by M C Beaton
‘All my life,’ he said.
‘I never asked you if you were married.’
‘I was,’ said Jimmy. ‘She died.’
‘Long ago?’
‘Ten years.’
‘Any children?’
‘Two. I’ve a son of twenty-eight and a daughter of thirty-two.’
‘And what do they do?’ asked Agatha, wondering if she could steer him away from Chris and Maisie after this dance finished.
‘John, my son, is an engineer. Not married. Joan is married to a university lecturer at Essex University. Got two kids. Very happy.’
The dance finished. A tango was announced. To her relief, Agatha could see Chris and Maisie taking the floor.
They sat down again. A couple danced past. ‘Taking a night off from the villains, Jimmy?’ called the woman.
He laughed and nodded.
‘What did she mean?’ asked Agatha.
‘I’m a police inspector.’
Agatha’s eyes gleamed. ‘I’m by way of being an amateur detective,’ she said. She proceeded to give him several highly embroidered accounts of her various ‘cases’. She was so carried away by her stories that she failed to notice he was looking more and more uncomfortable.
She was just in the middle of what she considered a highly enthralling account of a murder case she had been involved in when Chris and Maisie returned to the table.
‘Care to dance, Maisie?’ asked Jimmy, seemingly unaware that Agatha was in mid-sentence.
Agatha turned a mortified pink as Jimmy led Maisie on to the floor. ‘Dance?’ suggested Chris.
‘Why not?’ replied Agatha gloomily.
Chris turned out to be one of those showy ballroom dancers, all swoops and glides that seemed to have nothing to do with the music. He smelt so strongly of Old Spice that Agatha figured he must have bathed in the stuff.
For the rest of the evening, Jimmy kept introducing Agatha to couples and somehow Agatha ended up dancing with the man while Jimmy danced off with the woman. Agatha was hurt. A police inspector should have been delighted to find out she was a fellow crime buster.
At last the evening was over. Jimmy helped Agatha into her mink coat and led her outside. The wind had risen again. Ferocious gusts swept the pier and the lights that decorated it bobbed and ducked in the wind. Agatha scrabbled in her coat pocket for her silk scarf. But as she took it out and tried to put it on her head, the wind snatched it from her hands and sent it dancing into the sea.
‘Oh, dear,’ mourned Agatha. ‘That was my best scarf.’
‘What?’ he shouted, trying to make himself heard above the scream of the wind and the thundering of the sea.
‘I said . . .’ And then Agatha let out another scream. For a really treacherous gust of wind snatched off her wig. It caught on the rail of the pier and she ran to rescue it. But just as she was reaching for it, another gust of wind loosened it from the rail and it was carried away into the roaring blackness of the night.
She walked back to Jimmy, drawing her collar up as far around her ears as she could. The swinging lights of the pier illuminated the wreck of her own hair.
‘I’ve lost my wig,’ mourned Agatha.
‘My wife died of cancer,’ shouted Jimmy.
‘It’s not cancer,’ wailed Agatha.
They scurried in silence, side by side, to Agatha’s hotel. Agatha said in the shelter of the porticoed entrance, ‘Thank you for a pleasant evening. Forgive me for not asking you in for a drink, but I am very tired.’
‘I hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday,’ he said stiffly, and with that he turned and left. Mrs Daisy Jones was in the reception as Agatha, head down, scuttled for the stairs.
‘Good evening, Mrs Raisin.’
Agatha grunted by way of reply and scurried up the stairs. She dived into her room like an animal into its burrow. Sanctuary. What a horrible evening. And that wig had cost a fortune.
She had a feeling of panic. What on earth was she doing trapped in this hotel? She would check out tomorrow and move on.
In the morning, Agatha was just finishing her breakfast when she saw Daisy Jones heading for her table. Agatha raised a copy of the Daily Mail as a barrier, but undeterred, Daisy said cheerfully, ‘I couldn’t help noticing your hair last night. What happened?’
‘It’s the result of a nervous illness,’ said Agatha, who no longer wanted to brag about her exploits.
