Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden (4 page)

She heard car doors slam outside the cottage. Detective Constable Tarret came in followed by his sleepy policewoman.

“What is this about?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s Mrs Juddle,” said Agatha. “She’s upstairs in the bedroom. I think she’s dead.”

The ambulance men came in at that moment.

“Show us,” said Tarret.

Agatha led the way upstairs and to the bedroom, pointed at the door and stood back while the police and the ambulance men went in. Jimmy Jessop came up the stairs.

He glanced at her. “In there,” said Agatha faintly.

She retreated to the hall. Soon the scene-of-crime men arrived with their equipment, then the pathologist with his black bag. Francie must be dead, thought Agatha. There was no rush to bring her out to the ambulance. More police arrived to cordon off the outside of the cottage.

Agatha began to wonder whether she should slip off back to the hotel. After all, they would know where to find her. But she stayed where she was. The trembling had stopped and now she felt exhausted.

Inspector Jimmy Jessop came down the stairs. “I’d better ask you to accompany us back to the station,” he said. “Constable Trul will take you there.” His eyes were flat and expressionless.

The policewoman came down the stairs. Lights were on in all the neighbouring cottages. As she was led out, a flashlight went off in Agatha’s face. The local press had arrived. Agatha cringed and tried to hide her face. She got in the car. Another flashlight went off.

Numb now with shock and exhaustion, Agatha was borne off to the police station and put in an interviewing room. Constable Trul brought her a cup of milky tea and a digestive biscuit and then sat in the corner, her hands folded in her lap.

Agatha sipped the tea and wrinkled her nose in disgust. It was the sort of stuff in a thin paper cup that came out of a machine. She pushed it away and laid her head on the desk and immediately fell asleep. She was awakened three quarters of an hour later by someone shaking her shoulder. It was Jimmy Jessop. She looked up at him blearily.

“Now, Mrs Raisin,” he said, “let’s get this over with. We all need our sleep.”

Agatha sat up, blinked and looked around. Jimmy sat down opposite her along with Detective Constable Tarret.

“Is the tape in?” asked Jimmy over her shoulder and Trul gave a sleepy “Yes.”

To her amazement, Agatha heard herself being cautioned and then Jimmy’s flat emotionless voice asking her if she wanted a lawyer.

“No,” said Agatha. “I haven’t done anything.”

“I have a report here that your fur coat was vandalized. In your preliminary statement, you said nothing about Mrs Juddle. So why did you go to see her in the middle of the night?”

Agatha’s mind went this way and that. Then she decided that the truth was the only thing that would serve.

“I didn’t tell the police I had been to Francie because I was ashamed to say I had been consulting the local witch.” Agatha unwound the scarf from her head and bent it forward. “Some hairdresser shampooed my head with depilatory instead of shampoo and my hair didn’t seem to be growing back properly. Mrs Daisy Jones at the hotel recommended Francie. I went along to her and bought a bottle of hair tonic. While I was there, she made several remarks about my coat.”

“Exactly what did she say?”

“I can’t remember exactly. She said something about all the little animals that had been killed to make it and that I shouldn’t be wearing it. I was upset after the coat had been vandalized. I thought I would go and wake her up and see if she had any red paint marks on her hands or under her nails. I knocked at the cottage door, hard. The door swung open. I went upstairs to look for the bedroom. I wanted to surprise her asleep. I wanted to look at her hands. But when I pushed open the bedroom door and turned on the light, I saw her the way you found her. I should have checked to see if she was still alive, but I couldn’t bring myself to do that. I phoned for the police and ambulance and then went downstairs to wait. Look here,” said Agatha with some of her usual energy, “if I’d bumped her off, I would simply have run away. My fingerprints are over everything.”

“So Mrs Juddle gave you hair restorer. Anything else?”

“No,” lied Agatha, thinking of that bottle of love potion which was still in her handbag, glad she had not left it in the hotel room for the police to find.

“So let’s go back to the beginning again…”

Jimmy carefully took her through her story several times, obviously hoping she would slip up or come out with another bit of information.

At last, she was fingerprinted and told she was free to go but cautioned not to leave Wyckhadden.

