Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

by M C Beaton

  “The hotel seems to be doing well,” said Agatha.

  “It’s not the same place. First, we were full of press, then ghouls wanting to see the room where Daisy fell from the window, then word got around about the meals being sumptious, and all sorts of tourists started coming.”

  “How are Jennifer and Mary?”

  “Fine, but we’re all thinking of moving somewhere quieter.”

  “Was it a great shock to learn that Daisy was a murderess?”

  Harry turned back and stared down at the water. “Not really.”

  “What! Never tell me you knew all along.”

  “It was just a feeling,” said Harry. “The colonel often said he thought it was Daisy.”

  “What! I thought none of you ever talked about the murder.”

  “Well, we did, when you weren’t around.”

  So much for feeling part of the group, thought Agatha bitterly. “Why was I such an outsider that nothing was mentioned to me?”

  “We thought you might make a fuss, and we don’t like fuss.”

  “So why didn’t you go to the police?”

  “Why? We could’ve been wrong and Daisy was one of us.”

  Agatha looked at him. “That snow-woman,” she said slowly. “You tried to make it as much like Francie as possible in the hope that Daisy might betray herself.”

  “Could have been something like that. It’s over now, Poor Daisy.”

  “Poor Daisy. She murdered two women.”

  “They were murderees. If it hadn’t been Daisy it would have been someone else.”

  “See you later.” Agatha turned and walked away. Charles had been right. They were mad.

  She decided to go to that pub and see if Jimmy turned up. She was perfectly sure he had not been out on a case. The desk sergeant was simply trying to keep her away from him.

  She waited in the pub for an hour but there was no sign of Jimmy. She went back to the hotel and got her car and drove to the police station and waited outside. Wyckhadden seemed to have returned to being a relatively crime-free zone. Hardly anyone came or went. The day wore on. She had made an early start and was beginning to feel sleepy.

  Then she saw his tall figure emerging from the police station. She fumbled for the door handle of the car, wrenched open the door and called, “Jimmy!”

  He turned and saw her and that old familiar glad smile lit up his face. He still loves me, thought Agatha. Thank God. She hurried towards him.

  “This is a surprise,” he said. “What brings you back?”

  “I felt so badly about the way I treated you. I wanted to see you again.”

  “Let’s go for a drink,” said Jimmy, tucking her arm in his. “I’ve a lot to tell you.”

  They walked to a nearby pub. How could I ever have disliked this town, thought Agatha happily. I’ll live here with my Jimmy for the rest of my life.

  “Your usual, Agatha?” Agatha nodded. It was like old times. Jimmy got her a gin and tonic and a half pint of lager for himself.

  “Now tell me what’s happening?” asked Agatha. She caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror opposite: shining brown hair, well made up, neat linen suit, she felt secure and content.

  Jimmy put his hand over hers and looked into her eyes.

  “I’m getting married, Agatha, and it’s thanks to you.”

  Agatha stared at him. Then she looked at the mirror. A tired middle-aged woman looked back.

  “It’s like this,” said Jimmy eagerly, “I was shocked rigid at your behavior with that baronet. I thought I’d never look at another woman again. And then Gladwyn walked into the police station.

  “Gladwyn Evans.” Jimmy flushed slightly and removed his hand from Agatha’s. “She’s a young widow. Only thirty-five. There had been a burglary at her home, and do you know what, she lives practically next door to me, but what with work and the murders, I hadn’t had time to notice her. She’d only moved here recently. We got friendly. I found myself telling her all about you.”

  Agatha groaned inwardly.

  “She was most sympathetic and with her living so near, we began to see a lot of each other and then she began preparing meals for me. I couldn’t believe that such a pretty young woman would want to look after me. I didn’t dare make a move until she said, just like that, ‘Why don’t we get married?’ It was the talking about you that got us discussing all sorts of intimate things, you see.”

  “I’m very happy for you,” said Agatha. “What about … er … the other problem?”

  “Impotence? Forget it.” He leaned back in his chair and laughed. “Gladwyn’s pregnant! And I’m a father-to-be. Me, at my age. I feel I’ve won the lottery. No, better than winning the lottery.”

