Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

TWO

HER beloved mink coat was hanging in shreds and it had been daubed with red paint.

She backed away from the wreck of it. Agatha found she was trembling. She clenched her shaking hands and then was overtaken with an outburst of anger. There would only be the night porter on duty. She would call the police. She looked up the local phone book, pressed "9" for an outside line and dialled Wyckhadden police station.

"Evening, Wyckhadden police," said a bored voice.

Agatha curtly snapped out the details of the desecration of her fur coat. "Anything else damaged?" asked the voice, still as bored. Agatha looked wildly around the room. "Not that I can see."

"Don't touch anything. We'll have someone along directly."

Agatha began to look around the room. Nothing else seemed to have been touched. Even her jewel case, open on the dressing table, still had all her pieces of jewellery in it.

She called the night porter and explained tersely what had happened and that she had called the police. "I'll be up right away," he said.

After a few moments, there was a knock at her door. The night porter was young for an establishment such as the Garden Hotel, being somewhere in his forties. He had an unhealthy open-pored grey face, a droopy moustache and dyed black hair. He stared in awe at the wreckage of Agatha's coat. "Did you forget to lock your room?" he asked.

"I did not forget. I was playing Scrabble with the others. I locked my door and kept the key in my handbag."

"Some of our residents are very forgetful," he said.

"I am not senile!" howled Agatha. "If I say I locked my door, then that is what I did!"

Elderly people do not sleep very well and somehow the other residents must have sensed something was going on. The door to Agatha's room was open. Mrs. Daisy Jones, wrapped in a pink silk quilted dressing-gown, appeared, peering in, shortly followed by the colonel, still dressed. They both exclaimed in horror over the vandalism.

"I blame the welfare system," said the colonel. "They've got young people down here who've never done a day's work in their lives." The rest of the residents soon crowded in, chattering and exclaiming.

"I think you should all go away," said Agatha desperately. "The police will want to dust the room for fingerprints."

"Which of you is Mrs. Raisin?" called a voice from the doorway. The residents parted to reveal a squat burly man in a tight suit and anorak and a policewoman who looked as if she was half asleep.

The residents shuffled out into the corridor. "Detective Constable Ian Tarret," said the man, shutting the door on the elderly residents. "This the coat?"

"That was the coat," said Agatha bitterly.

"Let's begin at the beginning, Mrs. Raisin. You are a visitor?"

"Yes. I've only been here a few days."

"Why Wyckhadden? Know people here?"

"No, I wanted someplace for a holiday, that was all."

"Have you worn the coat since your arrival?"

"Yes, I wore it to a dance on the pier last night. I went with Inspector Jimmy Jessop."

"I thought you didn't know anyone in Wyckhadden."

"He picked me up in a pub," said Agatha, and despite her distress she maliciously hoped that bit of gossip would get round the police station.

"Now, there are people around who attack people wearing fur. Anyone have a go at you?"

"Yes, this morning, on the prom, just before I got to the hotel. There were some young people sitting on a wall. A girl with spiky hair, noserings and earrings attacked me."

"Didn't you report it?"

"Would you have done anything about it?"

"Certainly. You should have reported it. Anyone else make adverse comments?"

Agatha thought guiltily of the witch of Wyckhadden, Francie Juddle. She did not like to confess she had been consulting a witch. And what if it came out that she had asked for a love potion?

"No," she lied.

"We'll have the fingerprint men along in the morning."

"Why the morning? Why not now?"

"We're a bit pushed. Lots of work."

"A crime wave in Wyckhadden?"

"It's not that. It's lack of funds. We're only a small station. The forensic boys have to come from Hadderton, the main town. Perhaps you'd like to drop into the station in the morning and make a full statement."

"Yes," said Agatha wearily.

"Is the coat insured?"

"No. I mean if I'd been at home it might have come under the house-contents insurance, but I never thought of taking out travel insurance to go to a place like this."

"You'll know better next time," he said in a heavy, sententious way that made Agatha want to hit him.

