Read Online Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden by M. C. Beaton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M. C. Beaton
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appointment.”
“Put my name down,” said Agatha. “Agatha Raisin.”
“Right you are.”
“You won’t forget?”
“Naw.”
So that’s that for the moment, Agatha thought. She made her way to the pub where she had first met Jimmy. To her surprise and delight, he was sitting at a table with a half-finished glass of lager in front of him.
“Agatha!” He rose to his feet. “Sit down and I’ll get you something. The usual?”
“Thanks, Jimmy.”
Jimmy returned with her drink. “So how are things?” he asked.
“I’ve been jauntering around with the people from the hotel. We’re going to the dance tonight. Have they found out when the murder was committed?”
“Can’t ever be exact. She hadn’t had any supper. Nothing in her stomach to indicate she’d eaten anything since lunchtime. The pathologist thinks it might have been between five and six o’clock, going by rigor mortis and all that sort of business.”
“Oh, but that means it could have been done by one of them at the hotel. Surely the neighbours saw who went in and out?”
“There’s the problem. The cottages on either side and across the road are weekend cottages. And the only permanent resident four doors away is nearly blind.”
“But someone carrying a cash box and emptying out the contents and throwing it over the seawall would surely be noticed?”
“Not really. Have you been around Wyckhadden at six o’clock? It’s the ideal time for a murder. All the shops and offices are closed and everyone indoors having their tea. Only the really posh still have dinner in the evening down here. The murderer could have transferred the money into coat pockets and then just have dropped the empty box over the wall. It was high tide and the sea would have been up.”
“But the appointments book. Was anyone booked in for six?”
“She always took the last appointment at four-thirty. That was a Mrs Derwent, who took her little boy along who’s got trouble with asthma.”
“What about the weapon? Surely that would have been dropped over the seawall with the box?”
“Maybe. But there’s everything down there at low tide that could have been used – empty bottles, iron bars, bits of wood. The sea’s rough and the pebbles would have scoured any evidence clean away.”
“So are you looking for anyone?”
“We suspected Janine’s husband, Cliff. But he has a cast-iron alibi. He was playing bowls from early afternoon to late evening at the bowling alley over at Hadderton. Masses of witnesses.”
“Rats.”
“As you say, rats. Don’t worry about it, Agatha. At least your lot at the hotel seem to be in the clear.”
“Why?”
“It’s a young man’s murder. I’m sure of that. That blow that killed her was done with one brutal bashing to the head.”
“They’re pretty spry, and Jennifer Stobbs, for example, is still a powerful woman.”
“It’s usually someone with a bit of form, and they’re all respectable people who don’t need the cash. It takes a lot of money to pay the Garden’s prices, year in, year out. Your hair’s grown back in. Very nice.”
“I wonder if it was that lotion I got from Francie.”
“I think it would probably have grown back in anyway. I’ll need to go.”
“We’re all going to the pier dance tonight,” said Agatha hopefully.
“If I find a spare minute, I’ll drop in. But don’t waste time worrying about who did the murder. If you ask me, it could have been anyone. She had so many clients over the years and one of them could have seen her putting money away in that box and talked about it at home. Some youth hears about it and tells his pals. I’ve a nasty feeling this one isn’t going to be solved.”
♦
Agatha walked back to Partons Lane. Again the young man answered the door. “Are you Cliff? Janine’s husband?” asked Agatha.
“Yes.” He led her into the living-room and said, “Wait there.”
The white cat was lying on the hearth. It saw Agatha and bared its
“Put my name down,” said Agatha. “Agatha Raisin.”
“Right you are.”
“You won’t forget?”
“Naw.”
So that’s that for the moment, Agatha thought. She made her way to the pub where she had first met Jimmy. To her surprise and delight, he was sitting at a table with a half-finished glass of lager in front of him.
“Agatha!” He rose to his feet. “Sit down and I’ll get you something. The usual?”
“Thanks, Jimmy.”
Jimmy returned with her drink. “So how are things?” he asked.
“I’ve been jauntering around with the people from the hotel. We’re going to the dance tonight. Have they found out when the murder was committed?”
“Can’t ever be exact. She hadn’t had any supper. Nothing in her stomach to indicate she’d eaten anything since lunchtime. The pathologist thinks it might have been between five and six o’clock, going by rigor mortis and all that sort of business.”
“Oh, but that means it could have been done by one of them at the hotel. Surely the neighbours saw who went in and out?”
“There’s the problem. The cottages on either side and across the road are weekend cottages. And the only permanent resident four doors away is nearly blind.”
“But someone carrying a cash box and emptying out the contents and throwing it over the seawall would surely be noticed?”
“Not really. Have you been around Wyckhadden at six o’clock? It’s the ideal time for a murder. All the shops and offices are closed and everyone indoors having their tea. Only the really posh still have dinner in the evening down here. The murderer could have transferred the money into coat pockets and then just have dropped the empty box over the wall. It was high tide and the sea would have been up.”
“But the appointments book. Was anyone booked in for six?”
“She always took the last appointment at four-thirty. That was a Mrs Derwent, who took her little boy along who’s got trouble with asthma.”
“What about the weapon? Surely that would have been dropped over the seawall with the box?”
“Maybe. But there’s everything down there at low tide that could have been used – empty bottles, iron bars, bits of wood. The sea’s rough and the pebbles would have scoured any evidence clean away.”
“So are you looking for anyone?”
“We suspected Janine’s husband, Cliff. But he has a cast-iron alibi. He was playing bowls from early afternoon to late evening at the bowling alley over at Hadderton. Masses of witnesses.”
“Rats.”
“As you say, rats. Don’t worry about it, Agatha. At least your lot at the hotel seem to be in the clear.”
“Why?”
“It’s a young man’s murder. I’m sure of that. That blow that killed her was done with one brutal bashing to the head.”
“They’re pretty spry, and Jennifer Stobbs, for example, is still a powerful woman.”
“It’s usually someone with a bit of form, and they’re all respectable people who don’t need the cash. It takes a lot of money to pay the Garden’s prices, year in, year out. Your hair’s grown back in. Very nice.”
“I wonder if it was that lotion I got from Francie.”
“I think it would probably have grown back in anyway. I’ll need to go.”
“We’re all going to the pier dance tonight,” said Agatha hopefully.
“If I find a spare minute, I’ll drop in. But don’t waste time worrying about who did the murder. If you ask me, it could have been anyone. She had so many clients over the years and one of them could have seen her putting money away in that box and talked about it at home. Some youth hears about it and tells his pals. I’ve a nasty feeling this one isn’t going to be solved.”
♦
Agatha walked back to Partons Lane. Again the young man answered the door. “Are you Cliff? Janine’s husband?” asked Agatha.
“Yes.” He led her into the living-room and said, “Wait there.”
The white cat was lying on the hearth. It saw Agatha and bared its
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