Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

In the morning, after breakfast, Agatha found that Mary and Jennifer wanted to join the shopping expedition. She led them through to the lounge. "We'd better prepare a plan of action first," she said. "Are you game?"

They all nodded. "Well, for a start, you've all got old-fashioned hair-styles," said Agatha, "but fortunately you all seem to have strong, healthy hair that will take tinting. I think I need to start off with taking you all to a good hairdresser and getting you all styled. Then a beautician. Face and skin are important."

"You can't do anything about wrinkles," said Jennifer.

"Oh, yes, you can," said Agatha, "and I'm not talking face-lift. Do you know of a good hairdresser? I mean, one you haven't gone to?"

"We all just go to Sally's in the High Street."

"I'll ask the manager." Agatha went through to the office. Mr. Martin listened to her request and said, "There's a retired couple in Wyckhadden. He was a hairdresser and she was a beautician. They still do some work privately."

"I don't know ..." began Agatha doubtfully.

"He used to be Jerome of Bond Street."

"Good heavens," said Agatha faintly. "I forget how old I am myself. I used to go to Jerome. He was very good. Can you give me his number?"

Supplied with the number, Agatha phoned up. Jerome was delighted to hear from her. She could bring her ladies along and he and his wife would get to work.

In all her crusading zeal, Agatha had quite forgotten about the murder. By the end of the morning, Daisy's hair was a shining honey-blonde and her wrinkles had been smoothed out with a collagen treatment. Jennifer had a short smart bob and her moustache had been removed and her eyebrows shaped. Mary had a pretty arrangement of soft curls and a smoother face.

Chattering happily, they all had lunch in a restaurant on the promenade and then Agatha led them round the shops. "I hope you all can afford this," she said guiltily.

They all said yes, they could. Agatha's mind returned to murder. Jennifer had paid for all her purchases from a wallet bulging with cash while the rest used credit cards, and Jennifer was a powerful woman. And as her mind returned to thoughts of murder, so did the craving for a cigarette return with force. "No, not pink, Daisy," she said as Daisy held up a blouse for her inspection. "Blue, maybe. And you need a different size of bra."

"What's up with the one I've got on?"

"It's too tight. It's giving you bulges where you shouldn't have bulges."

I mean it's not as if I gave up smoking, Agatha argued with herself. It gave me up, so to speak. I didn't sign the pledge. Just one puff would be heaven. Well, maybe later.

"Somehow the idea of Scrabble seems a bit flat," said Jennifer in her deep voice. "But I suppose that's all we've got on the cards tonight."

But when they returned to the hotel, it was to find that the colonel had taken the liberty of booking seats for them all at a local production of Gilbert and Sullivan's Mikado and had arranged an early dinner.

This is like a girl's dormitory, thought Agatha amused as Daisy and Mary and Jennifer called in at her room to ask her to vet what they were wearing.

They all went downstairs together. "By George, ladies, you've youthed," said old Harry, his eyes twinkling.

"That blue suits you, Daisy," said the colonel, "and your hair's pretty." Daisy's eyes shone and she squeezed Agatha's arm.

The theatre was an old-fashioned one bedecked with plaster gilt cherubs and a large chandelier.

The colonel, who had been carrying a large box of chocolates, passed it along, and there was much fumbling for spectacles as they tried to read the chart of flavours.

Agatha had never seen a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta and feared it would all prove to be a bit arty-farty, but from the overture on, she was riveted. In that evening, for a brief time, she became the child she had never really been. It was a novelty to her to have the capacity of sheer enjoyment. Pleasure for Agatha had always been bitter-sweet, always had a this-won't-last feeling. But that evening, the glory of escapism and warmth and security seemed to go on forever.

As they filed out after the performance, the colonel could be heard saying to Daisy, "The Lord High Executioner could have been better," but Agatha could find no fault with the performance.

They went to a nearby pub for drinks. The colonel told an amusing story about a Gilbert and Sullivan performance in the army. Jennifer made them laugh by saying she had once played Buttercup in Pirates of Penzance and had forgotten all the words and so had tried to make them up.

It was only when Agatha was undressing for bed that she suddenly thought it curious that not one of them had mentioned the murder, or was curious about the murder. Maybe they considered it bad form. Maybe their elderly brains had already forgotten about the whole thing.