Agatha looked at the policewoman. She was sitting on the bed, her chin drooped on her chest, her eyes closed. "Your policewoman's asleep," she said.

"Constable Trul!" barked Tarret.

"I wasn't asleep," she said. "I was thinking." Tarret turned to the night porter. "We'll go downstairs. You'd better tell us who could have had access to a key to this room."

Agatha saw them out. She felt like a drink but this hotel was too old-fashioned to have anything modern like a minibar. She slumped down in a chair. She shouldn't have lied about her visit to Francie. Her eyes narrowed. It was Francie who had criticized her coat. Such as that horrible girl on the prom who had attacked her would hardly stroll into an expensive hotel. Her mind made feverish by the wreck of her coat, Agatha suddenly decided it could not have been anyone else but Francie. The residents of the hotel had all been playing Scrabble with her. Daisy Jones had left at one point to "powder her nose," as she delicately put it, but she had gone in the direction of the Ladies' on the ground floor. Then the colonel and Mr. Berry had left the game on two occasions to buy drinks. But by no stretch of the imagination could she imagine either elderly gentleman nipping up the stairs to slash her coat.

It must be that dreadful Francie, Francie who was probably lying in smug sleep at that very moment.

Agatha decided to go and wake her up. If she was the culprit, then she might still have some evidence of red paint on her hands or under her fingernails.

She put on a warm anorak and headed downstairs. Tarret and Trul were still questioning the night porter. "Got to get a breath of air," gabbled Agatha.

As she walked along the deserted promenade under a small chilly moon, she felt that if she could solve The Case Of The Vandalized Mink Coat, that would show Jimmy Jessop she was a brain to be reckoned with.

The night was very still and the silence of the town, eerie. Her own footsteps sounded unnaturally loud.

Her courage was beginning to fail. What if Francie didn't answer the door? What if the neighbours reported her to the police? But the thought of impressing the hitherto unimpressed Jimmy spurred her on.

As she turned into Partons Lane, she noticed that the street light at the corner was out, making the entrance to the lane pitch-black. She stumbled slightly on the cobbles. Getting to the pink cottage, she raised her hand and knocked loudly on the door. The door gave and swung slowly open.

Agatha felt superstitious dread flooding her. It was as if the witch had known she was coming and had magically caused the door to open. She went inside. "Francie!" she called.

The witch was no doubt upstairs asleep. Agatha fumbled around the hall looking for a light switch and at last found one at the foot of the stairs. Feeling more confident and thinking it might be an idea to surprise Francie asleep and study her fingernails and hands before waking her, Agatha started to creep up the stairs, which were as thickly carpeted as those at the hotel.

She gingerly pushed open one door. The bathroom. She tried another. A box-room. Another door. In the light from the stairs, Agatha could see it was a bedroom. She felt around inside the door for a light switch, found it, and clicked it on.

Lying half in, half out the bed was Francie Juddle. Blood from a great wound on her head had dripped onto the white carpet, leaving a dark stain. The white cat was crouched on the edge of the bed. When it saw Agatha, with one spring it flew straight at her face. Agatha screamed and tore it off.

Her first instinct was to flee. But Francie might still be alive. Agatha could not bring herself to touch the body. There was a phone extension by the bed. Fingerprints, she thought. My fingerprints will be everywhere. Why didn't I wear gloves? How do I explain my call?

She had forgotten the number of the police station. She dialled 999 and then in a trembling voice asked for police and ambulance and then went down to the small hall to wait.

Agatha wished from the bottom of her heart that she had never run away. She crouched in a small chair in the hall. It would come out that she had visited Francie. And how was she to explain what she was doing at Francie's cottage at this time of night?

She heard car doors slam outside the cottage. Detective Constable Tarret came in followed by his sleepy policewoman.

"What is this about?" he demanded. "What are you doing here?"

"It's Mrs. Juddle," said Agatha. "She's upstairs in the bedroom. I think she's dead."

The ambulance men came in at that moment.

"Show us," said Tarret.

