Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

by M C Beaton

  Agatha gave a little sigh. She was not going to get anything else out of the colonel. She would need to try one of the others. She refused his offer of another drink and said she was feeling tired. They walked back to the hotel.

  “Press have given up for the night,” said the colonel cheerfully.

  “Let’s hope some big story breaks and takes them somewhere else,” said Agatha. “Oh, there’s Jimmy.” The tall figure of the inspector could be seen standing on the hotel steps.

  “I’ll leave you to it,” said the colonel.

  “Agatha,” said Jimmy with a shy smile. “I was hoping to have a word with you. The others are playing Scrabble in the lounge. Let’s go to our pub.”

  Our pub, thought Agatha cheerfully. I can’t wait to try that love potion on James Lacey.

  “Now, what’s happening?” asked Agatha when they were seated over drinks.

  Jimmy sighed. “We’re going to have to release the husband. We haven’t anything on him.”

  “Don’t you have anything at all? What about all the wonders of forensic science? Isn’t there anything? A hair? A fingerprint?”

  “A lot of people called on Janine. Trying to sort out all the evidence is a nightmare.”

  “What about the appointments book?”

  “There isn’t one. That’s disappeared.”

  “It must have been someone pretty powerful who threw her off the pier.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Jimmy. “We’ve found threads of her white dress in the pier rail where she went over and bruises on her ankles. It looks almost as if someone pointed down at the water and said something like, ‘There’s something down there.’ Janine leans over. The rail is quite low. Someone grasp her ankles and just tips her over.”

  “It must have been someone who knew she couldn’t swim.”

  “Yes, that’s what made us sure it was the husband.”

  “What I would love to find out,” said Agatha, twiddling with the stem of her glass, “is if there is anything in the background of any of them, I mean the people at the hotel, that would cause them to commit murder.”

  “We’ve gone into that pretty thoroughly. Mary and Jennifer are a couple of single ladies who seem to have led boring and respectable lives. Daisy and Harry, the same. The colonel had a hard-working career in the army.”

  “Northern Ireland?”

  “Yes, like everyone else, but if you’re starting to think about some sinister plot by the IRA, remember it wasn’t the colonel who was murdered.”

  “Why would anyone kill Francie and then her daughter?” said Agatha, half to herself. “The pair of them must have got to know a great deal about their clients. Maybe they got to know something they shouldn’t and tried a bit of blackmail.” She brightened. “I’m sure that’s it. Now if it was the husband, he might know what it was, and if he isn’t saying anything, it might be information he’s keeping back to use himself.”

  The inspector looked at her fondly. “You’re as good as a book, Agatha. But Cliff, despite his appearance, is a weak creature. He was bullied by his wife, from all accounts. It was her work that kept him and she never let him forget it. Janine changed her will right after her mother’s death. We’ve just found that out.”

  “So Cliff does get the lot.”

  “On the contrary. He was left nothing. Everything goes to the Spiritualist Society of Great Britain.”

  “Blimey. So what’s Cliff going to do for money?”

  “Probably go back to working on the fairgrounds, which is where Janine met him.”

  Agatha sat silent for a moment. Then she said, “That’s it!”

  “That’s what?”

  “The reason for the missing money. Janine and Francie were gypsies, and gypsies do not like paying the tax man. There must have been a hell of a lot of money in Francie’s box. Cliff must have taken it.”

  “But Cliff didn’t know about the changed will, or so he says, and Janine was still alive when Francie was murdered, so I don’t follow your line of reasoning, Agatha.”

  Agatha’s face fell. “Neither do I, now I come to think of it.”

  He patted her hand. “Let’s talk about something more pleasant. I’m taking the day off on Sunday. Would you like to go for a drive?”

  “Yes, that would be nice. Where?”

  “Just along the coast. Stop somewhere at a pub for lunch.”

  “I’d love to.”

  “I’ll pick you up at ten.”

