Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden ar-9

by M C Beaton

  She released the hand brake, let in the clutch and drove slowly and carefully back to the Garden.

  She went up to her room and took off the linen suit. It was unlucky. She would never wear it again. She changed into a dark red blouse and velvet skirt and went down for dinner. The hotel now boasted a maitre d' who told her that as the hotel was so busy, he had placed her at a table with two other ladies. The two other ladies turned out to be Jennifer and Mary.

  "Why, Agatha," said Jennifer, "it is you. Are you staying down for Inspector Jessop's wedding?"

  "You know about that?" Agatha shook out her napkin.

  "Yes, Harry and Mary and me have all been invited."

  "Why?"

  "Well, you see, he got a lot of kudos for solving those murders..."

  "I solved them."

  "Anyway, he asked the three of us. Isn't it fun?"

  So Harry knew all about the wedding, thought Agatha, and yet he said nothing. Does everyone want to hurt me?

  "How's everything?" she said.

  "We're really thinking of moving to Eastbourne. This hotel's not the same and Mr. Martin has put the rates up." Mary leaned forward. "The food's not the same either. You'll see."

  Mary was proved right. The portions were considerably smaller.

  "Martin's a fool," said Agatha. "Oh, why should I bother. Why is it that when places get popular, they stint on the food and raise the rates?"

  "He's got a lot of new staff to pay," said Mary. "I say, we're going to a dance on the pier tonight. Want to come?"

  "Why not?" said Agatha.

  But when she went up to her room after dinner, she suddenly began thrusting all her clothes back into her suitcase. She carried it down to the desk and paid her bill. "Family troubles," she said to the surprised receptionist. "Got to go."

  As she drove out of Wyckhadden, she repressed a superstitious shiver. Janine had cursed them all. Daisy and the colonel were dead. Which one next?

  She drove along the promenade, now hung with fairy lights. And coming along arm in arm were Jimmy and Gladwyn. Gladwyn was wearing the mink coat. I hope some animal libber murders her, thought Agatha fiercely. Why can't I get away with being unpolitically correct? People even swear at me for smoking.

  How weary and how lonely and how long the road back to Carsely seemed.

  When she finally let herself into her cottage, she checked her answering service. No one had phoned, no Charles, no James, no one from the village.

  She went wearily to bed surrounded by cats.

  "So," said Mrs. Bloxby, sympathetically the next day. "It was a disaster."

  "Total humiliation," said Agatha who had called the following day to tell the vicar's wife all about it.

  "It wouldn't have worked, you know," said Mrs Bloxby. "He wouldn't ever have trusted you and every time you had a marital quarrel, Charles's name would be thrown in your face. It's this craving for excitement that emanates from you. You'll always stir things up."

  "Not any more," said Agatha. "I'm weary. I'm settled. Me and my cats."

  "I hope so. There's a meeting of the ladies society here tomorrow."

  "I'll come. I'll help you with the catering."

  "That is good of you." Mrs. Bloxby then prattled on about village affairs and the latest fund raising project. At last Agatha rose and took her leave.

  "Has that awful woman gone?" asked the vicar, popping his head round the study door.

  "You're very hard on her, Alf," said Mrs. Bloxby. "She's got a good heart."

  The vicar kissed his wife on the top of her head and smiled down at her fondly. "You love everyone."

  "And you forget that's supposed to be part of your job."

  "What does she think of James's blonde moving in?"

  Mrs. Bloxby looked uncomfortable. "I hadn't the heart to tell her."

  "Coward!"

  Agatha walked back to Lilac Lane where her cottage was. It was then she saw a long, low, red sports car parked outside James's cottage and smoke rising from the chimney.

  He was home! All her misery fled. They would sit and talk and she would tell him all about the murders. She knocked on his door.

  It was opened by a tall slim blonde, about thirty-something, wearing cut off jeans and one of James's shirts knotted at the waist.

  "Is James at home?" asked Agatha.

  "No, he's in Greece. I met him there. He said I could use the cottage until he got back."

  "When will that be?"

  "Don't know. Isn't he a sweetie?"

  "Yes. See you."