Agatha led the way upstairs and to the bedroom, pointed at the door and stood back while the police and the ambulance men went in. Jimmy Jessop came up the stairs.

He glanced at her. "In there," said Agatha faintly.

She retreated to the hall. Soon the scene-of-crime men arrived with their equipment, then the pathologist with his black bag. Francie must be dead, thought Agatha. There was no rush to bring her out to the ambulance. More police arrived to cordon off the outside of the cottage.

Agatha began to wonder whether she should slip off back to the hotel. After all, they would know where to find her. But she stayed where she was. The trembling had stopped and now she felt exhausted.

Inspector Jimmy Jessop came down the stairs. "I'd better ask you to accompany us back to the station," he said. "Constable Trul will take you there." His eyes were flat and expressionless.

The policewoman came down the stairs. Lights were on in all the neighbouring cottages. As she was led out, a flashlight went off in Agatha's face. The local press had arrived. Agatha cringed and tried to hide her face. She got in the car. Another flashlight went off.

Numb now with shock and exhaustion, Agatha was borne off to the police station and put in an interviewing room. Constable Trul brought her a cup of milky tea and a digestive biscuit and then sat in the corner, her hands folded in her lap.

Agatha sipped the tea and wrinkled her nose in disgust. It was the sort of stuff in a thin paper cup that came out of a machine. She pushed it away and laid her head on the desk and immediately fell asleep. She was awakened three quarters of an hour later by someone shaking her shoulder. It was Jimmy Jessop. She looked up at him blearily.

"Now, Mrs. Raisin," he said, "let's get this over with. We all need our sleep."

Agatha sat up, blinked and looked around, Jimmy sat down opposite her along with Detective Constable Tarret.

"Is the tape in?" asked Jimmy over her shoulder and Trul gave a sleepy "Yes."

To her amazement, Agatha heard herself being cautioned and then Jimmy's flat emotionless voice asking her if she wanted a lawyer.

"No," said Agatha. "I haven't done anything."

"I have a report here that your fur coat was vandalized. In your preliminary statement, you said nothing about Mrs. Juddle. So why did you go to see her in the middle of the night?"

Agatha's mind went this way and that. Then she decided that the truth was the only thing that would serve.

"I didn't tell the police I had been to Francie because I was ashamed to say I had been consulting the local witch." Agatha unwound the scarf from her head and bent it forward. "Some hairdresser shampooed my head with depilatory instead of shampoo and my hair didn't seem to be growing back properly. Mrs. Daisy Jones at the hotel recommended Francie. I went along to her and bought a bottle of hair tonic. While I was there, she made several remarks about my coat."

"Exactly what did she say?"

"I can't remember exactly. She said something about all the little animals that had been killed to make it and that I shouldn't be wearing it. I was upset after the coat had been vandalized. I thought I would go and wake her up and see if she had any red paint marks on her hands or under her nails. I knocked at the cottage door, hard. The door swung open. I went upstairs to look for the bedroom. I wanted to surprise her asleep. I wanted to look at her hands. But when I pushed open the bedroom door and turned on the light, I saw her the way you found her. I should have checked to see if she was still alive, but I couldn't bring myself to do that. I phoned for the police and ambulance and then went downstairs to wait. Look here," said Agatha with some of her usual energy, "if I'd bumped her off, I would simply have run away. My fingerprints are over everything."

"So Mrs. Juddle gave you hair restorer. Anything else?"

"No," lied Agatha, thinking of that bottle of love potion which was still in her handbag, glad she had not left it in the hotel room for the police to find.

"So let's go back to the beginning again ..."

Jimmy carefully took her through her story several times, obviously hoping she would slip up or come out with another bit of information.

At last, she was fingerprinted and told she was free to go but cautioned not to leave Wyckhadden.

A police car drove her the short distance to the hotel. She went up to her room and wearily opened the door. The room was in chaos. At first she thought she had been burgled until she realized there was fingerprint dust everywhere. Because of the murder, the forensic team had been sent in immediately. There was a knock at the door. She opened it to find the night porter standing there.