A police car drove her the short distance to the hotel. She went up to her room and wearily opened the door. The room was in chaos. At first she thought she had been burgled until she realized there was fingerprint dust everywhere. Because of the murder, the forensic team had been sent in immediately. There was a knock at the door. She opened it to find the night porter standing there.

“I forgot to tell you,” he said, his eyes darting around the room, “that the police took your fur coat away for evidence. Here’s the receipt.”

“Thanks,” said Agatha.

“What’s this about a murder?”

“Do you mind? I want to sleep.” Agatha shut the door in his face.

She was too tired to take a bath or shower. She creamed off her make-up, undressed and went to bed, but decided to sleep with the lights on in case darkness should bring back the horrors of the night too vividly.

Agatha was awakened early in the morning by the shrill sound of the telephone. It was a reporter from the
Hadderton Gazette
. “Can’t talk now,” she said and hung up. Then she phoned the switchboard and told them that no calls were to be put through to her room and then fell asleep again. She drifted in and out of sleep, vaguely aware that from time to time someone was knocking at her door.

At last she rose about noon and had just bathed and dressed when the phone rang. “I told you not to put any calls through,” she snapped.

“Mrs Raisin? This is Inspector Jessop. I am downstairs and would like a few words with you.”

Agatha hung up, checked her make-up carefully and adjusted the blue scarf around her head, then went downstairs.

“We’ll go into the lounge,” said Jimmy. “It’s empty at the moment.”

“No police sidekick?” said Agatha. “Is this a friendly call?”

“Hardly.”

They walked into the lounge and sat down in huge armchairs by the long windows. On a coffee-table in front of them were spread the day’s papers. “Nothing in the press yet,” said Jimmy. “Too late for them.”

“When did she die?” asked Agatha. “I mean, the other residents will tell you I was in the hotel all evening.”

“We’re waiting for the report. It is very hard to pinpoint the actual time of any death.”

“Have you found out how someone could have got into my room and slashed my coat?”

“No, it could have been a previous resident. We’re checking the maids. Of course, there’s a passkey. About last night, let’s start again now you are rested. Why should you think a woman whom you had consulted about hair tonic should have slashed your coat, all because of a few off remarks?”

“I was rattled by the vandalism. I was furious. Oh, I may as well tell you the truth. I didn’t like the way you went off me at that dance after I told you I was an amateur detective. I wanted to show you what I could do.”

“That’s madness,” said Jimmy coldly. “I wouldn’t put it past you to bump off someone or slash your own coat. Women of your age who fancy themselves as amateur detectives will sometimes do anything to get publicity.”

“I do need a lawyer. If there was a witness to this conversation I would sue you,” shouted Agatha.

“You must admit it looks odd. We had a murder in Wyckhadden twelve years ago and that’s it. You arrive, and suddenly we have two incidents connected to you.”

“I am not a freak and I am not mad,” said Agatha in a thin voice. “Did you come here for the sole purpose of insulting me?”

He passed a large hand over his face.

“I’m so tired I don’t know what to think. But you’re right. My remarks were unprofessional and out of order.” He leaned behind him and pressed a bell on the wall. “I’ll get us a drink.”

“I haven’t had breakfast yet.”

The manager, Mr Martin, came bustling up. “Inspector, the press are outside and are troubling our guests. Could you ask them to move on?”

Jimmy rose to his feet. “I’ll do what I can. Bring Mrs Raisin here a gin and tonic and me a half-pint of lager.”

“This has never happened to me before,” said Mr Martin crossly. He was a plump man in a tight suit with a high colour.

“I have never had a coat slashed before,” said Agatha crossly. “Are we getting these drinks or not?”

The manager strode off, his fat shoulders stiff with disapproval.

Through the window, Agatha could see Jimmy talking to the press. A waiter came in with the drinks. Agatha suddenly realized that the police had made an oversight. They had not searched her handbag. If they had, they would have found that wretched love potion. She opened her handbag and took the small bottle out, planning to shove it down the side of the armchair and then recover it later. But a shaft of sunlight through the windows lit up the glass of lager Jimmy had ordered. Why not? thought Agatha. And I hope it poisons him. Probably only sugar and water. She looked around the empty lounge and then tipped half the bottle into the lager. Then she remembered Francie had said five drops. Agatha stared anxiously at the lager. It had turned a darker colour. She shoved the bottle down the side of the armchair.