  Agatha clumped off to her own cottage. She fed the cats and let them out into the garden.

  There was an aching pain where her heart should be.

  CONTINUE READING FOR AN EXCERPT FROM

  M. C. BEATON'S NEXT BOOK

  AGATHA RAISIN AND THE

  FAIRIES OF FRYFAM

  NOW AVAILABLE FROM

  ST. MARTIN'S PAPERBACKS

  AGATHA Raisin was selling up and leaving Carsely for good.

  Or rather, that had been the plan.

  She had already rented a cottage in the village of Fryfam in Norfolk. She had rented blind. She neither knew the village or anywhere else in Norfolk. A fortune-teller had told her that her destiny lay in Norfolk. Her next-door neighbour, the love of her life, James Lacey, had departed without saying goodbye and so she had decided to move to Norfolk and had chosen the village of Fryfam by sticking a pin in the map. A call to the Fryfam police station had put her in touch with a local estate agent, the cottage was rented, and all Agatha had to do was sell her own cottage and leave.

  But the problem lay in the people who came to view the house. Either the women were too attractive and Agatha was not going to have an attractive woman living next door to James, or they were sour and grumpy, and she did not want to inflict such people on the village.

  She was due to move into her rented Norfolk cottage at the beginning of October and it was now heading to the end of September. Bright-coloured autumn leaves swirled about the Cotswold Lanes. It was an Indian summer of lazy mellow sunny days and misty nights. Never had Carsely seemed more beautiful. But Agatha was determined to get rid of her obsession for James Lacey. Fryfam was probably beautiful as well.

  Agatha was just stiffening up her weakening sinews when the doorbell rang. She opened the door. Two small round people stood there. "Good morning," said the woman brightly. "We are Mr. and Mrs. Baxter-Semper. We've come to view the house."

  "You should have made an appointment with the estate agent," grumped Agatha.

  "Oh, but we saw the board 'For Sale' outside."

  "Come in," sighed Agatha. "Take a look around. You'll find me in the kitchen if you have any questions."

  She hunched over a cup of black coffee at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. Through the window, she could see her cats, Hodge and Boswell, playing in the garden. How nice to be a cat, thought Agatha bitterly. No hopeless love, no responsibility, no bills to pay, nothing else to do but wait to be fed and roll around in the sun.

  She could hear the couple moving about. Then she heard the sound of drawers being opened and closed.

  She went to the foot of the stairs and shouted up, "You're supposed to be looking at the house, not poking among my knickers." There was a shocked silence. Then they both came downstairs. "We thought you might be leaving your furniture behind," said the woman defensively.

  "No, I'm putting it into storage," said Agatha wearily. "I'm renting in Norfolk until I find somewhere to buy."

  Mrs. Baxter-Semper looked past her.

  "Oh, is that the garden?"

  "Obviously," said Agatha, blowing smoke in her direction.

  "Look, Bob. We could knock down that kitchen wall and have a nice conservatory."

  Oh, God, thought Agatha, one of those nasty white wood-and-glass excrescences sticking out of the back of my cottage.

  They stood before her as if expecting her to offer them tea or coffee.

  "I'll show you out," said Agath
a gruffly.

  As she shut the door behind them with a bang, she could hear Mrs. Baxter-Semper saying, "What a rude woman!"

  "House is perfect for us, though," remarked the husband.

  Agatha picked up the phone and dialled the estate agents. "I've decided not to sell at the moment. Yes, this is Mrs. Raisin. No, I don't want to sell. Just take your board down."

  When she replaced the receiver, she felt happier than she had done for some time. Nothing could be achieved by quitting Carsely.

  On the morning of her departure, she left her house keys with her cleaner, Doris Simpson, and then returned home to coax Hodge and Boswell into their cat boxes. She drove off down Lilac Lane, cast one longing look at James's cottage, turned the corner and then sped up the leafy hill out of Carsely, the cats in their boxes on the back seat and a road map spread beside her on the passenger seat.

  The sun shone all the way until she reached the boundaries of the county of Norfolk and then the sky clouded over the brooding flat, flat countryside.

