Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden (2 page)

Her mind was thoroughly made up when the blonde woman met her in the reception area and fluted, “We haven’t been introduced. I am Mrs Daisy Jones.”

Agatha held out her hand. “Agatha Raisin.”

“Well, Miss Raisin…”

“Mrs.”

“Mrs Raisin. The colonel, that is dear Colonel Lyche, has suggested we all get together after dinner for a game of Scrabble. There are so few of us. Miss Jennifer Stobbs and Miss Mary Dulsey are very keen players. And Mr Harry Berry usually beats us all.”

“Too kind,” said Agatha, backing away, “but I’ve got a date.”

“I thought you were a business woman when I saw you. I said to the colonel – ”

“I mean a date. A fellow.”

“Oh, really. Another time, then.”

Agatha escaped up to her room. Surely a dance on the pier was infinitely preferable to an evening playing Scrabble with that lot!

At seven o’clock, she picked up the phone and ordered sandwiches and a bottle of mineral water to be served to her in her room.

When the elderly waiter creaked in with it ten minutes later, Agatha tipped him lavishly because he looked too old and frail to be carrying one of the heavy solid-silver trays the hotel used for room service.

She ate quickly and then-put on an evening blouse and a black velvet skirt. She carefully put on her wig and made up her face. Then she swung open the wardrobe door. The wardrobe could have been turned into a room in another type of hotel, she thought. It was one of those vast Victorian mahogany ones. Hanging there was her mink coat. She took it out, her hands caressing the fur. Should she wear it? Or would some animal libber spit at her and try to wrench it off her back? Or was it safe to consign it to the perils of the pier ballroom cloakroom? If she put on a cloth coat, then she would need to wear a cardigan over her evening blouse. With a feeling of sin, she wrapped it round her, remembering when she had bought it in the dear, dead days when fur was fashionable. Then she tied a silk scarf over her wig to anchor it. The wind might rise again.

When she went downstairs, Jimmy was waiting in the reception, wearing white evening shirt and black tie undes-another long black coat.

“Dressy affair?” asked Agatha.

“We always dress up in Wyckhadden,” he said. “We’re pretty old-fashioned.”

“What kind of dancing is it?” asked Agatha. “Disco?”

“No, ballroom.”

As they walked along the pier, Agatha saw a poster.
BALLROOM DANCING FOR THE OLD-TYMERS
, it said. And then in smaller letters, “Old-Age Pensioners, Half-Price.”

This place’ll make me old before my time, thought Agatha, and suddenly wished she had not come.

They checked their coats in at the desk and then walked into the ballroom. The dancers were all middle-aged or elderly, performing a lively military Two-Step. “Shall we?” asked Jimmy.

Agatha looked longingly at the bar. “I could do with a drink first.”

“Right you are.” He led her over to the bar. “Gin and tonic?”

Agatha nodded. He collected their drinks and they sat down at a small table next to the dance floor.

A couple came up to join them, a tall redhead with big hair, big bosoms and hard eyes so mascaraed that they looked as if two spiders were resting on her face. Her partner was small, wearing a bright red jacket and white trousers. “Ow’s our Jimmy?” asked the redhead.

“Agatha,” said Jimmy, “this is Maisie and Chris Leeman. Agatha Raisin.”

“Mind if we join you?” asked Maisie, and she and Chris drew up chairs and sat down as well without being asked. “Fetch me a brandy and Babycham, Chris, there’s a love,” said Maisie. She turned to Agatha. “I haven’t seen you before.”

“I’m on holiday,” said Agatha.

“Where you staying?”

“The Garden.”

“Oh, there’s posh for you.” She nudged Jimmy in the ribs. “Got yourself a rich widow, eh?”

What awful people, thought Agatha. If only I could escape. Chris came back with drinks. He asked Agatha what she was doing in Wyckhadden and Agatha explained again that she was on holiday.

“Odd place for a holiday. Most people come here to die.” Chris nudged Maisie in the ribs and she shrieked with laughter.

“Dance, Agatha?” asked Jimmy.

“Yes, please.” Agatha rose from the table and gratefully joined Jimmy in the Saint Bernard’s waltz. Why am I such a snob? she fretted. But I really can’t bear Chris and Maisie and if that’s the kind of friends he has, I don’t want to see any more of him after this evening. Jimmy was dancing expertly and exchanging greetings with other couples on the floor. He seemed to know an awful lot of people, but then Wyckhadden was a small place. “Have you lived here very long?” asked Agatha, executing a neat pirouette. Amazing how the steps came back to one.

“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?”

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.”