  After Agatha said goodbye to him, she walked into the hotel and looked into the lounge. They were playing Scrabble over by the fire, the group illuminated by the soft light from an old-fashioned standard lamp with a fringed shade, all of them crouched over the Scrabble tiles on the low coffee-table. The furniture in the lounge was heavy and Victorian, upholstered in dark green velvet. The velvet curtains of the same colour were closed over the long windows to shut out the night. Had they all subconsciously decided to shut out the world by not talking about it? Agatha had never even heard them discuss anything in the newspapers except for a few brief remarks about the coverage of the murder. Then, almost as if their heads were on pulled wires, they all turned their faces and looked at her. Agatha had an odd feeling that she was intruding on the meeting of some secret society.

  Then Daisy called, “Come and join us.”

  Agatha shook her head, smiled and said good night.

  As she undressed in her room, she began to speculate about a future with Jimmy. Mrs. Jessop, she repeated to herself as she ran her bath. I could be Mrs. Jessop and I will ask James Lacey to give me away. So there!

  Sunday was a glorious day, all wind and glitter. It had rained heavily the day before and now everything was drying out in the sun. It was a yellow day, watery yellow sunlight shining in puddles and dancing on the choppy waves of the sea.

  Agatha experienced a feeling of relief as they drove away from the hotel. In bad weather, as on the day before, the hotel became oppressive, like being locked away in a time warp. Although the others were friendly enough, the women no longer asked her advice on clothes or make-up and the colonel no longer seemed interested in outings to the theatre or anywhere else. The days are passing, thought Agatha as Jimmy drove his Volvo Polo along the coast road. I wonder if James Lacey misses me.

  “So you haven’t heard from her?” James Lacey was saying after church to Mrs. Bloxby. “And yet there’s been another murder. I thought she might have come home to have a look at her cats. Then I thought she might have phoned me to consult me about the murders.”

  “You haven’t been exactly friendly with Mrs. Raisin,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Why don’t you drive down and see her?”

  “I might do that,” said James. “Yes, I might just do that.”

  After three hours driving, he arrived at Wyckhadden and went straight to the Garden Hotel. He was told at the desk that Mrs. Raisin had gone out and they did not know when she was expected back. “Mrs. Raisin?” said a tall, elderly man who had been passing the desk.

  “Yes, Colonel,” said the manager. “This gentleman is asking for Mrs. Raisin.”

  “Gone out with her boyfriend,” said the colonel. “That inspector.”

  James Lacey did not wait. There was no point. Agatha had always been a damned flirt.

  “So that’s the real story of why we didn’t get married,” Agatha was saying later over dinner. “It wasn’t just because my husband turned up at the wedding. I really think James didn’t care for me at all.”

  “I hate to say this, Agatha,” said Jimmy, “but you’re right. If he had really loved you, he would have married you when everything settled down.”

  They had talked all day with an easy companionship. Agatha was beginning to think more and more that marriage to Jimmy might be pleasant. There had to come a point in life to put away immature dreams of love and settle for friendship.

  She only wished she could stop playing scenes over and over in her head where James would be shocked and jealous when he learned of her
forthcoming marriage.

  As Jimmy drove slowly back to Wyckhadden, Agatha said, “There’s a fairground.”

  In a field beside the road ahead of them was the fairground, the lights sparkling against the night sky. They had passed it on their road out but it had been silent and deserted.

  “Want to take a look around?” asked Jimmy. “It’s probably crawling with Francie Juddle’s relatives.”

  “I like fairgrounds,” said Agatha.

  “Then let’s go.” He drove off the road and into the carpark.

  “Not many people.”

  “Wrong time of year, and there was a terrible weather forecast.”

  “I’m surprised it’s open on a Sunday,” said Agatha as they walked between the booths.

  “They are always open. They stay closed until late in the afternoon on a Sunday, the idea being that everybody’s had time to go to church. What do you want to try? It’s one of those old-fashioned fairs. Not much in the way of exciting rides.”

  “There’s a Ferris wheel,” said Agatha, pointing upwards. “I’d like to try that.”