"I forgot to tell you," he said, his eyes darting around the room, "that the police took your fur coat away for evidence. Here's the receipt."

"Thanks," said Agatha.

"What's this about a murder?"

"Do you mind? I want to sleep." Agatha shut the door in his face.

She was too tired to take a bath or shower. She creamed off her makeup, undressed and went to bed, but went to sleep with the lights on in case darkness should bring back the horrors of the night too vividly.

Agatha was awakened early in the morning by the shrill sound of the telephone. It was a reporter from the Hadderton Gazette. "Can't talk now," she said and hung up. Then she phoned the switchboard and told them that no calls were to be put through to her room and then fell asleep again. She drifted in and out of sleep, vaguely aware that from time to time someone was knocking at her door.

At last she rose about noon and had just bathed and dressed when the phone rang. "I told you not to put any calls through," she snapped.

"Mrs. Raisin? This is Inspector Jessop. I am downstairs and would like a few words with you."

Agatha hung up, checked her makeup carefully and adjusted the blue scarf around her head, then went downstairs.

"We'll go into the lounge," said Jimmy. "It's empty at the moment."

"No police sidekick?" said Agatha. "Is this a friendly call?"

"Hardly."

They walked into the lounge and sat down in huge armchairs by the long windows. On a coffee-table in front of them were spread the day's papers. "Nothing in the press yet," said Jimmy. "Too late for them."

"When did she die?" asked Agatha. "I mean, the other residents will tell you I was in the hotel all evening."

"We're waiting for the report. It is very hard to pinpoint the actual time of any death."

"Have you found out how someone could have got into my room and slashed my coat?"

"No, it could have been a previous resident. We're checking the maids. Of course, there's a passkey. About last night, let's start again now you are rested. Why should you think a woman whom you had consulted about hair tonic should have slashed your coat, all because of a few off remarks?"

"I was rattled by the vandalism. I was furious. Oh, I may as well tell you the truth. I didn't like the way you went off me at that dance after I told you I was an amateur detective. I wanted to show you what I could do."

"That's madness," said Jimmy coldly. "I wouldn't put it past you to bump off someone or slash your own coat. Women of your age sometimes who fancy themselves as amateur detectives will often do anything to get publicity."

"I do need a lawyer. If there was a witness to this conversation, I would sue you," shouted Agatha.

"You must admit it looks odd. We had a murder in Wyckhadden twelve years ago and that's it. You arrive, and suddenly we have two incidents connected to you."

"I am not a freak and I am not mad," said Agatha in a thin voice. "Did you come here for the sole purpose of insulting me?"

He passed a large hand over his face.

"I'm so tired I don't know what to think. But you're right. My remarks were unprofessional and out of order." He leaned behind him and pressed a bell on the wall. "I'll get us a drink."

"I haven't had breakfast yet."

The manager, Mr. Martin, came bustling up. "Inspector, the press are outside and are troubling our guests. Could you ask them to move on?"

Jimmy rose to his feet. "I'll do what I can. Bring Mrs. Raisin here a gin and tonic and me a half-pint of lager."

"This has never happened to me before," said Mr. Martin crossly. He was a plump man in a tight suit with a high colour.

"I have never had a coat slashed before," said Agatha crossly. "Are we getting these drinks or not?"

The manager strode off, his fat shoulders stiff with disapproval.

Through the window, Agatha could see Jimmy talking to the press. A waiter came in with the drinks. Agatha suddenly realized that the police had made an oversight. They had not searched her handbag. If they had, they would have found that wretched love potion. She opened her handbag and took the small bottle out, planning to shove it down the side of the sofa cushions and then recover it later. But a shaft of sunlight through the windows lit up the glass of lager Jimmy had ordered. Why not? thought Agatha. And I hope it poisons him. Probably only sugar and water. She looked around the empty lounge and then tipped half the bottle into the lager. Then she remembered Francie had said five drops. Agatha stared anxiously at the lager. It had turned a darker colour. She shoved the bottle down the side of the armchair.

