Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

They sat down again. A couple danced past. "Taking a night off from the villains, Jimmy?" called the woman.

He laughed and nodded.

"What did she mean?" asked Agatha.

"I'm a police inspector."

Agatha's eyes gleamed. "I'm by way of being an amateur detective," she said. She proceeded to give him several highly embroidered accounts of her various "cases." She was so carried away by her stories that she failed to notice he was looking more and more uncomfortable.

She was just in the middle of what she considered a highly enthralling account of a murder case she had been involved in when Chris and Maisie returned to the table.

"Care to dance, Maisie?" asked Jimmy, seemingly unaware that Agatha was in mid-sentence.

Agatha turned a mortified pink as Jimmy led Maisie onto the floor. "Dance?" suggested Chris.

"Why not?" replied Agatha gloomily.

Chris turned out to be one of those showy ballroom dancers, all swoops and glides that seemed to have nothing to do with the music. He smelt so strongly of Old Spice that Agatha figured he must have bathed in the stuff.

For the rest of the evening, Jimmy kept introducing Agatha to couples and somehow Agatha ended up dancing with the man while Jimmy danced off with the woman. Agatha was hurt. A police inspector should have been delighted to find out she was a fellow crime buster.

At last the evening was over. Jimmy helped Agatha into her mink coat and led her outside. The wind had risen again. Ferocious gusts swept the pier and the lights that decorated it bobbed and ducked in the wind. Agatha scrabbled in her coat pocket for her silk scarf. But as she took it out and tried to put it on her head, the wind snatched it from her hands and sent it dancing into the sea.

"Oh, dear," mourned Agatha, "That was my best scarf."

"What?" he shouted, trying to make himself heard above the scream of the wind and the thundering of the sea.

"I said ... And then Agatha let out another scream. For a really treacherous gust of wind snatched off her wig. It caught on the rail of the pier and she ran to rescue it. But just as she was reaching for it, another gust of wind loosened it from the rail and it was carried away into the roaring blackness of the night.

She walked back to Jimmy, drawing her collar up as far around her ears as she could. The swinging lights of the pier illuminated the wreck of her own hair.

"I've lost my wig," mourned Agatha.

"My wife died of cancer," shouted Jimmy.

"It's not cancer," wailed Agatha.

They scurried in silence, side by side, to Agatha's hotel. Agatha said in the shelter of the porticoed entrance, "Thank you for a pleasant evening. Forgive me for not asking you in for a drink, but I am very tired."

"I hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday," he said stiffly, and with that he turned and left. Mrs. Daisy Jones was in the reception as Agatha, head down, scuttled for the stairs.

"Good evening, Mrs. Raisin."

Agatha grunted by way of reply and scurried up the stairs. She dived into her room like an animal into its burrow. Sanctuary. What a horrible evening. And that wig had cost a fortune.

She had a feeling of panic. What on earth was she doing trapped in this hotel? She would check out tomorrow and move on.

In the morning, Agatha was just finishing her breakfast when she saw Daisy Jones heading for her table. Agatha raised a copy of the Daily Mail as a barrier, but undeterred Daisy said cheerfully, "I couldn't help noticing your hair last night. What happened?"

"It's the result of a nervous illness," said Agatha, who no longer wanted to brag about her exploits.

Daisy sat down and leaned over the table. Thick white powder filled the seams and cracks in her face and her small thin mouth was heavily painted. "I know someone who can help you," she whispered.

"I'm told by doctors that my hair will soon grow back," said Agatha defiantly. Her head was now wrapped up in a blue scarf.

"Have you heard of Francie Juddle?"

"Who's she?" asked Agatha.

"Well ..." Daisy gave a little titter and looked furtively around. "She's the local witch, but she performs wonders. She took away Mary Dulsey's warts."

"And where does this witch live?"

"The pink cottage in Partons Lane, just at the far end of the town. If you walk to the very end of the promenade and turn left, you'll find it. It's the third cottage up from the sea."

"Thank you," said Agatha politely but dismissively.

"Do try her. She has occult powers. We are having another game of Scrabble tonight in the lounge after dinner. Please join us."

"If I'm free," said Agatha, picking up the paper again.

When Daisy had left, Agatha found her curiosity about this witch was roused. A visit to her would liven up the day. Besides, the very thought of packing and moving on somewhere else filled her with lethargy.

Wrapped up in her mink coat, half an hour later, she made her way along the promenade. It was a steel-grey day without a breath of wind. Great glassy waves curled on the shingle and then retreated with a long dragging sound.