she told Janine she knew who had murdered her and then Mary screamed. She said someone had kicked her. The colonel said we weren’t paying, Cliff got ugly, the colonel threatened to call the police and so we all got out of there. We went for a walk on the pier this morning and Jennifer spotted the body in the water, or rather she said something like, ‘What’s that white thing?’ and when we looked over, the body turned in the water and we saw it was Janine. The body was below the surface but the water was clear and glassy so we all saw it was her.”

  “Nothing else you can think of?”

  “Like what?”

  “Like what were the reactions of the others when you all saw the body?”

  “Harry Berry slumped down and sat on the pier as if his legs had given way. Mary was holding on to Jennifer and crying. Daisy was squeaking and whimpering. The colonel went off to call the police.”

  “And you?”

  “I went and bought a packet of cigarettes from the machine on the pier. I’d given up smoking, but suddenly, more than anything, I wanted a cigarette.”

  “That will be all for now. Send the colonel in.”

  Agatha rose. “Jimmy, could I have a word with you in private?”

  Carroll glared.

  “No, you can’t,” said Jimmy coldly. “Send the colonel in.”

  All Agatha had wanted to do was to apologize to him for rushing him. Feeling very low, she told the colonel to go in and sat by the fire. She lit another cigarette and stared moodily at the others. It was odd. Surely it was odd that this second murder, this murder of a woman they had all seen last night, should not be discussed amongst them. She got up and went to the window. A boat was bobbing by the pier. She watched, fascinated, as the body of Janine was lifted aboard. A team of divers arrived. Why? They had the body. Evidence, of course. They would be searching on the sea-bed for some sort of weapon. How did she die? And if someone had thrown her from the pier, where was her coat? It had been bitterly cold last night. Janine would not have gone out wearing nothing but a thin muslin gown. Cliff could have killed her, thrown the body in the sea, and the currents could have carried it round to the pier.

  Surely Cliff was the murderer. He stood to gain not only Janine’s money but the money she had inherited from her mother, and she must have inherited Francie’s house and money or she would not have moved into that house in Partons Lane.

  If only the police would decide it was Cliff. If they did not arrest him, then she would be trapped in Wyckhadden. She thought of her cottage, of her cats, Hodge and Boswell, of James Lacey, of her neighbours, and she began to tremble and her eyes filled with tears.

  “Going up to my room,” she said gruffly.

  No one replied.

  Agatha went upstairs. She collapsed on the bed and in a minute she was fast asleep.

  She was awakened two hours later by a knocking at the door. She struggled up off the bed and went to answer it. A policewoman stood there. “You are to accompany me to the station.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Agatha, thinking of Jimmy. “I’d better put some make-up on.”

  She went into the bathroom and quickly cleaned her face and put on fresh make-up. Then she remembered that love potion. Francie had said five drops. Five drops would leave enough to analyse when she got home. She slipped the bottle into her handbag and went out to join the policewoman.

  Back again to the station, back to the interview room. Agatha sat down on a hard chair. The policewoman came in with a tray with a teapot, milk and sugar and a china mug, and a paper cup of coffee. She handed Agatha the paper cup. “Who’s the tea for?” asked Agatha, looking at the coffee with distaste. “That’s for the inspector” was the reply.

  “Lucy!” called a voice from outside in the corridor. Lucy put the tray down on the table and went out. Agatha could hear her speaking to someone outside. Quick as a flash, Agatha whipped out the bottle of love potion and, with one eye on the door, tipped a little into the teapot.

  The policewoman came back in and picked up the tray and departed. Agatha sat alone. She was just about to rise and shout down the corridor for someone when the door opened and Tarret and Carroll came in, accompanied by a policewoman. Tarret and Carroll sat opposite Agatha, the policewoman switched on the recording machine, and the interview began.

  This time the questions were more searching. The police had learned from the others that the seance had been Agatha’s idea. Why?

  “It seemed a bit of a lark,” said Agatha weakly.

  “A lark that led to murder. Now let’s go over everything from the beginning.”

  After an hour of close questioning, Agatha began to wonder if people confessed to the murder of someone, a murder they had not committed, out of sheer weariness and a sense of unnatural guilt caused by the beady, suspicious eyes of detectives.

  At last she was free to go but told not to leave Wyckhadden.

  As she was leaving the police station, she was called back by the desk sergeant. “The inspector wants a word with you.” He buzzed her through the door beside the desk and then led her along a corridor to a room at the end, opened the door, and said, “Mrs. Raisin, sir.”

  Jimmy rose to meet her. Agatha’s eyes flew to the tea-tray, which was balanced on the top of book shelves. Had he drunk any?

  “Sit down, Agatha,” said Jimmy. “I’ve got a minute or two free.”

