Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden (5 page)

“Did any of them leave during the game?”

“Daisy Jones went to powder her nose but she used the downstairs loo. Colonel Lyche went to get drinks from the bar. So did Mr Berry. I don’t suppose any of them have a horrible past.”

“We’re digging into it. Francie Juddle kept an appointments book. They all consulted her.”

“Ah!” Agatha’s eyes gleamed.

“Daisy Jones consulted her because she ran seances and Daisy wanted to get in touch with her late husband. The colonel has a liver complaint. Jennifer Stobbs asked for a love potion.”

“Who for? I mean, who was she going to use it on?”

“She insists it was for a friend. Mary Dulsey for warts, Harry Berry for rheumatism.”

“What a gullible lot!”

“You went to Francie yourself,” said Jimmy.

“Did she have me in her book?” asked Agatha.

“Yes, hair tonic,” Agatha heaved a sigh of relief. No mention of love potion.

“But apart from the residents at the hotel,” Jimmy was saying, “an awful lot of the townspeople went to Francie.”

“Did she make a good living out of it?”

“Yes, I believe she was a wealthy woman, but we’re checking with her solicitor to see how much she left.”

“What about family?”

“She has a daughter, Janine, who will probably inherit and who may take over the business.”

“It’s probably her.”

“Doubtful. She visited her mother often and appeared very fond of her.”

“Is she married?”

“Yes, to a layabout called Cliff Juddle.”

“Juddle! Did she marry her cousin, or what?”

“Something like that. The Juddles are gypsies.”

“So couldn’t this Cliff have bumped her off?”

“Anything’s possible,” said Jimmy. “But folk say that Janine is a very bossy woman, very tough. If Cliff killed the mother hoping to get his hands on the daughter’s money, he wouldn’t have much of a chance. Janine holds the purse-strings.”

“What does she do?”

“Same as her mother, but over in Hadderton. She may move here because the mother’s was the more profitable business. There’s a lot of old residents in Wyckhadden and the old have ailments and some of the older generation are superstitious. We raided a couple of her seances but could find nothing phoney, like muslin, or tapes, or thugs under the table to make it move. Mind you, these things do leak out and I always felt she had been forewarned.”

“But there must be trickery somewhere!”

“Oh, I’m sure there is but we were never able to find any.”

Agatha’s quiche arrived. After she had eaten it she still felt hungry and looked longingly at the display of cakes. “Like a cake?” asked Jimmy, following her gaze. “Well…”

“I’ll have one as well.”

“Oh, in that case…”

May as well make a good job of it, thought Agatha, ordering a slice of chocolate fudge cake.

The menu boasted, “We sell the best gateau cakes.” I wonder what the French tourists make of that one, thought Agatha.

The cake was delicious.

“So do I still have to stay in Wyckhadden?” asked Agatha.

“Yes, I’m afraid you do. And I forgot to tell you, my detective sergeant, Peter Carroll, will be on duty soon and he wants to ask you a few more questions. I’ll walk you round to the police station when you’re ready.”

“Aren’t you coming?”

“I’m going home for a couple of hours’ sleep. Ready to go?”

♦

Detective Sergeant Peter Carroll was a thin-faced man with a courteous manner which belied his seemingly endless capacity for asking probing questions. Agatha described again the events of the previous night, although now the whole thing was beginning to seem unreal. The interview room had a high window through which sunlight shone. Dust motes floated in the sunbeams. The table at which Agatha sat was scarred and stained with the rings of many coffee cups and cigarette burns. The walls were painted that sour shade of lime green so beloved by bureaucracy in Britain.

Agatha was beginning to feel sleepy again. “So we go back to the reason you left in the middle of the night to wake up a woman you just
thought
might have vandalized your coat. Why?” asked Carroll.

“I am by way of being an amateur detective,” said Agatha. Carroll consulted a fax on the papers in front of him and gave a brief cynical smile. Probably a fax from Wilkes telling them I’m an interfering busybody, thought Agatha. “Since Mrs Juddle had criticized my wearing of the coat, I thought she might have had something to do with it. I thought if I paid her a surprise visit, she might still have traces of paint on her hands.”

