Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden (7 page)

♦

In the morning, after breakfast, Agatha found that Mary and Jennifer wanted to join the shopping expedition. She led them through to the lounge. “We’d better prepare a plan of action first,” she said. “Are you game?”

They all nodded. “Well, for a start, you’ve all got old-fashioned hair-styles,” said Agatha, “but fortunately you all seem to have strong, healthy hair that will take tinting. I think I need to start off with taking you all to a good hairdresser and getting you all styled. Then a beautician. Face and skin are important.”

“You can’t do anything about wrinkles,” said Jennifer.

“Oh, yes, you can,” said Agatha, “and I’m not talking face-lift. Do you know of a good hairdresser? I mean, one you haven’t gone to?”

“We all just go to Sally’s in the High Street.”

“I’ll ask the manager.” Agatha went through to the office. Mr Martin listened to her request and said, “There’s a retired couple in Wyckhadden. He was a hairdresser and she was a beautician. They still do some work privately.”

“I don’t know…” began Agatha doubtfully.

“He used to be Jerome of Bond Street.”

“Good heavens,” said Agatha faintly. “I forget how old I am myself. I used to go to Jerome. He was very good. Can you give me his number?”

Supplied with the number, Agatha phoned up. Jerome was delighted to hear from her. She could bring her ladies along and he and his wife would get to work.

In all her crusading zeal, Agatha had quite forgotten about the murder. By the end of the morning, Daisy’s hair was a shining honey-blonde and her wrinkles had been smoothed out with a collagen treatment. Jennifer had a short smart bob and her moustache had been removed and her eyebrows shaped. Mary had a pretty arrangement of soft curls and a smoother face.

Chattering happily they all had lunch in a restaurant on the promenade and then Agatha led them round the shops. “I hope you all can afford this,” she said guiltily.

They all said yes, they could. Agatha’s mind returned to murder. Jennifer had paid for all her purchases from a wallet bulging with cash while the rest used credit cards, and Jennifer was a powerful woman. And as her mind returned to thoughts of murder, so did the craving for a cigarette return with force. “No, not pink, Daisy,” she said as Daisy held up a blouse for her inspection. “Blue, maybe. And you need a different size of bra.”

“What’s wrong with the one I’ve got on?”

“It’s too tight. It’s giving you bulges where you shouldn’t have bulges.”

I mean it’s not as if I gave up smoking, Agatha argued with herself. It gave me up, so to speak. I didn’t sign the pledge. Just one puff would be heaven. Well, maybe later.

♦

“Somehow the idea of Scrabble seems a bit flat,” said Jennifer in her deep voice. “But I suppose that’s all we’ve got on the cards tonight.”

But when they returned to the hotel, it was to find that the colonel had taken the liberty of booking seats for them all at a production of Gilbert and Sullivan’s
Mikado
and had arranged an early dinner.

This is like a girls’ dormitory, thought Agatha in amusement as Daisy and Mary and Jennifer called in at her room to ask her to vet what they were wearing.

They all went downstairs together. “By George, ladies, you’ve youthed,” said old Harry, his eyes twinkling.

“That blue suits you, Daisy,” said the colonel, “and your hair’s pretty.” Daisy’s eyes shone and she squeezed Agatha’s arm.

♦

The theatre was an old-fashioned one bedecked with plaster gilt cherubs and a large chandelier.

The colonel, who had been carrying a large box of chocolates, passed it along, and there was much fumbling for spectacles as they tried to read the chart of flavours.

Agatha had never seen a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta and feared it would all prove to be a bit arty-farty, but from the overture on, she was riveted. In that evening, for a brief time, she became the child she had never really been. It was a novelty to her to have the capacity of sheer enjoyment. Pleasure for Agatha had always been bitter-sweet, always had a this-won’t-last feeling. But that evening, the glory of escapism and warmth and security seemed to go on forever.

As they filed out after the performance, the colonel could be heard saying to Daisy, “The Lord High Executioner could have been better,” but Agatha could find no fault with anything.

They went to a nearby pub for drinks. The colonel told an amusing story about a Gilbert and Sullivan performance in the army. Jennifer made them laugh by saying she had once played Buttercup in
Pirates of Penzance
and had forgotten all the words and so had tried to make them up.

