Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

by M C Beaton

  “I said nothing of the sort!”

  “I believe you,” said Jennifer on a sigh. “She won’t like us having gone out together, so she’ll start telling me, and the others, little things about you. She’s already told Daisy that you’ve been trying to get your claws into the colonel.”

  Agatha leaned back in her chair and stared at Jennifer. “And I thought you were all such friends!”

  “We’re more like relatives. We haven’t really got anything but each other and we’re all old. You’ve landed into an old folks’ home, Agatha.”

  “The other thing that bothers me.” said Agatha, “is that none of you talk about the murders. Why?”

  “Do you think I ought to have the chocolate cake for dessert?”

  “Why not? You’re slim enough. You haven’t answered my question, Jennifer.”

  “Oh, that. I think we feel we shouldn’t talk about it.”

  “Bad form?”

  “That’s an excuse. No, it’s because we’re all pretty sure one of us did it.”

  Agatha stared at her, but Jennifer was calmly ordering chocolate cake. “What about you, Agatha?”

  “May as well. If I can’t smoke, I may as well have some comfort.”

  The waitress left with their order.

  “What makes you think it’s one of you?” asked Agatha.

  “Just a feeling.”

  “Who do you think could have possibly have done it? Who’s strong enough?”

  “It wouldn’t take much strength,” said Jennifer. “Just a lot of rage and fright.”

  “What about Mary?”

  “I think if Mary had done it, she would have broken down and told me.”

  “The colonel?”

  “Perhaps. But what reason?”

  “Daisy?”

  “Too silly and weak.”

  “Harry?”

  “Oh, here’s our cake.” Agatha waited impatiently until the waitress had left.

  “I was asking you about Harry.”

  “Could be. He’s got a vicious temper. He believed all that stuff about her conjuring up the spirit of his dead wife, but then Francie slipped up. She got a bit carried away with her success because Harry was a regular visitor. Francie began to embroider too much. She had Harry’s wife tease him about always losing socks. Now, Harry is a sock fanatic. He buys pairs of black socks, never a colour, and has always kept them in neat pairs. So he asks the spirit, ‘What about my red pair?’ and the spirit answers that the red pair probably got lost in the wash. So Harry tries a few more trick questions. He reported Francie to the police as a fraud and her place was raided but they couldn’t find anything. Harry made such a song and dance about it before he went to the police that someone must have tipped Francie off. He said he would kill her.”

  “But Harry!” Agatha conjured up a picture of Harry with his dowager’s hump and his tortoise-like face.

  “He’s got powerful arms,” said Jennifer, calmly forking cake.

  “But Daisy believed in the seance.”

  “At first. But not any more.”

  “So why on earth did she send me to Francie?”

  “Probably because despite her fake seances, Francie had a good reputation for cures.”

  “Do you think it was one of you, Jennifer?”

  She shrugged. “To tell the truth, I can’t really believe that—except when I think about Mary breaking up the seance, when I think we were all probably the last to see her alive, Janine that is.”

  “It is usually the husband,” said Agatha. “I don’t suppose the police will expect us to hang around Wyckhadden for much longer. I would like to get home.”

  “Away from your police inspector?”

  “I’ll probably be back to see him,” said Agatha, waving to the waitress. “Shall we go?”

  Agatha returned to her room and fed Scrabble and put down a bowl of water. The cat ate and then stretched and purred and curled about Agatha’s legs. “I should really go home as soon as possible, Scrabble,” said Agatha. “But what am I going to do with you? Cliff must be a murderer to turn you out.”

  There was a knock at the door. Agatha opened it. Mary stood there. “Come in,” said Agatha.

  “Oh, you’ve got a cat,” said Mary. “Isn’t that Francie’s cat?”

  “I found it wandering on the beach, half starved.”

  Mary closed the door and sat down.

  “You spent a lot of time with Jennifer today,” she said brightly.

  “Yes. How’s your headache?”

  “Fine, thank you. These new migraine pills are great. Why were you and Jennifer away so long?”

  “Surely you asked her.”