  “Here’s to you,” said Agatha faintly, raising her glass.

  “Let’s go and meet her.”

  “What?”

  “You would like to meet her, wouldn’t you?”

  “Yes, that would be very nice,” said Agatha weakly. She wanted to run away, far away.

  But she meekly left the pub with Jimmy and they walked back to their cars. “I forget where you live, Jimmy.”

  “Just follow me.”

  So Agatha followed his car, although she longed to swing the wheel and head for the Garden, pack up and go home. Wyckhadden now seemed a hostile place, a place full of contemptuous eyes.

  Gladwyn was young, yes, but she was probably some sort of housewifely frump with thick glasses and greasy hair. So Agatha consoled herself as she got out of her car and followed Jimmy up his garden path.

  The door was opened by a plump, black-haired Welshwoman with smooth white skin and large brown eyes. “You’ll never guess who this is!” cried Jimmy. “Agatha Raisin!”

  A flash of shock followed by a flash of pure hatred flickered in Gladwyn’s large eyes and then she smiled, “Come in.”

  Agatha went into Jimmy’s transformed bungalow. The walls had been painted in warm pastel colors. There was a sewing machine set up in the living room, a cozy clutter of magazines and books and framed prints on the walls.

  “I’ll get tea,” said Gladwyn in a lilting voice, “and leave you to talk.”

  “You’ll need to see the nursery before you go,” said Jimmy. “Oh, there’s something else. You know that fur coat of yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Gladwyn knows this furrier and he did a beautiful job of restoring it. It looks like new. You don’t mind?”

  “No,” said Agatha who suddenly found she minded like hell.

  “Did you find that rolling pin?” asked Agatha.

  “Yes, it was indeed buried in the garden.”

  “And I suppose from DNA samples you identified any traces of blood on it as Francie’s?”

  Jimmy snorted. “Don’t talk to me about DNA. Do you know there’s a back log of one hundred thousand cases? The police are having to drop cases because the evidence is not coming up in time for the court case. Good thing she killed herself. Saves the public purse all that money for a trial and for lengthy imprisonment. We’d never have suspected her. I kept feeling sure it was Janine’s husband.”

  “What happened about that business with the Ferris wheel?”

  “Nothing or you might have been called back for some court case. They all stuck together and swore blind it was a faulty piece of mechanism. Isn’t life odd, Agatha? If you’d come back here before I met Gladwyn, I would have hated you, would have had nothing to do with you. But now I’m really in love, it all seems like a miracle and all I can think is that it’s because of you that these nasty murders got solved and because of you, I was able to talk to Gladwyn about my feelings and emotions.”

  “You are a very forgiving man,” said Agatha, wondering whether she were as mad as Jennifer, Mary, and Harry. How could she have possibly believed that she could just walk back into his life after the way she had treated him?

  Gladwyn came in bearing a tea tray and a plate of homemade cakes.

  “What brought you to Wyckhadden?�
�� asked Agatha politely.

  “It was about a year after the death of my husband,” said Gladwyn. “I wanted to make a new start in a new place where there weren’t any memories. I sold up in Merthyr Tydfil and moved down here. I’ve always liked the sea. Oh, did Jimmy tell you about the coat?”

  “Yes, and I’m glad you’re wearing it.”

  “I’ll show you.” Gladwyn went out and returned after a few moments with the mink coat wrapped round her. The furrier had done a beautiful job. Agatha felt a lump in her throat. She remembered the days when fur was fashionable, walking down Bond Street in that very coat, feeling like a million dollars, a younger, ambitious Agatha with the world at her feet, and no silly yearnings for love to clutter up her mind.

  “It looks marvellous on you.”

  “I can’t take it on our honeymoon,” laughed Gladwyn.

  “Where are you going?”

  “Benidorm, Spain.”

  “It’ll certainly be hot.”

  “Come and see the nursery,” said Gladwyn.

  I must get out of here before I cry, thought Agatha desperately.