Daisy sat down and leaned over the table. Thick white powder filled the seams and cracks in her face and her small thin mouth was heavily painted. ‘I know someone who can help you,’ she whispered.
‘I’m told by doctors that my hair will soon grow back,’ said Agatha defiantly. Her head was now wrapped up in a blue scarf.
‘Have you heard of Francie Juddle?’
‘Who’s she?’ asked Agatha.
‘Well . . .’ Daisy gave a little titter and looked furtively around. ‘She’s the local witch, but she performs wonders. She took away Mary Dulsey’s warts.’
‘And where does this witch live?’
‘The pink cottage in Partons Lane, just at the far end of the town. If you walk to the very end of the promenade and turn left, you’ll find it. It’s the third cottage up from the sea.’
‘Thank you,’ said Agatha politely but dismissively.
‘Do try her. She has occult powers. We are having another game of Scrabble tonight in the lounge after dinner. Please join us.’
‘If I’m free,’ said Agatha, picking up the paper again.
When Daisy had left, Agatha found her curiosity about this witch was roused. A visit to her would liven up the day. Besides, the very thought of packing and moving on somewhere else filled her with lethargy.
Half an hour later, wrapped up in her mink coat, she made her way along the promenade. It was a steel-grey day without a breath of wind. Great glassy waves curled on the shingle and then retreated with a long dragging sound.
The evening before flashed before her mind. At least she could not think that Jimmy had gone off her when she lost her wig. He had gone off her long before that. Her old determination and energy were returning. By the time she returned to Carsely, James Lacey would see a happy, healthy Agatha with a full head of hair. In various Victorian iron-and-glass shelters along the promenade, the elderly huddled together, staring out at the sea. They’re waiting for Death to arrive, thought Agatha with a shudder. Come in, Number Nine, your time’s up.
She hurried past them, her head down. At the end of the promenade was Partons Lane. She walked up to a pink cottage and knocked at the door with the knocker which was a brass devil’s head.
After a few moments the door was opened by a plump little woman with smooth features and light-grey eyes. She had thick black hair worn up in a French pleat.
‘Yes?’
For one brief second, Agatha forgot Daisy’s name. Then her face cleared. ‘Daisy Jones at the Garden Hotel suggested you might be able to help me.’
‘You’re supposed to phone for an appointment,’ said Francie Juddle. ‘But you’re in luck. Mrs Braithwaite was supposed to call, but she died.’
Agatha blinked in surprise but followed her in.
She expected to be led into some sort of dark sanctum dominated by a black-velvet-draped table with a crystal ball on top, but she found herself in a cosy little parlour with some good pieces of furniture, a bright fire, and a large cat, white, not black, sleeping on a hooked rug in front of it.
‘Sit down,’ said Francie, nodding in the direction of a winged armchair beside the fire. Agatha sat down, first removing her mink coat. ‘You shouldn’t be wearing a thing like that,’ said Francie.
‘Why?’
‘Think of all the little animals that died to keep you warm.’
‘I didn’t come here for a lecture on animals’ liberation.’
Francie settled herself in a chair opposite Agatha. She had very short legs in pale glassy stockings.
‘So how can I help you?’
&n
bsp; Agatha unwound the scarf from her head. ‘Look at this.’
‘What happened?’
‘Some wretched woman shampooed me with depilatory. It should be growing back.’
‘Oh, I’ve got something that’ll fix that,’ Francie said, smiling.
‘Could I have some?’ asked Agatha impatiently.
‘Of course. Eighty pounds.’
‘What!’
‘It’ll cost eighty pounds.’
‘That’s a lot,’ said Agatha, ‘for something that might not work.’
‘It’ll work.’
‘I suppose people come to you about all sorts of things,’ said Agatha.
‘Everything from warts to love potions.’
‘Love potions! Surely there isn’t such a thing.’
‘There is.’