  “I’m sorry about the other night,” said Agatha. She decided to tell him the truth. “I went to see Janine to see if I could get more of that hair tonic of her mother’s. She didn’t have any but she offered to read my palm. She said I would have no more adventures. She also said I would never have sex again. I wanted to prove her wrong. You mustn’t worry about it. It doesn’t mean there’s anything up with you. It happens to lots of men.”

  Jimmy looked at her intently. “You’re not just saying that to comfort me? About it happening to a lot of men?”

  “No, it really does. I thought you would know that.”

  He smiled. “It’s hardly the thing men talk about and in this station, you would think we were all a virile lot, to hear the stories in the canteen. The fact is, my wife was my first and my last.”

  “There you are!” said Agatha. “It stands to reason. If it weren’t for this wretched murder, we could take it slowly, become friends first.”

  “We could still manage that. I’m afraid you’re trapped here for a bit longer.”

  “How did she die?”

  “She drowned, or so the preliminary examination suggests. Her husband said she couldn’t swim.”

  “Has he been a
rrested?”

  “No, he’s been taken in for questioning, but I don’t think we can hold him.”

  “Why?”

  “Some elderly lady in one of those boarding-houses in the front is awake for a good part of the night. She said it was around two in the morning. She saw Francie hurrying along the prom in the direction of the pier.”

  “Surely not in that white dress. It was freezing cold.”

  “The witness said Janine had a big black cloak on, and they recovered a cloak from the sea. Then she said she saw Cliff. He ran a little way after her. She turned round and, shouted, “Go back to the house. Leave me alone. I know what I’m doing.” She said Cliff turned back. She sat at the window, reading and occasionally looking out. She said she sat there until dawn and never saw either of them again.”

  “But,” exclaimed Agatha, “if Janine said she knew what she was doing, somehow that suggests that Cliff knew who she was going to meet.”

  “That’s what we thought,” said Jimmy. “But so far Cliff is sticking to his story, which is that Janine had received a phone call. She got up and got dressed. He said he was sleepy and it was only when he heard the street door slam behind her that he thought it was odd.

  “He ran after her but she told him to go home. He says he doesn’t know who phoned or who she was meeting.”

  “But that phone call could be traced.”

  “It was made from a phone-box at the entrance to the pier, so we’re none the wiser. We’re under a lot of pressure. The newspaper headlines will be screaming about the witch murders tomorrow and already the town’s filling up with photographers and reporters and television crews with their satellite dishes. I’ve got the chief constable on my back. The superintendent from Hadderton is coming down to take over. I’m relieved in a way. It takes some of the pressure off me.”

  “You know what I find odd?” said Agatha. “That lot at the hotel. First there’s the seance, which Mary broke up as soon as the supposed spirit of Francie was about to accuse someone. Then they don’t talk about the murders, none of them do. This evening the colonel will probably suggest a game of Scrabble. They will make little jokes about the meaning of words, Harry Berry will add up the scores, I will be bottom of the league as usual, and that will be that.”

  “The colonel did say that the whole business was distasteful and best forgotten about. It’s maybe the way his generation goes on.”

  “Rubbish,” said Agatha roundly. “No one can ignore two murders.”

  “Thanks for coming to see me, Agatha. I’d better get to work again, but I’ll call on you as soon as I get some free time.”

  Agatha gathered up her handbag and gloves. She took a quick glance at the tea-tray. The cup had been used.

  He opened the door for her and bent down and kissed her cheek. “You won’t be bothered with press at the hotel. Mr. Martin is not allowing any of them to stay.”

  * * *

  When Agatha went into the dining-room that night, she found their numbers had been augmented by a man and woman. She studied them closely. They were sharing a bottle of claret and talking in low voices. The woman had short-cropped dark hair and was wearing a pin-striped trouser suit. The man was in a respectable charcoal-grey suit and modest tie. But there was a certain air of raffishness about him, and when Agatha entered the dining-room his eyes raked her up and down and he whispered something to the woman, who looked at Agatha as well.

  Agatha sighed and turned about and went to the manager’s office. “I thought you weren’t going to let the press into the hotel,” she said.

  “I haven’t,” said Mr. Martin. “I’ve been very strict about that. The life-blood of this little hotel is supplied by the residents.”

  “You’ve got two of them in the dining-room right now. Man and a woman.”

  “But that is a Mr. and Mrs. Devenish, over here from Devon.”

  “Did you ask for any identification?”

  “No, we don’t, if people are British. They sign the registration form and the visitors’ book.”

  Mr. Martin surveyed her with disfavour. “I have been manager of this hotel for fifteen years, Mrs. Raisin, and I pride myself on being a good judge of character.”

  “And I pride myself as being a good judge of the press. Come with me,” said Agatha wearily.

  “If you make a scene, I will never forgive you.” But Mr. Martin followed her from the office. Agatha went straight up to the table where the couple were sitting. “Which newspaper do you represent?” she asked.

  The man and woman exchanged quick glances. “We’re just here on holiday,” the man said.