It was only when Agatha was undressing for bed that she suddenly thought it curious that not one of them had mentioned the murder, or was curious about the murder. Maybe they considered it bad form. Maybe their elderly brains had already forgotten about the whole thing.

But in the following week, as she went out with her new-found friends, she, too, discovered that, for the first time, she wasn’t much interested in finding out who had murdered Francie, largely because she was convinced the culprit was the son-in-law and the police with the aid of forensic would soon arrest him. And Jimmy had not called, not once.

♦

James Lacey was shopping in Mircester when he ran into Detective Sergeant Bill Wong. Bill was looking round and chubby, a sure sign he had no love in his life. When Bill was smitten by some girl, he always slimmed down.

“I see Agatha’s got herself involved in another murder,” said Bill. “Heard from her?”

“No,” said James. “Have you?”

“Not a word. I thought she would have been on the phone asking me to help. Why don’t you go down there and see her?”

“I can’t manage it. I’m thinking of going abroad again. Friends of mine have a villa in Greece and they’ve invited me over.”

Poor Agatha, thought Bill. James was hardly the impassioned lover.

When he got back to police headquarters, he got a telephone call from the baronet, Sir Charles Fraith. “What’s our Aggie been up to?” demanded Charles.

“I only know what I’ve read in the papers,” said Bill. “Then I gather Wyckhadden police have been checking up on her background.”

“If you’re speaking to her, give her my love.”

“Why don’t you go and see her?”

“Shooting season. Got a big house party. Can’t get away.”

Poor Agatha, thought Bill again. I hope she isn’t too lonely.

♦

Agatha was taking a brisk walk along the pier ten days after the murder when she saw the tall, slim figure of the colonel in front of her and quickened her steps to catch up with him.

“Fine morning,” said Agatha. It had turned quite mild for mid-winter, one of those milky grey days when all colour seemed to have been bleached out of the sea and the sky, and even the sea-gulls were silent.

“Morning, Agatha,” said the colonel. “All set for the dance tonight? More our style.”

He pointed to a poster advertising
OLD-TYME DANCING
. “Yes, we’ve all got new gowns to dazzle you,” said Agatha. “Colonel, why do none of you ever talk about that dreadful murder?”

“Not the sort of thing one talks about,” said the colonel. “Nasty business. Best forgotten.”

“You went to Francie, didn’t you?”

“My liver had been playing up and my quack couldn’t seem to come up with anything sensible. Kept telling me to stop drinking. May as well be dead in that case. Went to Francie. She gave me some powders. Haven’t had any trouble since.”

Agatha thought that as the colonel did not drink very much, and had probably received a bad health scare to slow down his drinking, it was probably due to that rather than Francie’s powders that he hadn’t had any more trouble.

“What did you make of her? Francie, I mean.”

“All right. I’d expected a lot of mumbo-jumbo. But she seemed a sensible sort of woman. I’m surprised her daughter’s moved in and set up in business so quickly.”

“She has?”

“Yes, there was a small ad in the local paper this morning.”

Agatha’s detective curiosity was roused again. “That is odd.”

“I don’t think it’s odd,” said the colonel. “Tasteless, maybe. I think she’s cashing in on the publicity about her mother’s death.”

“I wonder if people will go to her,” mused Agatha.

“Bound to. There was also a bit in the local paper about Francie’s cures, saying there was a lot to be said for old-fashioned herbal medicine.”

“That’s what she used? Herbs?”

“Or grass.”

“Grass?”

“Grass. Pot. Hash. We had a lady who was resident at the Garden – she’s dead now, poor old thing. She was subject to fits of depression and so she went to Francie, who gave her something. Well, after that, whenever she had taken some of what Francie had prescribed, she used to get all giggly and silly. I’ve seen the effects of pot and I thought Francie had given her something with hash in it.”

“Didn’t you report it?”

“Old lady had terminal cancer. I thought, if it keeps her happy, so be it.”

“And yet you went to her yourself?”