There was a knock at the door and then it opened and Tarret’s head appeared around it. “A word, sir.”

“Excuse me.” Carroll went out. A policewoman seated in the corner by the tape machine stared stolidly ahead. Agatha stifled a yawn. Oh, to be home in Carsely in her own cottage with her cats. She had been silly to run away. She wondered if James thought of her.

♦

Back in Carsely, James Lacey switched off the computer. He felt restless and bored. He had a dull feeling he refused to recognize that Carsely without Agatha was a lifeless sort of place. No one seemed to know where she had gone. The vicar’s wife, Mrs Bloxby, probably knew but she wasn’t telling anyone.

He decided to switch on the television and watch the teatime news. Another government scandal, another murder through road rage, and then the announcer said, “Police in Wyckhadden are investigating the death of a local witch. Mrs Frances Juddle was found battered to death in her cottage. She was found by a visitor, a Mrs Agatha Raisin.” There was a still photograph of Agatha in a police car. “Mrs Raisin from the village of Carsely in Gloucestershire is reported to be a friend of Inspector Jimmy Jessop, who is in charge of the case.” Film of Agatha leaving the hotel with Jimmy, then a long shot of Agatha and Jimmy walking along the promenade, arm in arm. The announcer then went on to describe Wyckhadden as a quiet seaside resort where a great many retired people stayed. Interviews with various neighbours of Francie Juddle, all expressing shock. James watched, bemused. Agatha had never mentioned Wyckhadden. And surely, if she had been friendly with a police inspector, she would have bragged about it.

He switched off the television and went out and along to the vicarage. Mrs Bloxby answered the door to him. “Why, Mr Lacey! How nice. Come in. We don’t see much of you these days.”

“I’ve been busy. What’s this about Agatha?”

“She felt the need of a holiday.”

“I have just seen her on television.”

James told her about Agatha and the murder of the witch of Wyckhadden.

“Poor Mrs Raisin. Murder does seem to follow her around.”

“It said on the television news that Agatha was a friend of some police inspector.”

“I saw the television news. How shocking! Poor Mrs Raisin. But I never heard her mention anything about a police inspector.”

“But why Wyckhadden?”

“I may as well tell you,” said Mrs Bloxby, “now that you know where she is. She didn’t know anything about Wyckhadden. She just closed her eyes and stuck a pin in the map.”

“She might have told me where she was going.”

“Why?” asked Mrs Bloxby gently. “You have not been close for quite a time.”

“But we’re neighbours!”

“No doubt she’ll tell us all about it when she returns. Tea?”

♦

“No, I don’t want any more of your filthy tea,” Agatha was saying to the policewoman. The sun had gone down. The interview room was cold.

The door opened and Carroll came in again. “We got someone for cutting up your coat.”

“Who was it?” asked Agatha.

“It was that girl you told Tarret about, who attacked you on the prom. Her name’s Carly Broomhead. We picked her up. She still had traces of red paint on her hands. Her sister works, or rather worked, now, as a maid at Garden Hotel. She’s been fired.”

“It
would
be someone like her,” said Agatha bitterly. “I can sue her until I’m black in the face, but she’ll never be able to pay for another coat.”

“At least we’ve got that out the way and know it’s not connected with the murder.”

“Oh, isn’t it? In my opinion, anyone who slashes a coat is quite capable of bashing someone’s head in.”

“Just leave investigation to the police in future, Mrs Raisin. You’re free to go but keep yourself available for further questioning.” He turned to the policewoman and said, “Interview with Mrs Agatha Raisin finished at eighteen hundred hours. Switch off the tape, Josie, and leave us for a moment.”

When the policewoman had gone, Carroll leaned forward and said, “Jimmy Jessop’s a decent man.”

“I am sure he is,” said Agatha stiffly.

“He was shattered by the death of his wife. I don’t want him getting hurt or mucked about by the likes of you, see?”

“Why don’t you concentrate on police work and mind your own damned business,” said Agatha, standing up.

“I am concentrating on police business and I don’t like the way you went out at one in the morning and found that body.”

“Are you charging me?”

“Not yet.”

“Then get stuffed.”