  “It’s late. Some of the things are closing already. But we’ll try.”

  The Ferris wheel was still operating. Jimmy paid for two tickets and they climbed into one of the seats. The man who had sold them the tickets fastened a safety bar across their chair.

  “We’re the only ones,” said Agatha. “I wonder if he’ll bother operating it. They sat for about five minutes with nothing happening. “Let’s get off,” Jimmy was just saying when, with a jerk, the Ferris wheel started up. The wheel sent them climbing higher. “The wind’s getting strong,” said Agatha, clutching Jimmy’s arm.

  Then, when their chair lurched and swung to the top, the wheel suddenly stopped dead.

  “They often do this,” said Jimmy, putting an arm around Agatha. “It’ll start up in a minute.”

  A great gust of wind sent the chair rocking. Jimmy leaned over the edge. “What’s happening?” he shouted, but the increasing wind tore his words away.

  Agatha clung on to him. A blast of icy rain hit her cheek. Ahead of her she could see the lights of Wyckhadden and then, as if a hand had drawn a great veil over the town, it was swallowed up in the approaching storm.

  The chair they were sitting on began to bucket and lurch. Down below, the lights of the fairground were beginning to go off one by one. Then the lights on the Ferris wheel went out, leaving them stranded in the increasing ferocity and blackness of the storm.

  Jimmy held Agatha close and said, “I’m going to climb down. You stay here and hang on like grim death.” He loosened the protective bar in front of them and lifted it.

  “Don’t leave me,” shouted Agatha.

  “I’ve got to get down.” He shrugged off his coat and then kicked off his shoes.

  He swung himself out of the chair and began to climb down the struts of the Ferris wheel. Agatha leaned over to try to watch him but the chair gave another huge lurch and she screamed and hung on with both hands.

  What a way to die, she thought miserably. She wanted to drag Jimmy’s coat over her but was frightened to loosen her grip on the chair. She prayed desperately, the soldier’s prayer. “Dear God, if there is a God, get me out of this!”

  She was now drenched to the skin. How long since Jimmy had started to climb down? Ten minutes? An hour?

  Why hadn’t she worn gloves? Her fingers were becoming numb. What if she couldn’t hold on any longer? She raised one hand and struggled to find the bar and fasten it back in front of her but the swaying of the chair was so violent that she gave up the attempt.

  Oh, James, wailed her mind, will I ever see you again? What will happen to my cats?

  And then she felt herself falling and let out a long wail of terror.

  But then her panic receded. The Ferris wheel was starting to move. Down and down she went. Blue lights were beginning to flicker along the coast road. Jimmy had a mobile phone in the car. He must have called for help.

  And then the Ferris wheel lurched to a halt and there was Jimmy with several fairground people. And suddenly the fairground was full of police cars and an ambulance.

  “You’re going straight to hospital,” said Jimmy.

  “I’m all right,” said Agatha, through chattering teeth.

  “You might be suffering from hypothermia.”

  “What happened?”

  “I’ll let you know as soon as I can,” said Jimmy.

  SIX

  AGATHA awoke in hospital in Hadderton the following morning. The sleepy policewoman, Trul, was sitting beside her bed.

  Agatha struggled up against the pillows. “So what happened?” she asked.

  “The man operating the Ferris wheel said it jammed and he went to get help.”

  “What!” Agatha was outraged. “I don’t believe that for a moment. Inspector Jessop had to climb all the way down that Ferris wheel in a storm because we were up there for ages.”

  The policewoman rose. “Now you’re awake, do you feel strong enough to make a statement?”

  “I feel fine. What’s the medical verdict?”

  “You were not suffering from hypothermia but you may be suffering from shock. I’ll get Detective Sergeant Peter Carroll. He’s outside.”

  Carroll came in. “Now, if you will begin at the beginning and tell me in your own words what happened,” he said, drawing out a notebook.