  She’s in a bad mood and the whole room smells of depilatory. She told me to mind my own business. Now that is not like Jennifer. I hope you are not coming between us, Agatha.”

  “I don’t get this,” said Agatha. “You gave me the impression that it was Jennifer who was possessive, and yet here you are like the rejected lover accusing me of taking her away from you.”

  “We have a special friendship,” said Mary huffily. “I was surprised, that’s all. I mean, it was Jennifer who said you were a pushy sort of woman and not really our sort.”

  A vision of the Birmingham slum in which she had been raised loomed up in Agatha’s mind. She banished it with an effort and said calmly, “I must ask Jennifer what she meant by that.”

  Mary gave a thin little laugh. “She probably won’t remember. To tell the truth, she’s been losing her short-term memory.”

  “Which means you just made it up. Please leave, Mary, I have to get ready for dinner.”

  Mary got to her feet and made her way to the door. “Do you know what I think?” she said.

  “No, and I don’t want to.”

  “I think you knew all along about Joseph from your inspector friend and only pretended to help me to humiliate me.”

  “That’s not the sort of thing I would dream of doing,” said Agatha, “but it gives me a good insight into the workings of your mind. Take a good look at the other side of the door.”

  I don’t like her, thought Agatha. There is something badly wrong with that female. Or is there something badly wrong with Jennifer as well?

  The phone rang. Agatha answered to find a slightly breathless Daisy at the other end. “Could you pop along to my room, Agatha? I need some advice. The colonel and I are going to the theatre tonight.”

  “Which is your room?”

  “Number five. Go along the corridor outside your door to the left and it’s just around the bend.”

  Agatha walked along to Daisy’s room. It seemed a welter of dresses. “I’ve been trying everything on,” wailed Daisy. “It’s turned very cold but I don’t want to spoil a dress by wearing a cardigan over it.”

  “Let’s see.” Agatha rummaged through the pile of dresses on the bed. “What about this?” She held up a smoky-blue wool dress.

  “Oh, do you think so?” Daisy’s face fell. She picked up a green sequinned gown. “I thought something more dressy.”

  “No, it would be too much. You don’t want to frighten him off. Besides, all these green sequins will throw a green light up on your face and you don’t want that. Put on the blue dress and let me see it. I think I’ve got the very thing to go with it.”

  When Agatha returned, Daisy was wearing the blue dress. “There,” said Agatha, handing her a deep-blue wraparound cape. “You put it on like so. It’s a bit like a poncho. You throw that end around your shoulders. There!”

  “I like that,” said Daisy. “You are good.”

  “And you won’t need a cardigan. That thing’s very warm. Now let’s tone down your make-up. Too much mascara. It’s sticking your eyelashes together. And what happened to that new soft lipstick you got from Mr. Jerome’s wife?”

  After dealing with Daisy, Agatha only had time for a hurried bath and change of clothes before going down to the dining-room. Old Harry was teasing the colonel and Daisy about their
‘date.’ But both Jennifer and Mary looked resentful, almost as if they guessed it was Agatha who had put the idea of Daisy’s taking the colonel out into her mind.

  Agatha carefully divided the food on her plate into half, à la Muriel Spark. It was delicious roast beef with Yorkshire pudding and little roast potatoes, courgette, carrots, cauliflower and cheese, new potatoes, and peas. She felt again guiltily that half was the equivalent of a full meal anywhere else.

  After dinner she felt restless and bored. “Game of Scrabble?” suggested Harry.

  “Why not?” said Agatha gloomily.

  Mary and Jennifer joined them. No wonder I never guessed what feuds and passions and emotions were lurking under the surface, thought Agatha as Harry shook out the tiles. You would think I’d never had that confrontation with Mary.

  She tried to concentrate on the game. A waiter came in and drew the thick curtains, shutting out the view of a small cold moon shining on a large cold sea. Where is Cliff, the husband, now? wondered Agatha. I must ask Jimmy. I wonder if I’ll see him before the weekend.