Jimmy came back in, sat down, and took a hefty pull from his glass. “There’s no moving the press. But I tried.”

Agatha looked at him anxiously. “Lager all right?”

“I suppose so,” said Jimmy. “Funny sort of back taste, but there’s all these odd foreign lagers around these days. Where was I?”

“You were insulting me,” said Agatha. “You were saying I probably ripped up my own coat and then went out and killed Francie Juddle.”

“I’m sorry. I told you. Look, I’ll tell you what got up my nose about you. No, I don’t think you did it because as you say, you would hardly put your fingerprints over everything and then phone the police. The fact is…I told you about that other murder we had in Wyckhadden?”

“Yes.”

“It was a disaster. A woman in one of the old fishermen’s cottages was found dead, beaten to death, quite savagely, an old woman. Her jewellery had gone and the contents of her purse. We suspected the grandson who had form, and we were closing in on him. He shared a flat with two other ne’er-do-wells in the council estate at the back of the town. But along comes this Miss Biddle, a local resident, spinster in her fifties. Had read every detective story ever published and fancied herself as the local Miss Marple. It was common enough gossip around the town about the grandson, everyone saying they were pretty sure he did it. So she decided to go and confront the grandson herself, lying to him, telling him she had proof positive he had done it. So he bashes
her
to death. We catch up with him in Brighton and get him on both counts. Miss Biddle used to waylay me on the street, bragging about how she had solved the case of the missing cat or had found someone else’s lost handbag, so when you started up at the pier dance about all your adventures, I thought, oh God, we’ve got another one here.”

“If you check up with Mircester police, they can confirm my stories,” said Agatha frostily.

“I did phone Mircester police this morning and talked to a Detective Inspector Wilkes. He didn’t exactly confirm your stories about being the great detective. The way he put it, it was more like you had a habit of blundering into things.”

“After all the help I’ve given them!” Agatha was outraged.

“Anyway, Agatha,” said Jimmy, suddenly smiling at her, “keep out of this one.”

“As soon as you give me permission to leave this hell-hole, I’m going,” said Agatha. She picked up her gin and tonic and took a swallow and shuddered. “Too early in the day for me.”

“It’s two in the afternoon.”

“I’ve missed lunch.”

“Come on and I’ll take you for a bite of something.”

Agatha stared at him. He was smiling again. Was there something in that love potion after all?

“I’ll just go up and get my coat.”

Once in her room, Agatha unwound the scarf from her head, picked up the bottle of hair restorer and rubbed the lotion into the bald patches. If that love potion could make Jimmy smile at her again, then there might be something in the witch’s products. Then she wound the scarf round her head again, put on her coat, and went downstairs.

“Aren’t you supposed to avoid socializing with suspects?” she asked.

“I have a few hours off, and if anyone sees us, they’ll only think I’m grilling you for more information.”

“Have you questioned the other residents of this hotel?”

“The police have been taking statements from them all morning.”

They went outside. The press clamoured to know if Agatha was being arrested.

“No,” said Jimmy curtly. “And don’t follow us or you’ll get no more information out of me. And move away from the entrance of the hotel. I’ve already warned you.” But cameras clicked in Agatha’s face and a television camera was shoved in her face. Head down, and taking Jimmy’s arm, she walked with him along the promenade.

He turned up one of the side streets and led her to a small café. There was a
NO SMOKING
sign on the door. Agatha thought that perhaps she should have asked the witch for a cure for smoking.

They sat down at a table. Agatha picked up a small menu. The café specialized in ‘light snacks’. She ordered quiche and salad and Jimmy ordered a pot of tea.

“So you were playing Scrabble with the other residents?” began Jimmy.

“Yes, I told you.”

“What are they like?”

“I haven’t really got to know them that well. It was Daisy Jones who recommended Francie. She seems quite keen on Colonel Lyche, but he doesn’t notice her. He seems pretty set in his ways. Then there’s Jennifer Stobbs and Mary Dulsey and Harry Berry. What did we talk about? Well, Scrabble, letters, words. Nothing personal apart from ‘Would you like another drink, Mrs Raisin?’”