  “I’m hardly likely to tell you in anyone else’s words,” said Agatha crossly. She described succinctly how the Ferris wheel had stopped when they were right at the top. “Before the storm blotted everything out,” said Agatha, “I could see the lights in the fairground below going out. To me it looked as if they were packing up for the night and going to leave us up there.”

  “That will be all for the moment,” said Carroll, closing his notebook.

  “Can I leave?”

  “That’s between you and the hospital.”

  “Then send in a nurse!”

  When Carroll had left and had been replaced by a nurse, Agatha said she wanted to sign herself out. There was a long wait for a doctor and then all the forms to sign before her still-damp clothes were produced. They might at least have dried them, thought Agatha huffily.

  She went out of the hospital, where steady rain was falling, and waited for the cab she had ordered. She began to feel very weak and shaky but she was determined to get back to the hotel. She took out the tranquillizers they had given her and threw them in a waste bucket beside the hotel entrance. In Agatha’s experience, all tranquillizers did was delay shock and misery.

  The cab arrived and she was driven the short distance to the hotel in Wyckhadden. She went straight up to her room and ran a hot bath, stripped off her clothes, and soaked in it, wondering all the while if some of Francie’s relatives were responsible for her death and had tried to get the inspector out of the way. But she decided, as she towelled herself dry, that did not make sense. The fairground people must know that had Jimmy been killed, then they would have been plagued with police investigations until the end of time, not to mention a charge of manslaughter.

  She realized she was hungry and it was lunch-time. She went down to the dining-room.

  The rest were just finishing their meals. “We were looking for you last night,” the colonel called over.

  “I was nearly killed,” said Agatha. She told them about her adventure on the Ferris wheel, half expecting them to shy away from the subject, but they all came crowding around her table, demanding details.

  “Probably revenge,” said the colonel when Agatha had finished.

  “For what?”

  “Oh, I remember when Jessop was in charge of a crackdown on that fairground, charged them with gluing down the coconuts on the shy and bending the sights of the rifles.”

  Agatha felt disappointed. “I had hoped their behaviour might have had something to do with the murders.”

  “Titanic is showing at the cinema in Wyckhadden,” said the colonel. �
��We all thought of going.”

  “Why not?” said Agatha wearily. This lot were never going to discuss the murders and the idea of losing herself in a long film and forgetting about mayhem and murder was tempting. “When did you plan to go?”

  “We’re going to the matinee. Special rates for old age pensioners.”

  “That leaves me out,” said Agatha tartly.

  “If you say so,” remarked the colonel, and Agatha looked at his old face quickly for signs of malice but it showed nothing.

  Left to eat, Agatha carefully sliced a line down the middle of her plate and ate half. Once, in an attempt to up-market her reading, she had read Muriel Spark’s A Far Cry From Kensington. In it, the heroine had figured out that if she ate only half of everything on her plate, she would lose weight. That had struck Agatha as being eminently sensible and she was hardly likely to starve, a half of the hotel’s portions being the equivalent of any other hotel’s full meal.

  She was just finishing her coffee when old Harry popped his head round the door and said they were ready to leave. Agatha was travelling in one taxi with Harry and Daisy, the colonel in the one in front with Mary and Jennifer. Daisy squeezed Agatha’s arm and whispered, “Come to my room later. I must speak to you.”

  Agatha nodded. At last! A crack in the silence.

  The cinema was in the middle of the promenade and packed with old people. To Agatha’s surprise, a haze of cigarette smoke was drifting in front of the screen. By all that was holy, a cinema which still allowed smoking. She was fumbling in her bag for her cigarettes when she realized with a sort of wonder that she had not smoked once or thought of it while she was out with Jimmy. She kept her handbag firmly closed and concentrated on the screen, which was showing advertisements for local businesses.

  The film was one of those ones the Americans ruin by insisting on putting 1990s values onto historical events. The hero was miles too young to interest Agatha. But the special effects were stupendous. In fact, Agatha could swear, just as the Titanic hit that iceberg, that she could feel the water lapping around her feet. Then there was shouts and curses. There was water lapping about her feet.