Read Online Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden by M. C. Beaton - Free Book Online

week, as she went out with her new-found friends, she, too, discovered that, for the first time, she wasn’t much interested in finding out who had murdered Francie, largely because she was convinced the culprit was the son-in-law and the police with the aid of forensic would soon arrest him. And Jimmy had not called, not once.
    ♦
    James Lacey was shopping in Mircester when he ran into Detective Sergeant Bill Wong. Bill was looking round and chubby, a sure sign he had no love in his life. When Bill was smitten by some girl, he always slimmed down.
    “I see Agatha’s got herself involved in another murder,” said Bill. “Heard from her?”
    “No,” said James. “Have you?”
    “Not a word. I thought she would have been on the phone asking me to help. Why don’t you go down there and see her?”
    “I can’t manage it. I’m thinking of going abroad again. Friends of mine have a villa in Greece and they’ve invited me over.”
    Poor Agatha, thought Bill. James was hardly the impassioned lover.
    When he got back to police headquarters, he got a telephone call from the baronet, Sir Charles Fraith. “What’s our Aggie been up to?” demanded Charles.
    “I only know what I’ve read in the papers,” said Bill. “Then I gather Wyckhadden police have been checking up on her background.”
    “If you’re speaking to her, give her my love.”
    “Why don’t you go and see her?”
    “Shooting season. Got a big house party. Can’t get away.”
    Poor Agatha, thought Bill again. I hope she isn’t too lonely.
    ♦
    Agatha was taking a brisk walk along the pier ten days after the murder when she saw the tall, slim figure of the colonel in front of her and quickened her steps to catch up with him.
    “Fine morning,” said Agatha. It had turned quite mild for mid-winter, one of those milky grey days when all colour seemed to have been bleached out of the sea and the sky, and even the sea-gulls were silent.
    “Morning, Agatha,” said the colonel. “All set for the dance tonight? More our style.”
    He pointed to a poster advertising OLD-TYME DANCING . “Yes, we’ve all got new gowns to dazzle you,” said Agatha. “Colonel, why do none of you ever talk about that dreadful murder?”
    “Not the sort of thing one talks about,” said the colonel. “Nasty business. Best forgotten.”
    “You went to Francie, didn’t you?”
    “My liver had been playing up and my quack couldn’t seem to come up with anything sensible. Kept telling me to stop drinking. May as well be dead in that case. Went to Francie. She gave me some powders. Haven’t had any trouble since.”
    Agatha thought that as the colonel did not drink very much, and had probably received a bad health scare to slow down his drinking, it was probably due to that rather than Francie’s powders that he hadn’t had any more trouble.
    “What did you make of her? Francie, I mean.”
    “All right. I’d expected a lot of mumbo-jumbo. But she seemed a sensible sort of woman. I’m surprised her daughter’s moved in and set up in business so quickly.”
    “She has?”
    “Yes, there was a small ad in the local paper this morning.”
    Agatha’s detective curiosity was roused again. “That is odd.”
    “I don’t think it’s odd,” said the colonel. “Tasteless, maybe. I think she’s cashing in on the publicity about her mother’s death.”
    “I wonder if people will go to her,” mused Agatha.
    “Bound to. There was also a bit in the local paper about Francie’s cures, saying there was a lot to be said for old-fashioned herbal medicine.”
    “That’s what she used? Herbs?”
    “Or grass.”
    “Grass?”
    “Grass. Pot. Hash. We had a lady who was resident at the Garden – she’s dead now, poor old thing. She was subject to fits of depression and so she went to Francie, who gave her something. Well, after that, whenever she had taken some of what Francie had prescribed, she used to get all giggly and silly. I’ve seen the effects of pot and I