  After two games she excused herself and went up to her room to receive a rapturous welcome from Scrabble. “You don’t look at all like the fierce animal who attacked me,” said Agatha, stroking the cat’s soft white fur. “I hope Boswell and Hodge like you because I don’t think I could bear to give you away.” The phone rang after Agatha was undressed and climbing into bed. It was Daisy. “Could you come along to my room, Agatha?”

  Agatha said she would be along in a minute. She put on a dressing-gown and walked along to Daisy’s room.

  “How did it go?” she asked, sitting on Daisy’s bed.

  “We had such a nice time,” said Daisy, “and he thanked me very much. I did suggest we might go somewhere for a drink afterwards but he said he was tired.” Her mouth drooped in disappointment.

  “I should think a man like the colonel will feel honour-bound to repay the invitation,” said Agatha. “He’s been used to you as a friend. It will take time for him to think of you in any other light.”

  “Oh, you are so right. I … I leaned against his arm in the theatre and he didn’t draw away.”

  Big fat deal, thought Agatha cynically. He probably didn’t even notice. She said good night to Daisy and went back to her room. An idea struck her. She picked up the phone and called reception. “Are they still playing Scrabble?” she asked.

  “Yes, they’re in the lounge,” said the sleepy voice of the night porter;

  “Colonel Lyche with them?”

  “Yes, the colonel went upstairs and came back down and joined them.”

  “Thank you.” Agatha put the phone down.

  Poor Daisy.

  SEVEN

  THE next few days were quiet for Agatha. With the exception of Daisy, the others seemed to be avoiding her. By Saturday, she found she was eagerly looking forward to Sunday, when she would see Jimmy again. She had phoned Mrs. Bloxby and had asked if James had shown any signs of missing her. Mrs. Bloxby had hesitated. She had heard from an angry James how he had driven to Wyckhadden, only to learn that Agatha had gone out with her inspector. Mrs. Bloxby knew from Agatha’s query that somehow the hotel had failed to tell her of James’s call. She thought Agatha’s inspector sounded nice and she had always thought James Lacey a dead loss, and so she begged the question by saying “Well, you know what James is like,” which Agatha had interpreted to mean that James had shown no interest in her at all.

  It would be nice to be Mrs. Jessop, to be a married woman, one of a pair. She did not want to live out the rest of her life alone with her cats. So, instead of dashing back to Carsely, she stayed on. She could simply have told the police she was going home. They had her home address and number. They could contact her any time they wanted.

  On the Saturday, she went out for a walk. The day was bitter cold. The morning’s frost had not melted. It glittered on the iron railings outside the hotel under a small red sun which stared down on the glassy sea behind a haze of cloud.

  Agatha walked along the pier past the kiosks, closed for winter. Did Wyckhadden ever come to life in the summer, when a warm sun shone down and all the kiosks were open, selling buckets and spades, postcards and candy-floss? It was hard to imagine on such a day when the biting cold seemed to have frozen everything into silence.

  She saw the tall figure of the colonel standing by the rail where Janine had gone over, looking down into the water.

  “Morning, Colonel.”

  He turned round. “Morning, Agatha. Snow forecast.”

  Agatha stopped beside him. “Odd place, Wyckhadden. Seems to get every sort of weather but warm sunshine.”

  “We had a grand summer last year. I had to buy a fan for my room, it was so hot.”

  “Hard to imagine.”

  “You know,” said the colonel, “I often imagine the summers of my youth when I’m standing here. Different world, a safer world.”

  “No murders?”

  “I suppose there were. Of course there were. But they didn’t happen to people like us.”

  I was once one of them, thought Agatha, and deep down inside I still am, but she remained silent, looking at the sea.

  “I see you’ve rented a car,” said the colonel.

  “Yes, I’m used to having one. Got a bit tired of walking everywhere.”

  “Do you know, there’s a place on the road between here and Hadderton that serves hot scones and butter,”. Just the day for hot scones and butter,” said the colonel wistfully.

  “I’m not doing anything,” said Agatha. “Let’s go.”