  She followed Gladwyn through to a small bedroom. The walls were decorated with stencils of bluebirds and teddy bears. A new cot stood by the window and beside it a box full of fluffy toys.

  “Gladwyn did all the painting and decoration herself,” said Jimmy. “There’s nothing she can’t do.”

  Agatha looked at her watch and let out a stagy exclamation of surprise. “That time already! I must fly. I’m meeting someone.

  “I’ll just go to the bathroom,” said Jimmy, “and then I’ll see you out.”

  Agatha walked towards the door. She and Gladwyn stood on the step. Gladwyn turned to her and said in a low voice, “If you ever come back here again, you old bitch, I’ll strangle you. Leave my Jimmy alone. What he ever saw in an old frump like you, is beyond me.”

  Jimmy came up and joined them. Agatha wanted to hurl insults at Gladwyn, but restrained herself.

  She shook hands with Jimmy, nodded to Gladwyn, and on stiff legs walked down the garden path. She got into her car. They were standing side by side on the doorstep.

  Agatha waved. Jimmy turned and went inside. Gladwyn gave Agatha a two fingered sign, turned and followed him.

  Agatha drove around the comer, stopped the car and leaned against the wheel, breathing heavily. Why had she been such a fool? Face up to it, she told herself fiercely, Jimmy has been very, very lucky. You would have driven him mad within a week.

  She released the hand brake, let in the clutch and drove slowly and carefully back to the Garden.

  She went up to her room and took off the linen suit. It was unlucky. She would never wear it again. She changed into a dark red blouse and velvet skirt and went down for dinner. The hotel now boasted a maitre d’ who told her that as the hotel was so busy, he had placed her at a table with two other ladies. The two other ladies turned out to be Jennifer and Mary.

  “Why, Agatha,” said Jennifer, “it is you. Are you staying down for Inspector Jessop’s wedding?”

  “You know about that?” Agatha shook out her napkin.

  “Yes, Harry and Mary and me have all been invited.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, you see, he got a lot of kudos for solving those murders…”

  “I solved them.”

  “Anyway, he asked the three of us. Isn’t it fun?”

  So Harry knew all about the wedding, thought Agatha, and yet he said nothing. Does everyone want to hurt me?

  “How’s everything?” she said.

  “We’re really thinking of moving to Eastbourne. This hotel’s not the same and Mr. Martin has put the rates up.” Mary leaned forward. “The food’s not the same either. You’ll see.”

  Mary was proved right. The portions were considerably smaller.

  “Martin’s a fool,” said Agatha. “Oh, why should I bother. Why is it that when places get popular, they stint on the food and raise the rates?”

  “He’s got a lot of new staff to pay,” said Mary. “I say, we’re going to a dance on the pier tonight. Want to come?”

  “Why not?” said Agatha.

  But when she went up to her room after dinner, she suddenly began thrusting all her clothes back into her suitcase. She carried it down to the desk and paid her bill. “Family troubles,” she said to the surprised receptionist. “Got to go.”

  As she drove out of Wyckhadden, she repressed a superstitious shiver. Janine had cursed them all. Daisy and the colonel were dead. Which one next?

  She drove along the promenade, now hung with fairy lights. And coming along arm in arm were Jimmy and Gladwyn. Gladwyn was wearing the mink coat. I hope some animal libber murders her, thought Agatha fiercely. Why can’t I get away with being unpolitically correct? People even swear at me for smoking.

  How weary and how lonely and how long the road back to Carsely seemed.

  When she finally let herself into her cottage, she checked her answering service. No one had phoned, no Charles, no James, no one from the village.

  She went wearily to bed surrounded by cats.

  “So,” said Mrs. Bloxby, sympathetically the next day. “It was a disaster.”

  “Total humiliation,” said Agatha who had called the following day to tell the vicar’s wife all about it.

  “It wouldn’t have worked, you know,” said Mrs Bloxby. “He wouldn’t ever have trusted you and every time you had a marital quarrel, Charles’s name would be thrown in your face. It’s this craving for excitement that emanates from you. You’ll always stir things up.”

  “Not any more,” said Agatha. “I’m weary. I’m settled. Me and my cats.”

