Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden (12 page)

“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 were grouted with layers of foundation cream. Facelifts 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.

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, “What can that be down there?” Janine leans over. The rail is quite low. Someone grasps 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. “Lefs 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 goodnight.

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 VW 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 car park.

“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 usually open. They do 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.