Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

by M C Beaton

  “Haven’t played that in ages,” said Jennifer. “Bring it over.”

  They all began to play Monopoly. The colonel and Harry drank steadily and then ordered another bottle.

  The colonel became tipsy and began to flirt with Mary. Daisy was red with anger but Mary seemed to enjoy the flirtation and was giggling with delight.

  At last, after several games, the colonel rose and stretched. “Gottoliedown,” he said, making his sentence one slurred word. “Whassat?” He pointed at the window.

  “It’s a snow-plough,” said Agatha, “and the snow’s stopped at last.”

  With that, the lights suddenly came on. “Great,” said Agatha. “Let’s hope the phones are on as well.”

  She checked at reception and was told that, yes, the phones were back on. She went up to her room. The whole hotel was filled with creaks and groans as the elderly central heating system cranked into life.

  Agatha phoned the police station but was told that Inspector Jessop was out. She hesitated then, wanting to phone Carsely to learn how James had reacted to the news of her engagement, but at the same time not wanting to, for fear of learning that there had been no reaction at all.

  She decided to wait a little, had a bath, changed and went down for dinner. After she had eaten the first course, she realized the colonel had not put in an appearance.

  “Where’s Colonel Lyche?” she asked.

  “Probably sleeping it off,” said Harry.

  “You look all right,” said Daisy. “I’m worried.”

  Harry got to his feet. “Well, dear lady, I will put your mind at rest”

  Daisy walked over to Agatha’s table. “He didn’t drink it, did he?”

  “The potion? Not even a sip.”

  Daisy went back to her table.

  After ten minutes, when Harry hadn’t appeared, Agatha began to fret. God forbid anything had happened to the colonel.

  Daisy threw down her napkin. “I can’t bear the waiting. I feel there’s something wrong.”

  “He used to drink like that,” said Mary soothingly. “He’ll be all right.”

  But Daisy was already hurrying out.

  Agatha picked at her main course, her appetite suddenly gone. Surely nothing had gone wrong. But if it had and if Harry had seen her put that potion in the colonel’s glass. …

  A high penetrating scream sounded through the hotel. Agatha carefully put down her knife and fork. Jennifer jumped to her feet, knocking her chair over. She ran from the room, followed by Mary. Agatha stayed where she was, paralysed with dread. The orange lights of a gritter flashed outside the dining-room windows.

  At last Agatha rose to her feet, feeling like an old woman. She went out into the hall.

  It was empty. No one at the desk, no waiter around.

  The silence seemed absolute.

  Then an ambulance arrived, followed by two police cars. At the same time, Mr. Martin hurried down the stairs, his face creased up with worry and distress. “Upstairs,” he said to the ambulance men when they came in. They darted for the stairs, carrying a stretcher.

  The police followed. No Jimmy.

  Agatha stood rooted to the ground.

  After what seemed an interminable age, the ambulance men reappeared carrying a stretcher. The figure on it was totally covered, the face covered. Behind came Daisy, Jennifer, Mary and Harry. Daisy was being supported by Harry. Behind came the police, with Detective Sergeant Peter Carroll in the lead. At the foot of the stairs, Daisy broke away from Harry.

  “Murderess!” she screamed at Agatha. Then she burst into noisy weeping.

  And that was when the real nightmare for Agatha began.

  That night, Agatha sat on a hard bunk in a cell in Wyckhadden police station and bleakly went over the events of the evening.

  Harry Berry had told the police that out of the corner of his eye, when he had joined the others at the window after the colonel had ordered a bottle of claret, he thought he had seen Agatha slip something into the colonel’s drink. He had not wanted to make a scene and he had not been sure of what he had seen and so he had decided to say the wine was corked and ask for another bottle. Daisy had told the police that Agatha had insisted on putting drops of a love potion into the colonel’s drink. Agatha, Daisy had said, had been romancing the colonel and was jealous of her, Daisy. Therefore Agatha was a poisoner.