  “I hope so. There’s a meeting of the ladies society here tomorrow.”

  “I’ll come. I’ll help you with the catering.”

  “That is good of you.” Mrs. Bloxby then prattled on about village affairs and the latest fund raising project. At last Agatha rose and took her leave.

  “Has that awful woman gone?” asked the vicar, popping his head round the study door.

  “You’re very hard on her, Alf,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “She’s got a good heart.”

  The vicar kissed his wife on the top of her head and smiled down at her fondly. “You love everyone.”

  “And you forget that’s supposed to be part of your job.”

  “What does she think of James’s blonde moving in?”

  Mrs. Bloxby looked uncomfortable. “I hadn’t the heart to tell her.”

  “Coward!”

  Agatha walked back to Lilac Lane where her cottage was. It was then she saw a long, low, red sports car parked outside James’s cottage and smoke rising from the chimney.

  He was home! All her misery fled. They would sit and talk and she would tell him all about the murders. She knocked on his door.

  It was opened by a tall slim blonde, about thirty-something, wearing cut off jeans and one of James’s shirts knotted at the waist.

  “Is James at home?” asked Agatha.

  “No, he’s in Greece. I met him there. He said I could use the cottage until he got back.”

  “When will that be?”

  “Don’t know. Isn’t he a sweetie?”

  “Yes. See you.”

  Agatha clumped off to her own cottage. She fed the cats and let them out into the garden.

  There was an aching pain where her heart should be.

  CONTINUE READING FOR AN EXCERPT FROM

  M. C. BEATON’S NEXT BOOK

  AGATHA RAISIN AND THE

  FAIRIES OF FRYFAM

  NOW AVAILABLE FROM

  ST. MARTIN’S PAPERBACKS

  AGATHA Raisin was selling up and leaving Carsely for good.

  Or rather, that had been the plan.

  She had already rented a cottage in the village of Fryfam in Norfolk. She had rented blind. She neither knew the village or anywhere else in Norfolk. A fortune-teller had told her that her destiny lay in Norfolk. Her next-door neighbour, the love of h
er life, James Lacey, had departed without saying goodbye and so she had decided to move to Norfolk and had chosen the village of Fryfam by sticking a pin in the map. A call to the Fryfam police station had put her in touch with a local estate agent, the cottage was rented, and all Agatha had to do was sell her own cottage and leave.

  But the problem lay in the people who came to view the house. Either the women were too attractive and Agatha was not going to have an attractive woman living next door to James, or they were sour and grumpy, and she did not want to inflict such people on the village.

  She was due to move into her rented Norfolk cottage at the beginning of October and it was now heading to the end of September. Bright-coloured autumn leaves swirled about the Cotswold Lanes. It was an Indian summer of lazy mellow sunny days and misty nights. Never had Carsely seemed more beautiful. But Agatha was determined to get rid of her obsession for James Lacey. Fryfam was probably beautiful as well.

  Agatha was just stiffening up her weakening sinews when the doorbell rang. She opened the door. Two small round people stood there. “Good morning,” said the woman brightly. “We are Mr. and Mrs. Baxter-Semper. We’ve come to view the house.”

  “You should have made an appointment with the estate agent,” grumped Agatha.

  “Oh, but we saw the board ‘For Sale’ outside.”

  “Come in,” sighed Agatha. “Take a look around. You’ll find me in the kitchen if you have any questions.”

  She hunched over a cup of black coffee at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. Through the window, she could see her cats, Hodge and Boswell, playing in the garden. How nice to be a cat, thought Agatha bitterly. No hopeless love, no responsibility, no bills to pay, nothing else to do but wait to be fed and roll around in the sun.

  She could hear the couple moving about. Then she heard the sound of drawers being opened and closed.

  She went to the foot of the stairs and shouted up, “You’re supposed to be looking at the house, not poking among my knickers.” There was a shocked silence. Then they both came downstairs. “We thought you might be leaving your furniture behind,” said the woman defensively.

  “No, I’m putting it into storage,” said Agatha wearily. “I’m renting in Norfolk until I find somewhere to buy.”