‘Francie, it is Francie, isn’t it? . . . We’re both business women. I’ve spent a fortune on cosmetics which claim to reduce wrinkles and they don’t, lipsticks which are supposed to be kiss-proof and aren’t, so why should I believe in your hair restorer?’
Francie’s eyes twinkled. ‘You’ll never know until you try.’
‘How much is the love potion?’
‘Twenty pounds.’
‘So love comes cheaper than hair restorer.’
‘You could say that.’
‘But,’ said Agatha, ‘if this hair restorer works, you could be making a fortune.’
‘I could be making a fortune out of a lot of my potions if I decided to go into the manufacturing business, but then I would have all the headache of factories and staff.’
‘Not necessarily,’ said the ever-shrewd Agatha. ‘All you need to do is sell the recipe for millions.’
‘I am expecting a client soon. Do you want the stuff or not?’
Agatha hesitated. But the thought that her hair might never grow back again was beginning to make her feel panicky. ‘All right,’ she said gruffly, ‘and I’ll take the love potion as well.’
Francie rose and went out of the room. Agatha rose as well and went to the small window and looked out. Sunlight was beginning to gild the cobbles outside. The wind had risen again. She was beginning to feel silly. What if she gave James Lacey the love potion and it made him sick?
Francie came back with two bottles, one small and one large. ‘The small one is the love potion and the large one is for your hair,’ she said. ‘Apply the hair restorer every night before you go to bed. Put five drops of the love potion in his drink. Are you a widow?’
‘Yes.’
‘I give seances. I can get you in touch with the dear departed.’
‘He’s departed but not dear.’
‘That’ll be one hundred pounds.’
‘I don’t have that amount of cash on me.’
‘A cheque will do.’
Agatha took out her cheque-book and rested it on a small table. ‘Do I make it out to Frances Juddle?’
‘Please.’
Agatha wrote out the cheque and handed it to her. Then she put on her coat, picked up the two bottles and put them in her handbag and made for the door.
‘Get rid of that coat,’ said Francie. ‘It’s a disgrace.’
Agatha glared at her, and left without replying. How could anyone know what that coat meant to her? It had been her first expensive purchase ever, after she had clawed her way out of the Birmingham slum in which she had been born and climbed the ladder of success. To her, the coat had been like gleaming armour, signalling the arrival of a new rich Agatha Raisin. And that had been in the days before wearing fur was considered a sin.
Outside, the sun was shining down and people were walking about, quite a number of them young. It was as if Wyckhadden had suddenly come to life. Agatha decided to go back to that pub where she had met Jimmy. She could not bear the fact that he had suddenly and inexplicably gone off her.
She pushed open the door of the pub. It was the lunch-hour and it was busy with office workers. But she found an empty table and sat down after collecting a gin and tonic from the bar.
Unless she hurried, she would miss lunch at the hotel and she did not feel like trying any of the pub food, which smelled horrible. She finished her gin and tonic just as the pub door opened and Jimmy came in. He shot her a brief look and then turned around and walked out.
Agatha felt quite weepy. But then, she consoled herself, she had thought him weird the way he had picked her up. So why should she be surprised by his odd behaviour?
She walked back out into the sunshine, but glad of the warmth of her coat, for the wind was cold.
She was making her way towards the hotel when she passed a group of young people who were sitting on a wall drinking beer and eating hamburgers. One of them, a young girl with noserings and earrings, suddenly flew at Agatha, clawing at her coat and screaming, ‘Murderer.’
Alarmed, Agatha gave her an almighty push and sent her flying and then set off at a run.
Once in the hotel, she hurried up to her room and lovingly hung the precious coat away in the wardrobe.
Enough was enough. One more day and she would check out.
After dinner, she reluctantly joined the other guests in the lounge, where the colonel was opening the Scrabble board.
The tall masculine woman turned out to be Miss Jennifer Stobbs and the small weedy one, Miss Mary Dulsey. The old crabby man, Harry Berry, smelt of mothballs and peppermints. Daisy Jones was flirting coyly with Colonel Lyche.
‘So few guests,’ said Agatha.