  Agatha, at first sure that the love potion which had been taken from her handbag, along with every other bottle and jar in her room, was harmless, was beginning to worry. What if the murderer of Francie and Janine had wanted to be rid of the colonel and had doctored that love potion? What if it turned out to contain poison?

  Jimmy had not come near her. He had not interviewed her, the superintendent from Hadderton had done that, a cold, hard man with suspicious eyes. Agatha had not been charged but was being kept in for further questioning. She had at last demanded a lawyer. He would be with her in the morning.

  Rain pattered at the barred window above her head. God get me out of this, she prayed, and I will return to Carsely and never, ever leave it again.

  As she did not know the names of any lawyers in the town, one had been supplied for her and he arrived in the morning. He listened carefully while Agatha outlined what had really happened. He was a middle-aged, tired-looking man with a thin face and gold-rimmed glasses and wearing a shabby suit.

  “If that’s your story, I would stick to it,” he said, when Agatha had finished. “They’ll need to charge you this morning or release you. The pathologist has been working all night on the body. These things take time.”

  “Don’t you believe me…” Agatha was starting to say impatiently when the cell door opened and Jimmy came in. He jerked his head at the lawyer and said, “Leave us.”

  “I cannot do that, Inspector,” said the lawyer. “I am representing Mrs. Raisin.”

  “It’s all right,” said Agatha. “Leave us.”

  When they were alone, Jimmy said, “I’m sorry about this. I feel the police over-reacted.” He sat down on the bed next to Agatha and held her hand.

  “I look a wreck,” said Agatha. “They took my handbag away and I’ve no make-up on. What do you mean, they overreacted?”

  “I would say from a look at the colonel that he died of a massive stroke. His face had all slumped down to one side. I think that will turn out to be the case. What on earth were you doing messing with love potions, Agatha?”

  “I went to Francie for that hair tonic. She offered that love potion as well and it seemed a bit of a joke at the time. Daisy was going frantic about the colonel. She had seen us at the theatre together and oh, I suppose I wanted to prove to her that I wasn’t a bit interested in him. So I told her about the love potion.”

  “There was only half a bottle left,” said Jimmy curiously.

  “I started to pour it down the sink and then I thought it might be interesting to keep some and get it analysed when I get home,” said Agatha, who had no intention of telling Jimmy she had put some in his drink. “What happens now?”

  “They’re more or less convinced, Agatha, that Colonel Lyche died of natural causes. You’re free to go.”

  “Jimmy, I not only want to go but I want to go back to Carsely.”

  “I’m afraid that’s not possible, Agatha. You’ll need to wait for the definite result of the post-mortem, but it shouldn’t be too long.”

  “How do you put up with me, Jimmy?”

  “Because I love you.”

  Agatha felt a stab of guilt. What right had she to marry someone she didn’t love? I do love him, she told herself fiercely, I’m just not in love with him.

  “I’ll have to keep clear of you until the final results of the post-mortem come through,” said Jimmy.

  “I understand.” Again that stab of guilt because of the feeling of relief she had first felt at his words.

  “I’ll send a policewoman in to take you through to the desk to collect your things.

  “See you,” said Ag
atha wearily.

  Agatha emerged from the police station into a watery world. Snow was sliding from roofs to fall with thuds on the street, water ran down the gutters and a mild, frisky wind blew through her hair.

  She had hardly slept at all. She had refused the offer of a police car to take her back to the hotel. She opened her handbag and took out her packet of cigarettes, and turning her back to the wind, lit one. A thin, acidulous woman who was passing shouted at her, “Don’t you know that’s a filthy habit?”

  “Naff off!” shouted Agatha with such venom that the woman scurried off down the street.

  Why did I ever come to this place? thought Agatha, as she trudged along the promenade beside the restless sea. At the end of the prom, she could see the hotel. It looked like a prison. What were they all doing? Playing Scrabble and talking about the weather?