  At last, with a sigh of relief, she saw a signpost with the legend "Fryfam" on it and followed its white pointing finger. There were now pine woods on either side and the countryside was becoming hilly. Round another bend, and there was a board with "Fryfam" on it, heralding that she had arrived. She stopped again and took out the estate agent's instructions. Lavender Cottage, her new temporary home, lay in Pucks Lane on the far side of the village green.

  A very large village green, thought Agatha, circling round it. There were a huddle of houses with flint walls, a pub, a church, and then, running along by the graveyard, lay Pucks Lane. It was very narrow and she drove slowly along, hoping she did not meet a car coming the other way. Agatha was hopeless at reversing. She switched on her headlights. Then she saw a faded sign, "Pucks Lane," and turned left and bumped along a side lane. The cottage lay at the end of it. It was a two-storey brick-and-flint building which seemed very old. It sagged slightly towards a large garden, a very large garden. Agatha got stiffly out and peered over the hedge at it.

  The estate agent had said the key would be under the doormat. She bent down and located it. It was a large key, like the key to an old church door. It was stiff in the lock, but with a wrench, she managed to unlock the door. She found a switch on the inside of the door, put on the light and looked around. There was a little entrance hall. On the left was a dining-room and on the right, a sitting-room. There were low black beams on the ceiling. A door at the back of the hall led into a modern kitchen.

  It was when she was sitting at the kitchen table with a mug of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other that she realized two things. The kitchen did not have a microwave. Recently Agatha had abandoned her forays into "real" cooking and had returned to the use of the microwave. Also, the cottage was very cold. She got up and began to search for a thermostat to jack up the central heating. It was only after a futile search that she realized there were no radiators. She went into the sitting-room. There was a fireplace big enough to roast an ox in. Beside the fireplace there was a basket of logs. There was also a packet of fire-lighters and a pile of old newspapers. She lit the fire. At least the logs were dry and were soon crackling away merrily. Agatha searched through the house again. There were fireplaces in every room except the kitchen. In the kitchen, in a cupboard, she found a Calor gas heater.

  This is ridiculous, thought Agatha. I'll need to spend a fortune on heating this place. She went out the front door. The garden still seemed very big. It would need the services of a gardener. The lawn was thick with fallen leaves. It was Saturday. The estate agents' would not be open until Monday.

  After she had unpacked her groceries and put all her frozen meals away, she opened the back door. The back garden had a washing green and little else. As she looked, she blinked a little. Odd little coloured lights were dancing around at the bottom of the garden. Fireflies? Not in cold Norfolk. She walked down the garden towards the dancing lights, which abruptly disappeared on her approach.

  Her stomach rumbled, reminding her it was some time since she had eaten. She decided to lock up and walk down to the pub and see if she could get a meal. She was half-way down the lane when she realized with a groan that she had not unpacked the cats' litter boxes. She returned to the cottage and attended to that chore and then set out again.

  The pub was called the Green Dragon. A badly executed painting of a green dragon hung outside the door of the pub. She went in. There were only a few customers, all men, all very small men. They watched her progress to the bar in silence.

  It was a silent pub, no music, no fruit machines, no television. There was no one behind the bar. Agatha's stomach gave another rumble. "Any service here?" she shouted. She turned and looked at the other customers, who promptly all looked at the stone-flagged floor.

  She turned impatiently back to the bar. What sort of hell-hole have I arrived in? she thought bitterly. There was the rapid clacking of approaching high heels and then a vision appeared on the other side of the bar. She was a Junoesque blonde like a figurehead on a ship. She had thick blond--real blond--hair, which flowed back from her smooth peaches-and-cream face in soft waves. Her eyes were very wide and very blue.

  "How can I help you, missus?" she asked in a soft voice.

  "I'm hungry," said Agatha. "Got anything to eat?"

  "I'm so sorry. We don't do meals."

  "Oh, for heaven's sake," howled a much exasperated Agatha. "Is there anywhere in this village that time forgot where I can get food?"

  "Reckon as how you're lucky. I got a helping of our own steak pie left. Like some?"