  “Splendid!” He took her arm and they walked back along the pier. Agatha looked at the hotel. A brief flash of red sun on glass. She was sure again they were being watched through binoculars.

  “Should we take any of the others?” she asked.

  “Let’s not bother,” said the colonel. “I’ll see them at lunch-time.”

  They got into Agatha’s car. Following the colonel’s directions, she headed out on the Hadderton road. “It’s not far from here,” said the colonel at last. “There it is up on the crest.”

  “It’s a farmhouse,” said Agatha.

  “They serve teas and things.”

  Agatha’s small car lurched up the track leading to the farm. “There seems to be more frost here than in Wyckhadden,” she said, looking at the white fields.

  “Bit warmer down by the water, but not much.”

  “And is there really snow in the forecast?” asked Agatha, stopping in front of the farmhouse.

  “Cold front from Siberia.”

  “There’s always a cold front from Siberia,” grumbled Agatha. “I wish they’d keep their cold fronts.”

  “The reason they send them down to us,” said the colonel, “is because they know we like to grumble about the weather. It’s the favourite British topic of conversation.”

  “Safer than murder, anyway,” said Agatha.

  They got out of the car. An elderly lady answered the door to their knock. “Why, Colonel. It’s a while since we’ve seen you,” she said.

  “Mrs. Raisin, may I present Mrs. Dunwiddy. Mrs. Dun-widdy, Mrs. Raisin.”

  Agatha shook hands with her. Mrs. Dunwiddy had neatly permed grey hair, a wrinkled face and bright, unusually blue eyes, very blue, sapphire-blue.

  “Take Mrs. Raisin straight through to the parlour. You know the way,” said Mrs. Dunwiddy. “There’s a good fire.”

  Agatha followed the colonel into a cosy room which was like something out of a tourist brochure: low beamed ceiling, horse brasses, chintz, Welsh dresser with blue-and-white plates, log fire crackling in an ancient ingle-nook fireplace. The room was obviously used as a small restaurant. There were five tables surrounded by Windsor chairs. They hung up their coats on pegs in the corner.

  “Splendid!” said the colonel, rubbing his hands. “You can even smoke here, Agatha.”

  And before she knew quite how it had happened, Agatha had taken out a packet of cigarette
s and lit one up.

  Rats, she thought, here I go again. But she did not stub the cigarette out.

  Mrs. Dunwiddy came in and placed a covered dish on the table along with a plate of strawberry jam, a dish of butter and a bowl of thick yellow Devon cream. “I’ll bring the tea,” she said.

  “How did you find this dream of a place?” asked Agatha.

  “One summer. That’s when I really go for long walks. Got to keep fit. Just happened on it.”

  Mrs. Dunwiddy brought the tea in, a fat china teapot decorated with roses, smiled at them and left.

  “I’ll never eat lunch after this,” said Agatha, lifting the dish and looking down at a pile of warm scones.

  “It’s nice to get away from the hotel once in a while,” said the colonel.

  Agatha looked at him curiously. “Don’t you lot ever get fed up with each other?”

  “Us at the hotel? I suppose we do. But no one wants to be alone in their old age and I suppose we’ve formed ourselves into a sort of family.”

  “It’s a strange set-up, or maybe it’s these murders that make it seem strange. Did you enjoy your evening at the theatre?”

  “Yes, very much. Jolly kind of Daisy to ask me.”

  “She’s good company,” said Agatha, determined to put in a good word for Daisy.

  The colonel laughed. “Daisy agrees with anything I say, which a lot of men would like, but my wife was a woman of very independent mind, rather like you, Agatha. I prefer the company of that sort.”

  Damn, thought Agatha. Poor Daisy.

  “I think Daisy is actually very shy and unsure of herself. I think she probably has a strong mind.”

  “But clinging. She leaned on me all through the performance and she was wearing one of those sort of cloying perfumes. Quite claustrophobic.”

  Agatha wondered if she could let Daisy have some of that love potion,

  “I’m very fond of Gilbert and Sullivan,” said the colonel. “They’re doing the Pirates of Penzance tonight. Care to go?”

  “Just you and me?”