  Tired as she was, before she got to the hotel she turned and walked along the pier. There was a fascination in piers, those Victorian structures on the British coastline whose elegant spindly structures led out over the waves with their theatre or dance hall at the end, with their souvenir booths and slot machines. Her heels clacked on the boards. Someone had shovelled a clear pathway through the rapidly melting snow. She longed to be able to go up to her room and pack and get in that rented car and drive as far away as possible. She stood at the end of the pier looking down at the surging waves racing each other toward the shore until she began to shiver.

  Wearily, she turned and walked towards the hotel. Mr. Martin was at the desk.

  “No calls,” snapped Agatha and went up to her room. Scrabble purred and mewed while Agatha prepared cat food and a bowl of water. She wanted a hot bath but she was so very tired. After Scrabble had been fed, Agatha climbed into bed without undressing, pulled the duvet up to her ears and plunged down into a dreamless sleep.

  The Red Lion in Carsely was busy that lunch-time. Publican John Fletcher pulled a pint of Hook Norton for James Lacey and said, “Our Agatha’s in another mess.”

  “What? There was nothing in the papers this morning,” said James.

  “Heard it on the radio this morning,” said John. “Some colonel died at that hotel Agatha’s staying in. Agatha’s been pulled in. Helping police with their inquiries, it said. You should go down there and see if you can help.”

  “Her fiancé will look after her. He’s a police inspector,” sad James grimly and moved away from the bar.

  Sir Charles Fraith was driving back to his estate when he heard the news about Agatha on the radio. “Silly woman,” he muttered. When he got home, he phoned the Garden Hotel but was told that Mrs. Raisin was not taking any calls.

  What on earth was going on down there? he wondered. Might be fun to find out. Life had been a bit boring recently and the girl he had thought had fancied him like mad had just got engaged to someone else. He packed an overnight bag, got back in his car and headed south.

  Agatha did not awake until evening. She soaked herself in a hot bath, washed her hair, then put on a night-dress and dressing-gown and phoned down to the desk and asked for sandwiches and coffee to be sent up. She did not feel like facing the others. She wanted to pretend they didn’t even exist. The night porter had just come on duty. “I have a note here to say you don’t want any calls to be put through.”

  “That’s right,” said Agatha.

  She switched on the television, which was showing an old James Bond movie. When her sandwiches arrived, Agatha settled down in a chair in front of the television with the cat on her lap to watch it.

  Charles strolled into the Garden Hotel at nine that evening. The desk was empty. He peered into the lounge. It was empty apart from a tortoise-looking old man.

  “Do you know where I can find Mrs. Raisin?” he asked.

  “I think she’s in her room,” said Harry.

  “Which one’s that?”

  “Number nine. Top of the stairs and turn left.”

  Carrying his bag, Charles tripped up the stairs and turned left. There was a mirror in the corridor. He stopped and brushed down his smooth fair hair and studied his neat features. Then he went along and knocked on the door of number 9. No one answered but he could hear television noises. He tried the handle. Locked.

  “Aggie! It’s me!” he shouted. A dyed blonde woman with a blotchy face passed him in the corridor. Charles grinned at her. “She must be deaf,” he said. He knocked again. “Come on, Aggie. It’s me, Charles!”

  Agatha opened the door. “Oh, Charles,” she said, “I’ve been having such an awful time.” And she burst into tears. He took her in his arms.

  “It’s all right. I’m here.”

  Charles saw the blotchy-faced old blonde was watching them and propelled the weeping Agatha into the room and kicked the door shut behind him with his foot.

  “What mess have you been getting yourself into?” He stroked her hair. “Real hair, too.”

  “It-it g-grew back,” sobbed Agatha into his shoulder.

  “You’re wetting my jacket. Any drink in this place?”

  “Phone down for something.”

  Charles picked up the phone and ordered a bottle of brandy. “Which room?” asked the suspicious voice of the night porter.

  “Mrs. Raisin’s room.”

  “On her bill, sir?”

  “Of course,” said Charles cheerfully.

  He sat down on the bed. “Now, come here and tell Charles all about it.”

  Agatha dried her eyes and sat beside him. She told him everything from the beginning, only breaking off to answer the door and take in a tray with a bottle of brandy and two glasses.