Agatha stormed out. As she hurried back to the hotel, she realized with a little shock that she had not had a cigarette that day. She opened her handbag and took out a packet of Benson & Hedges. Then she took a deep breath of fresh air and put them back. She was free of the stuff at last.

♦

When she got back to the hotel, she was relieved to see that no press were waiting outside. The manager, Mr Martin, was waiting for her. “If you would just step into the office, Mrs Raisin.”

She followed him into an office off the entrance hall.

“I am very distressed that a member, or rather, a former member, of my staff should have been party to the destruction of your coat, Mrs Raisin. We will not be charging you for your stay here.”

“Thank you,” said Agatha. “I plan to make it as short as possible.”

“Our offer does not cover drinks,” he said awkwardly.

“I’ll remember that,” said Agatha drily. Then she remembered the bottle of love potion she had thrust down the cushions of the armchair in the lounge. She was all at once anxious to retrieve it. “Thank you.” She got to her feet and went out.

The colonel was reading a newspaper in the lounge and sitting in the armchair on which Agatha had sat earlier. Daisy Jones was sitting opposite him, knitting.

“What are you doing?” cried Daisy shrilly as Agatha plunged her hand down the side of the armchair on which the colonel was sitting.

“I left my medicine,” said Agatha, retrieving the bottle, although she was tempted to shock Daisy by saying, “Just having a feel.”

“These are distressing times,” said the colonel. “We are going to play Scrabble tonight as usual, all the same. Do join us.”

“Thank you.”

Why not, thought Agatha. Murder and mayhem may have arrived in Wyckhadden but the Scrabble game goes on.

∨
The Witch of Wyckhadden
∧

3

A
gatha rubbed some more lotion into her bald patches before winding a chiffon scarf around her head and then went downstairs for dinner. After calling out ‘Good evening’ to the others, she picked up a paperback and began to read to ward them off. She would see enough of them over the Scrabble game.

The meal was roast pork, roast potatoes, apple sauce, and various vegetables. It had been preceded by Scotch broth and rolls and butter and was followed by meringues and ice cream. I shouldn’t even be eating half of this, thought Agatha, but what the hell, it’s been a bad time and I need some comfort.

But the heavy meal had the effect of making her feel sleepy again. Only ambition to find out something about these other residents forced her into joining their Scrabble game.

She refused the offer of a drink from the colonel. Mary Dulsey shook out the Scrabble tiles and old Harry put on a pair of gold-rimmed glasses and laid out pen and notebook to log the scores.

“It’s nice the weather has cleared up,” said Daisy brightly. “Oh, thank you, Colonel,” to that gentleman, who had returned with a tray of drinks.

“Aren’t we going to discuss the murder?” asked Agatha.

“But it’s our Scrabble game,” said Jennifer.

The others were carefully sorting their tiles in rows. “I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with this lot,” grumbled Mary.

“They found out who vandalized my coat,” said Agatha.

“We know,” said the colonel. “Mr Martin told us. Agatha, you have the highest tile. You start.”

Agatha looked at her letters. She leaned over the board and put down HOG. “You have a T there and a U and another H,” reproved Daisy. “You could have put THOUGH.”

“No helping,” barked the colonel, and Daisy blushed and whispered, “Sorry.”

Agatha looked round the bent old heads in amazement. Why weren’t they talking about the murder? But they had all been interviewed that morning, had probably discussed it among themselves, and now all they wanted was their usual game of Scrabble. Perhaps the best thing would be to try to tackle them one by one on the following day.

When the first game finished, she excused herself, saying she was tired, and went up to her room.

Again she slept with the light on.

♦

In the morning, she went down for breakfast and approached Daisy Jones. “Mind if I join you?”

Daisy cast a longing look at the colonel but he was barricaded behind the
Daily Telegraph
. “Yes, do,” she said with obvious reluctance.

“Do you know I was the one who found poor Francie Juddle?” started Agatha.

“Yes, it was in the newspapers this morning.”

“What did you go to her for?”

Daisy looked uncomfortable. Then she said, “Francie gave seances. She said she could get me in touch with my dead husband.”

“And did she?”

“Yes. I mean it was scary to hear Hugh’s voice.”

“No trickery?”

“I suppose there must have been. I don’t want to talk about it.”

“But – ”