Jimmy came back in, sat down, and took a hefty pull from his glass. There's no moving the press. But I tried."

Agatha looked at him anxiously. "Lager all right?"

"I suppose so," said Jimmy. "Funny sort of back taste, but there's all these odd foreign lagers around these days. Where was I?"

"You were insulting me," said Agatha. "You were saying I probably ripped up my own coat and then went out and killed Francie Juddle."

"I'm sorry. I told you. Look, I'll tell you what got up my nose about you. No, I don't think you did it because as you say, you would hardly put your fingerprints over everything and then phone the police. The fact is ... I told you about that other murder we had in Wyckhadden?"

"Yes."

"It was a disaster. A woman in one of the old fishermen's cottages was found dead, beaten to death, quite savagely, an old woman. Her jewellery had gone and the contents of her purse. We suspected the grandson who had form, and we were closing in on him. He shared a flat with two other ne'er-do-wells in the council estate at the back of the town. But along comes this Miss Biddle, a local resident, spinster in her fifties. Had read every detective story ever published and fancied herself as the local Miss Marple. It was common enough gossip around the town about the grandson, everyone saying they were pretty sure he did it. So she decided to go and confront the grandson herself, lying to him, telling him she had proof positive he had done it. So he bashes her to death. We catch up with him in Brighton and get him on both counts. Miss Biddle used to waylay me on the street, bragging about how she had solved the case of the missing cat or had found someone else's lost handbag, so when you started up at the pier dance about all your adventures, I thought, oh God, we've got another one here."

"If you check up with Mircester Police, they can confirm my stories," said Agatha frostily.

"I did phone Mircester police this morning and talked to a Detective Inspector Wilkes. He didn't exactly confirm your stories about being the great detective. The way he put it, it was more like you had a habit of blundering into things."

"After all the help I've given them!" Agatha was outraged.

"Anyway, Agatha," said Jimmy, suddenly smiling at her, "butt out of this one."

"As soon as you give me permission to leave this hell-hole, I'm going," said Agatha. She picked up her gin and tonic and took a swallow and shuddered. "Too early in the day for me."

"It's two in the afternoon."

"I've missed lunch."

"Come on and I'll take you for a bite of something."

Agatha stared at him. He was smiling again. Was there something in that love potion after all?

"I'll just go up and get my coat."

Once in her room, Agatha unwound the scarf from her head, picked up the bottle of hair restorer and rubbed the lotion into the bald patches. If that love potion could make Jimmy smile at her again, then there might be something in the witch's products. Then she wound the scarf round her head again, put on her coat, and went downstairs.

"Aren't you supposed to avoid socializing with suspects?" she asked.

"I have a few hours off, and if anyone sees us, they'll only think I'm grilling you for more information."

"Have you questioned the other residents of this hotel?"

"The police have been taking statements from them all morning."

They went outside. The press clamoured to know if Agatha was being arrested.

"No," said Jimmy curtly. "And don't follow us or you'll get no more information out of me. And move away from the entrance of the hotel. I've already warned you." But cameras clicked in Agatha's face and a television camera was shoved in her face. Head down, and taking Jimmy's arm, she walked with him along the promenade.

He turned up one of the side streets and led her to a small cafe. There was a NO SMOKING sign on the door. Agatha thought that perhaps she should have asked the witch for a cure for smoking.

They sat down at a table. Agatha picked up a small menu. The cafe specialized in "light snacks." She ordered quiche and salad and Jimmy ordered a pot of tea.

"So you were playing Scrabble with the other residents?" began Jimmy.

"Yes, I told you."

"What are they like?"

"I haven't really got to know them that well. It was Daisy Jones who recommended Francie. She seems quite keen on Colonel Lyche, but he doesn't notice her. He seems pretty set in his ways. Then there's Jennifer Stobbs and Mary Dulsey and Harry Berry. What did we talk about? Well, Scrabble, letters, words. Nothing personal apart from 'Would you like another drink, Mrs. Raisin?'"

"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 things 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 word processor. 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 friend 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 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 that 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.