Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

She ran her fingers down the entries, glad it was such a small hotel so she did not have a multitude of names to look through. And then she found it, Joseph Brady. Agatha frowned. He had given his address as 92 Sheep Street, Hadderton. What on earth was someone with a car who lived in Hadderton and who could easily have motored over every day doing spending a holiday in an expensive place like the Garden Hotel?

She took a small notebook from her handbag and wrote down the address, put the book back, went upstairs and returned the key to the office and went into the lounge where Mary was still knitting.

"I've found it," said Agatha.

"You have? Just like that? And after all these years ..."

"The funny thing is he's given an address in Hadderton, and Hadderton's so close."

She held out the piece of paper. "I can't believe it," whispered Mary.

"We may as well lay your ghost. We'll go tomorrow."

"It might be a good idea if we didn't tell Jennifer," said Mary.

"Will that be difficult?"

"I don't think so. I'll say I'm going with you to look at a dress."

"Right you are. I'll ask the others what they think about the seance when we all meet up tonight."

Jennifer was scornful of the idea of a seance and said so, loudly. Daisy said she had decided that things like that were best left alone. But the colonel showed unexpected enthusiasm and said it "sounded like a bit of a lark." Harry said it would be interesting to see what fraudulent tricks Janine got up to. Daisy capitulated to please the colonel. And so it was decided that Agatha should arrange it for an evening in two days' time. She phoned Janine, who said she would expect them all at nine in the evening.

After dinner, they set out to walk to the dance. They were all unusually silent and Jennifer was openly sulking. She obviously did not like the idea of the seance, but did not want to be left out.

Although they all danced amiably enough that evening, there was an odd sort of constraint which Agatha could not understand. She kept looking towards the doorway of the ballroom, always hoping to see Jimmy arrive, but the evening wore on and there was no sign of him. At last, Daisy said she had a bit of a headache and would like to return to the hotel and the others agreed.

And what was all that about? wondered Agatha as she got ready for bed. Could it be that the idea of the seance frightened one of them and that inner fright had subconsciously communicated itself to the others? Could it be remotely possible that one of them had committed the murder?

And why hadn't Jimmy come? Maybe the love potion wore off after a while.

In the morning, Agatha and a guilty-looking Mary took a cab to Hadderton. "No trouble getting away?" asked Agatha.

"No, not this time, but she did somehow make me feel guilty."

"Worse than having a bullying husband."

"Oh, you mustn't say that, Agatha. Jennifer's the only true friend I've ever had."

They fell silent as the old cab rattled into Hadderton.

"Sheep Street," called the taxi driver.

"Ninety-two," called back Agatha as the cab slowed to a crawl. Sheep Street was lined with red brick houses. Some were smartened up with window-boxes and with the doors and window-sashes painted bright colours. But the others were distinctly seedy. And ninety-two was one of the seedy ones.

"Shouldn't we just leave it alone?" pleaded Mary as Agatha paid off the cab.

"May as well go through with it now we're here." Agatha marched determinedly up to the front door and knocked on it.

"He probably left here years ago," said Mary.

The door opened and a very old woman stood there, peering up at them. "We're looking for Joseph Brady," said Agatha.

"Come in." She shuffled off into the interior and they followed her. The living-room into which she led them was dark and furnished with battered old chairs and a sagging sofa.

"This is Mary Dulsey and I am Agatha Raisin," began Agatha. "Mary knew Joseph when he was much younger. She always wondered what became of him. Do you know him?"

"He's my son."

They both looked at the old woman. She eased herself into an armchair. Her hands were knobbly with arthritis and her face was seamed and wrinkled.

Mary seemed to have been struck dumb. "Where is he?" asked Agatha.

Mrs. Brady gave a wheezy little sigh. "Doing time."

"Why, what for?" asked Agatha, ignoring Mary's yelp of distress.

"Same old business. Stealing cars." She peered at Mary. "How did you know him?"

Mary found her voice, albeit a trembling voice. "It was years ago, in 1955. At Wyckhadden. At the Garden Hotel."

Mrs. Brady nodded. "That would be about the first time he got into trouble."

"With the police?" asked Agatha.

"Yes," she said wearily. "He was working as a car salesman for a firm in Hadderton. He'd just got his driving licence. He stole a car and he stole the money from the firm's office. He said afterwards that he had planned to go to a posh hotel and look for a rich girl." The old eyes looked sympathetically at Mary. "Was that you, dear?"