  “This is good of you, Charles.”

  “Actually, it’s on your bill.”

  “You never change,” said Agatha. “Here’s thanks to me.” She continued her story while the brandy sank lower in the bottle.

  “What a peculiar set-up,” said Charles. He lay back on the bed and clasped his hands behind his head.

  “If you’re staying the night,” said Agatha, “then you’d best go and get yourself a room.”

  “I’ve got a room,” said Charles lazily. “Let’s go to bed.”

  “I don’t like casual sex, Charles.”

  “Who said it was casual?”

  “You’ve proved in the past that it was casual.”

  “Then let’s just cuddle up.”

  Agatha felt tipsy and tired and suddenly reluctant to be left alone.

  “All right, she said. But vanity made her go into the bathroom and put on some light make-up. When she returned, Charles had put on his pyjamas and was lying tucked up in bed, fast asleep.

  So much for romance, thought Agatha, getting in beside him. Scrabble, curled up on a chair, watched her curiously. The bedside light on Charles’s side of the bed was burning. She leaned across him to put it out but before she could, his eyes opened and he smiled at her and wrapped his arms around her.

  “None of that,” said Agatha, trying to pull free. He kissed her and then said mischievously, “None of what? None of this?” He kissed her again. Janine’s voice that Agatha would never have sex again suddenly sounded in her ears.

  She told herself later that it was only to prove Janine wrong that she did.

  Inspector Jimmy Jessop drove to the Garden Hotel. The results of the autopsy had come through. The colonel had died of natural causes. It was nearly midnight but he knew Agatha would thank him for letting her know as soon as possible. He wanted to tell her in person, to see the relief in her eyes.

  He parked outside the Garden and walked in. Daisy came up to meet him, her face still swollen with crying and her eyes glittering oddly. Behind the desk, the night porter snored gently.

  “Going to see Agatha?” asked Daisy.

  “Yes.”

  “Just go up,” said Daisy. “Her room’s number nine.”

  Jimmy hesitated and looked towards the desk. “I should phone first.”

  “She’s not receiving calls.”

  “Oh, in that
case …”

  Jimmy headed for the stairs. Daisy gave a little smile and went back into the lounge.

  Jimmy knocked softly at Agatha’s door. There was no reply. He tried the handle. The door was unlocked. He opened it quietly.

  The tableau that met his eyes was illuminated by a bedside lamp. There was a pair of man’s striped pyjamas lying crumpled on the floor and Agatha’s night-dress was hanging off the end of the bed.

  Agatha herself was naked and wrapped in the arms of a man Jimmy did not know.

  He retreated ever so quietly, closing the door with great care. He walked stiffly down the stairs and shook the night porter awake and demanded writing paper and an envelope.

  Then he sat down and wrote Agatha Raisin a blistering letter, telling her exactly what he thought of her. A certain fairness prompted him to also tell her that the colonel had died of natural causes. She was therefore free to leave Wyckhadden and he never wanted to see her face again. He asked for his ring back. He sealed the letter and told the night porter to take it up and slide it under her door.

  Agatha was the first to awake the following morning. She twisted round and looked at Charles’s sleeping face, her first weary thought, Oh God, I’ve done it again. She pulled her night-gown up from the end of he bed and slipped it on. It was then she saw the envelope. She picked it up and sat down on the end of the bed and opened it.

  She turned brick-red with shame and mortification. She pulled the letter down and pulled off the engagement ring and put it on the bedside table. Jimmy’s letter made it perfectly clear that he had seen her in bed with Charles. There was no way she could lie herself out of this one. And yet, at the root of all her shame was a little feeling of relief.

  She prodded Charles in the ribs. “Wake up!”

  Charles struggled awake. “What’s the rush, dearest? I drove through this dismal little town last night, you know. Not the sort of place you leap out of bed for and with a glad cry go to explore.”

  “Shut up and listen,” growled Agatha. “Jimmy walked in last night and found us in bed together. He’s broken off the engagement. He wants his ring back.”