Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

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.'