Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

The evening before flashed before her mind. At least she could not think that Jimmy had gone off her when she lost her wig. He had gone off her long before that. Her old determination and energy were returning. By the time she returned to Carsely, James Lacey would see a happy, healthy Agatha with a full head of hair. In various Victorian iron-and-glass shelters along the promenade, the elderly huddled together, staring out at the sea. They're waiting for Death to arrive, thought Agatha with a shudder. Come in, Number Nine, your time's up.

She hurried past them, her head down. At the end of the promenade was Partons Lane. She walked up to a pink cottage and knocked at the door with the knocker which was a brass devil's head.

After a few moments the door was opened by a plump little woman with smooth features and light-grey eyes. She had thick black hair worn up in a French pleat.

"Yes?"

For one brief second, Agatha forgot Daisy's name. Then her face cleared. "Daisy Jones at the Garden Hotel suggested you might be able to help me."

"You're supposed to phone for an appointment," said Francie Juddle. "But you're in luck. Mrs. Braithwaite was supposed to call, but she died."

Agatha blinked in surprise but followed her in.

She expected to be led into some sort of dark sanctum dominated by a black-velvet-draped table with a crystal ball on top, but she found herself in a cosy little parlour with some good pieces of furniture, a bright fire, and a large cat, white, not black, sleeping on a hooked rug in front of it.

"Sit down," said Francie, nodding in the direction of an armchair in front of the fire. Agatha sat down, first removing her mink coat. "You shouldn't be wearing a thing like that," said Francie.

"Why?"

"Think of all the little animals that died to keep you warm."

"I didn't come here for a lecture on animals' liberation."

Francie settled herself in a chair opposite Agatha. She had very short legs in pale glassy stockings.

"So how can I help you?"

Agatha unwound the scarf from her head. "Look at this."

"What happened?"

"Some wretched woman shampooed me with depilatory. It should be growing back."

"Oh, I've got something that'll fix that," Francie said, smiling.

"Could I have some?" asked Agatha impatiently.

"Of course. Eighty pounds."

"What!"

"It'll cost eighty pounds."

"That's a lot," said Agatha, "for something that might not work."

"It'll work."

"I suppose people come to you about all sorts of things," said Agatha.

"Everything from warts to love potions."

"Love potions! Surely there isn't such a thing."

"There is."

"Francie, it is Francie, isn't it? ... We're both business women. I've spent a fortune on cosmetics which claim to reduce wrinkles and they don't, lipsticks which are supposed to be kiss-proof and aren't, so why should I believe in your hair restorer?"

Francie's eyes twinkled. "You'll never know until you try."

"How much is the love potion?"

"Twenty pounds."

"So love comes cheaper than hair restorer."

"You could say that."

"But," said Agatha, "if this hair restorer works, you could be making a fortune."

"I could be making a fortune out of a lot of my potions if I decided to go into the manufacturing business, but then I would have all the headache of factories and staff."

"Not necessarily," said the ever-shrewd Agatha. "All you need to do is sell the recipe for millions."

"I am expecting a client soon. Do you want the stuff or not?"

Agatha hesitated. But the thought that her hair might never grow back again was beginning to make her feel panicky. "All right," she said gruffly, "and I'll take the love potion as well."

Francie rose and went out of the room. Agatha rose as well and went to the small window and looked out. Sunlight was beginning to gild the cobbles outside. The wind had risen again. She was beginning to feel silly. What if she gave James Lacey the love potion and it made him sick?

Francie came back with two bottles, one small and one large. "The small one is the love potion and the large one is for your hair," she said. "Apply the hair restorer every night before you go to bed. Put five drops of the love potion in his drink. Are you a widow?"

"Yes."

"I give seances. I can get you in touch with the dear departed."

"He's departed but not dear."

"That'll be one hundred pounds."

"I don't have that amount of cash on me."

"A cheque will do."

Agatha took out her cheque-book and rested it on a small table. "Do I make it out to Frances Juddle?"

"Please."

Agatha wrote out the cheque and handed it to her. Then she put on her coat, picked up the two bottles and put them in her handbag and made for the door.

"Get rid of that coat," said Francie. "It's a disgrace."