“She seemed to be all right generally. Mary was plagued with warts and she cured those, things like that. I had high blood pressure once, everything seemed to outrage me – politics, modern youth, you name it. I went on a diet and decided not to worry about anything, interfere in anything, just look after myself. Worked a treat. That’s why I let things like this murder alone.”

“Did you know Daisy’s husband?”

“Met him once. Gloomy sort of fellow.”

“What did he die of?”

“Lung cancer. Sixty-cigarettes-a-day man.”

Agatha, who had been fighting with the craving for a cigarette, felt the longing for one sharply increase. Odd that the minute she heard something awful about the effects of cigarettes, the longing for one should hit her. Maybe that’s why the cigarette manufacturers didn’t balk at putting grim warnings on cigarette packets. They probably knew that at the heart of every addict, there’s a death wish.

“You’ve done wonders with the ladies’ appearance.” The colonel strolled on with Agatha at his side. He seemed happy to change the subject. “Daisy’s looking really pretty.”

“Thinking of getting married?” teased Agatha.

“What me? By George, no! Once was enough.”

“Wasn’t it happy?”

“Wonder if those chaps have caught any fish?” The colonel waved his stick at men fishing at the end of the pier. So the subject of his marriage was closed.

As they turned back and walked towards the hotel, Agatha stumbled and he tucked her arm in his. “Better hang on to me,” he said. “Don’t want you twisting an ankle before this evening. You should wear flats.”

“I always like a bit of a heel,” said Agatha. She looked towards the hotel. There was a flash at one of the windows. Could be binoculars, thought Agatha. I wonder whose room that is.

When they went into the warmth of the hotel, to the Victorian hush of the Garden with its thick carpets, thick curtains and solid walls, Agatha felt all her old restlessness coming back. She went up to her room and unwound the scarf from her head. There was not enough hair covering the hitherto bald patches. She shook the bottle. Only a little left.

She could kill two birds with one stone. She could go along and have a look at this Janine and see what she was like and also see if she had any of her mother’s hair lotion left. She didn’t want to use up the last little bit in case it turned out that Janine didn’t have any and that last bit must be kept for analyses.

She brushed her hair and decided there was no longer any reason to wear a scarf.

Agatha called in at the dining-room on her way out to tell the others she would be skipping lunch. The waistband of her skirt felt comfortably loose for the first time in months and she did not want to sabotage her figure with one of the hotel’s massive lunches.

“Where are you going?” asked Mary.

“I’m going to see Francie Juddle’s daughter.”

They all stared at her. “Why?” asked Jennifer.

“It’s my hair. Remember I had these bald patches? Francie gave me some hair tonic and it worked a treat. I’m going to see if she has any of her mother’s stuff left.”

Agatha turned away and said over her shoulder, “If she’s such a witch, she may even be able to rouse the spirits of the dead to tell me who murdered her mother.”

There was a sudden stillness behind her, but she went on her way. They probably all thought her visit was bad form.

∨
The Witch of Wyckhadden
∧

4

A
gatha felt quite excited as she made her way along the promenade to Partons Lane.

At the cottage, a surly-looking young man answered the door. “You got an appointment?” he demanded.

“No.”

“Well, you’ll need to come back. Two o’clock’s the first free appointment.”

“Put my name down,” said Agatha. “Agatha Raisin.”

“Right you are.”

“You won’t forget?”

“Naw.”

So that’s that for the moment, Agatha thought. She made her way to the pub where she had first met Jimmy. To her surprise and delight, he was sitting at a table with a half-finished glass of lager in front of him.

“Agatha!” He rose to his feet. “Sit down and I’ll get you something. The usual?”

“Thanks, Jimmy.”

Jimmy returned with her drink. “So how are things?” he asked.

“I’ve been jauntering around with the people from the hotel. We’re going to the dance tonight. Have they found out when the murder was committed?”

“Can’t ever be exact. She hadn’t had any supper. Nothing in her stomach to indicate she’d eaten anything since lunchtime. The pathologist thinks it might have been between five and six o’clock, going by rigor mortis and all that sort of business.”

“Oh, but that means it could have been done by one of them at the hotel. Surely the neighbours saw who went in and out?”

“There’s the problem. The cottages on either side and across the road are weekend cottages. And the only permanent resident four doors away is nearly blind.”