Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

"Something usually breaks. I've not had any experience of murder apart from that one case I told you about. But I've read about cases and heard about them from other police officers. Just when you think you're at a dead end, the murderer does something to betray himself."

"Have that lot at the hotel all got alibis for earlier that evening, I mean the evening of Francie's murder?"

"None of them was seen leaving the hotel."

"But the murder could have been committed in broad daylight!"

"Hardly. It gets dark at four-thirty in the afternoon."

"Wait a bit," said Agatha. "I've just thought of something. When I left the hotel, I didn't want to run into Daisy and so I left by the fire-escape. It leads down the side of the building. Any of them could have gone that way and re-entered that way."

"Oh, let's forget about it and enjoy the day."

"We seem to have been driving through miles of bleak countryside. What's up ahead?"

"There's a pretty fishing village called Coombe Briton I'd like you to see. Only another couple of miles."

Agatha drove on until she saw a sign COOMBE BRITON pointing to the right and swung off the main road and down a twisty road towards the sea.

It was a picturesque village with cottages painted pastel colours and narrow cobbled streets. "There's an old inn down at the harbour," said Jimmy. "I thought we could have a drink there, go for a little walk and then have lunch."

Agatha parked outside the inn and they walked inside to a low-raftered room. Agatha was disappointed. Everything inside had been done up in mock-Tudor: fake suits of armour, a bad oil painting of Queen Elizabeth over a fireplace where fake logs burned in the gas fire. But Jimmy seemed delighted with the place and told Agatha it was famous for its 'atmosphere.'

Agatha's dream of being an inspector's wife flickered and began to fade. She tried to remind herself that pre-James and pre-Carsely she would not have even noticed that this pub was in dreadful taste, and what was good taste anyway? But it did seem silly to have such a genuinely old pub and put fake things in it. A real fire blazing away would have been lovely. Then there were those friends of his, Chris and Maisie at the dance. If she married Jimmy, would she be expected to entertain people like that? Come on, she chided herself, Wyckhadden's a small town and it stands to reason that Jimmy's on nodding terms with most of the population.

"What are you thinking about?" asked Jimmy.

"I was remembering that couple at the dance, Chris and Maisie. Known them long?"

"Oh, yes. Chris was a police constable but he left the force. Does security for a factory over at Hadderton. He's a good friend. He and Maisie were a tower of strength when my wife died."

They had a drink and then walked along the harbour. How the sea changed from one day to the next, marvelled Agatha. Today it was black with great white horses racing in to crash against the old harbour wall.

"Hope it doesn't snow before we get back," said Jimmy, looking at the sky.

"Do you think it will? We haven't had a bad winter for ages."

"Forecast's bad. Here, come against the shelter of the wall. I've got something to show you."

Jimmy fished in the pocket of his coat and took out a small jeweller's box. "Open it," he urged.

Agatha opened it. Nestling in the silk inside was a ruby-and-diamond ring. She looked up at him, startled.

"I want to marry you, Agatha," said Jimmy. "Will you?"

Agatha forgot about the pseudo-pub, about Chris and Maisie. All she felt was a surge of gladness mixed with power that this nice man wanted her for his wife.

"May I put it on?"

And as shyly as a young miss, Agatha held out her left hand. Jimmy slipped the ring on. He bent and kissed her, his lips cold and hard. Agatha felt a surge of passion. Somewhere at the back of her mind a little superstitious voice was screaming that she had tricked Jimmy into this with a love potion, but she ignored it.

Arm in arm, they walked back to the pub for lunch. "I ordered in advance," said Jimmy.

The first course was Parma ham, like a thin slice of shoe leather on a weedy bed of rocket. The main course, billed as rack of lamb, turned out to be one minuscule piece of scragend of neck surrounded by mounds of vegetables, and followed by sherry trifle--heavy sponge with no taste of sherry whatsoever. The old Agatha would have called for the manager and told him exactly what she thought of the food, but she was about to be Mrs. Jimmy Jessop, and such as Mrs. Jimmy Jessop did not make scenes. "I have friends in London," said Agatha. "Would you mind if I sent a notice of our engagement to the Times?'

He smiled at her fondly. "I want the whole world to know about us, Agatha."

So let James Lacey read it and let James Lacey make what he likes of it, thought Agatha defiantly.

"I hope you like cats," she said. "I've got three."

"Three! But of course you've got to bring them."

"I've a lot of furniture and stuff."

"I'll leave it to you to redecorate," said Jimmy.

So that's all right, thought Agatha.