  “Then you will not mind if Mr. Martin here asks you for some sort of identification. I am sure you would not like me to call the police in to check your credentials.”

  “Okay, then,” said the woman with a shrug. “We’re from the Daily Bugle. So what’s wrong with that?”

  “I’ll leave you to deal with it,” said Agatha to the outraged manager and went back to her table.

  As she watched the press being told to leave, Agatha began to think again about the hotel residents. Just supposing one of them was a murderer. Did ordinary people such as they suddenly become murderous, or was there something in their backgrounds which would give her a clue? How could she find out? The police would simply check their records and if none of them had a record, they would not probe any further. Mary had suffered a nervous breakdown. But so did lots of people. She had learned a lot about Mary because of her love for Joseph Brady. The best way to get the others to talk was to get them alone. She decided to start with the colonel.

  The colonel finished his dinner first and went through to the lounge. Agatha knew he would soon be followed by the rest and then that wretched Scrabble board would be brought out. She follow him into the lounge.

  “Colonel,” said Agatha, “I wonder if I could ask you a favour?”

  “Certainly.”

  “I am upset and uneasy. This second murder has really frightened me. I wondered if I could persuade you to come for a walk with me and perhaps stop somewhere for a drink? I know it’s silly of me, but I feel I have to get out of the hotel and I am frightened to go on my own.”

  He rose gallantly to his feet. “I’ll tell the others.”

  “Do you mind if we don’t? I don’t feel like a crowd. You are such a sensible gentleman. I feel if I could talk to you about things, I would not feel so frightened.”

  “Of course. Shall we get our coats? It’s cold out.”

  When they emerged from the hotel, they blinked in the glare of television lights and flashlights. “We have nothing to say,” said the colonel firmly, taking Agatha’s arm and shouldering his way through the pack. “No, really. This is harassment.”

  Agatha prayed that some more enterprising reporter would not break away from the pack and follow them. But the press too often hunted together, which is why a lot of them often missed out on stories, and they were left in peace.

  A thin veil of cloud was covering the moon and the air felt damp. “Rain coming,” said the colonel.

  “The weather has been very changeable,” said Agatha, thinking two brutal murders have been committed and here we are, talking about the weather.

  “I’ve been thinking,” began the colonel.

  “Yes?” said Agatha eagerly.

  “That last Scrabble game, Harry put down ‘damn’. Now I pointed out we weren’t allowed any swear words and if you remember he became quite angry, so I let it go.”

  “It’s a verb,” said Agatha crossly, “as in damn with faint praise.”

  The colonel’s face cleared. “How clever of you. I shall apologize to Harry.”

  It was James Lacey who had quoted that once, thought Agatha bleakly.

  “I think we should go to the Metropol for a drink,” said the colonel. “It’s rather a flashy sort of modern place, but the cocktail bar is suitable for ladies.”

  The Metropol catered for the smarter, flashier, more painted geriatric
. Women’s faces grouted with layers of foundation cream. Face-lifts were still rare in England.

  “I like trying new cocktails,” said the colonel, studying a card on the small plastic table. “There’s one here, the Wyckhadden Slammer. Let’s try two of those.” He signalled to the cocktail waitress, a large elderly woman with a truculent face, and ordered the drinks. When they arrived, they turned out to be bright blue in colour with a great deal of fruit and with little umbrellas sticking out of the top.

  “I wanted to talk about the murders,” began Agatha.

  “Now why does a pretty lady like you want to talk about nasty things like that?” said the colonel roguishly. “This is quite good.” He sipped his cocktail. “Wonder how they get that blue colour?”

  “I keep wondering who did it?”

  “Oh, I’d leave that to the police. They may seem to be plodding but they are very thorough. They’ll get there.”

  “Have you no curiosity about the murders?”

  The colonel took another sip of his blue drink. “Not really. You see, I’m pretty sure it was the husband.”

  Agatha decided to try another tack. “Have you and the other residents known each other long?”

  “Years, I suppose. We all used to come here on holiday and then, as we retired, we decided to stay.”

  “It’s an expensive hotel.”

  “Mr. Martin is only too keen to give us special rates. Can’t get people in the winter. Then there’s all those silly people who go abroad for their holidays now. Why?”

  “Sunshine?”

  “Pah, all that does is cause skin cancer. The British skin was never meant to be exposed to the sun.”

  “Did your wife come here with you?”

  “Gudren enjoyed it here, yes. When I was in military service we travelled a lot, but we always tried to get here when I was on leave.”

  “Don’t any of you stay with your families?”

  “I have a son. I stay with him at Christmas. Daisy goes to her sister then, Harry to his daughter, and—let me see—I think Jennifer and Mary stay on.”

  “Do you ever quarrel? I mean, spending so much time together, year in and year out.”

  “Quarrel? I don’t think we have anything to quarrel about.” The colonel looked genuinely puzzled.