  She gave Agatha a dazzling smile. "Yes, I would," said Agatha, mollified.

  She held up a flap on the bar. "Come through. You'll be that Mrs. Raisin what's taken Lavender Cottage."

  Agatha followed her into the back premises and into a large dingy kitchen with a scrubbed table in the centre.

  "Please be seated, Mrs. Raisin."

  "And you are?"

  "I'm Mrs. Wilden. Can I offer you a glass of beer?"

  "I wouldn't mind some wine if that isn't asking too much."

  "No, not at all."

  She disappeared and shortly after returned with a decanter of wine and a glass. Then she put a knife, fork and napkin in front of Agatha. She opened the oven door of an Aga cooker and took out a plate with a wedge of steak pie. She put it on a large plate and then opened another door in the cooker and took out a tray of roast potatoes. Another door and out came a dish of carrots, broccoli and peas. She put a huge plateful in front of Agatha, added a steaming jug of gravy, which she seemed to have conjured out of nowhere, and a basket of crusty rolls and a large pat of yellow butter. Not only was the food delicious but the wine was the best Agatha had ever tasted. She could not normally tell one wine from another, but she somehow knew this one was very special, and wished that her baronet friend, Sir Charles Fraith, could taste it and tell her what it was. She turned to ask Mrs. Wilden, but the beauty had disappeared back to the bar.

  Agatha ate until she could eat no more. Feeling very mellow and slightly tipsy, she made her way back to the bar.

  "All right, then?" asked Mrs. Wilden.

  "It was all delicious," said Agatha. She took out her wallet. "How much do I owe you?"

  A startled look of surprise came into those beautiful blue eyes.

  "I told you, we don't do meals."

  "But ..."

  "So you were welcome to my food and drink," said Mrs. Wilden. "Best go home and get some sleep. You must be tired."

  "Thank you very much," said Agatha, putting her wallet away. "You and your husband must join me one evening for dinner."

  "That do be kind of you, but he's dead and I'm always here."

  "I'm sorry your husband's dead," said Agatha awkwardly as Mrs. Wilden held up the flap on the bar for her to pass through. "When you said 'our' steak pie, I thought..."

  "I meant me and mother."

  "Ah, well, you've been very kind. Perhaps
I could buy a round of drinks for everyone here?" The customers had been talking quietly, but at Agatha's words there was a sudden silence.

  "Not tonight. Don't do to spoil them, do it, Jimmy?"

  Jimmy, a gnarled old man, muttered something and looked sadly at his empty tankard.

  Agatha walked to the door. "Thanks again," she said. "Oh, by the way, there's these funny dancing lights at the bottom of the back garden. Is it some sort of insect like a firefly you've got in these parts?"

  For a moment the silence in the pub was absolute. Everybody seemed frozen, like statues. Then Mrs. Wilden picked up a glass and began to polish it. "We got nothing like that round here. Reckon your poor eyes were tired after the journey."

  Agatha shrugged. "Could be." She went out into the night.

  She remembered she had left the fire blazing and had not put a fire-guard in front of it. She ran the whole way back, terrified her beloved cats had been burnt to a crisp. She fumbled in her handbag for that ridiculous key. Need to oil the lock, she thought. She got the door open and hurtled into the sitting-room. The fire glowed red. Her cats lay stretched out in front of it. With a sigh of relief she bent down and patted their warm bodies. Then she went up to bed. There were two bedrooms, one double and one single. She chose the one with the double bed. It was covered in a huge thick duvet. She explored the bathroom. It had an immersion heater. It would take ages to heat water for a bath. She switched it on, washed her face and cleaned her teeth and went to bed and fell into a sound and dreamless sleep.

  The morning was bright and sunny. Agatha had a hot bath, dressed and had her usual breakfast of two cups of black coffee and three cigarettes. She let the cats out into the back garden and then, returning to the kitchen, picked up the estate agent's inventory of the contents. Agatha, an old hand at renting property, knew the importance of checking inventories. She wanted all her deposit back, and did not want it defrayed by mythical losses.

  Agatha was half-way through it when there was a knock at the door. She opened and found herself confronted by four women.