‘We’re all residents, apart from you,’ said Jennifer. She had a heavy, sallow face with a bristle of hairs above her upper lip. Her hair, streaked with grey, was close-cropped. ‘Get a lot of guests in the season and at weekends.’
‘Are you any good at Scrabble, Agatha?’ asked the colonel. Agatha was momentarily startled by the use of her first name. The members of the old-fashioned ladies’ society in her home village of Carsely addressed one another as Mrs this and Miss that.
‘Average,’ said Agatha, and then remembered dismally the cosy evenings spent with James playing Scrabble when they had been engaged.
She played as well as she could, but the others were not only dedicated Scrabble players but also crossword addicts, and so Agatha did badly compared to them.
‘Did you go to Francie?’ asked Daisy.
But Agatha was already ashamed of having spent one hundred pounds on what she believed was probably two bottles of coloured water and so she lied and said, ‘No.’
‘Oh, you should, she’s very good.’
Another game started. Agatha tried harder this time but still had the lowest score. ‘That’s it for this evening,’ said Colonel Lyche. Agatha was surprised to find out it was just after midnight.
She refused the colonel’s offer of a drink and went up to her room, thinking that they had all been good company, and once you got to know the elderly, it was amazing how much younger they became.
She took off her blouse and put it in her laundry bag. Then she removed her skirt and went to the massive wardrobe to hang it up.
She swung open the door.
Then she screamed.
Chapter Two
Her beloved mink coat was hanging in shreds and it had been daubed with red paint.
She backed away from the wreck of it. Agatha found she was trembling. She clenched her shaking hands and then was overtaken with an outburst of anger. There would only be the night porter on duty. She would call the police. She looked up the local phone book, pressed ‘9’ for an outside line and dialled Wyckhadden police station.
‘Evening, Wyckhadden police,’ said a bored voice.
Agatha curtly snapped out the details of the desecration of her fur coat. ‘Anything else damaged?’ asked the voice, still as bored.
Agatha looked wildly around the room. ‘Not that I can see.’
‘Don’t touch anything. We’ll have someone along directly.’
Agatha began to look around the room. Nothing else seemed to have been touched.
Even her jewel case, open on the dressing-table, still had all her pieces of jewellery in it.
She called the night porter and explained tersely what had happened and that she had called the police. ‘I’ll be up right away,’ he said.
After a few moments, there was a knock at her door. The night porter was young for an establishment such as the Garden Hotel, being somewhere in his forties. He had an unhealthy open-pored grey face, a droopy moustache and dyed black hair. He stared in awe at the wreckage of Agatha’s coat. ‘Did you forget to lock your room?’ he asked.
‘I did not forget. I was playing Scrabble with the others. I locked my door and kept the key in my handbag.’
‘Some of our residents are very forgetful,’ he said.
‘I am not senile!’ howled Agatha. ‘If I say I locked my door, then that is what I did!’
Elderly people do not sleep very well and somehow the other residents must have sensed something was going on. The door to Agatha’s room was open. Mrs Daisy Jones, wrapped in a pink silk quilted dressing-gown, appeared, peering in, shortly followed by the colonel, still dressed. They both exclaimed in horror over the vandalism.
‘I blame the welfare system,’ said the colonel. ‘They’ve got young people down here who’ve never done a day’s work in their lives.’ The rest of the residents soon crowded in, chattering and exclaiming.
‘I think you should all go away,’ said Agatha desperately. ‘The police will want to dust the room for fingerprints.’
‘Which of you is Mrs Raisin?’ called a voice from the doorway. The residents parted to reveal a squat burly man in a tight suit and anorak and a policewoman who looked as if she was half asleep.
The residents shuffled out into the corridor. ‘Detective Constable Ian Tarret,’ said the man, shutting the door on the elderly residents. ‘This the coat?’
‘That was the coat,’ said Agatha bitterly.
‘Let’s begin at the beginning, Mrs Raisin. You are a visitor?’
‘Yes. I’ve only been here a few days.’
