Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

Agatha glared at her, and left without replying. How could anyone know what that coat meant to her? It had been her first expensive purchase ever, after she had clawed her way out of the Birmingham slum in which she had been born and climbed the ladder of success. To her, the coat had been like gleaming armour, signalling the arrival of a new rich Agatha Raisin. And that had been in the days before wearing fur was considered a sin.

Outside, the sun was shining down and people were walking about, quite a number of them young. It was as if Wyckhadden had suddenly come to life. Agatha decided to go back to that pub where she had met Jimmy. She could not bear the fact that he had suddenly and inexplicably gone off her.

She pushed open the door of the pub. It was the lunch-hour and it was busy with office workers. But she found an empty table and sat down after collecting a gin and tonic from the bar.

Unless she hurried, she would miss lunch at the hotel and she did not feel like trying any of the pub food, which smelled horrible. She finished her gin and tonic just as the pub door opened and Jimmy came in. He shot her a brief look and then turned around and walked out.

Agatha felt quite weepy. But then, she consoled herself, she had thought him weird the way he had picked her up. So why should she be surprised by his odd behaviour?

She walked back out into the sunshine, but glad of the warmth of her coat, for the wind was cold.

She was making her way towards the hotel when she passed a group of young people who were sitting on a wall drinking beer and eating hamburgers. One of them, a young girl with noserings and earrings, suddenly flew at Agatha, clawing at her coat and screaming, "Murderer."

Alarmed, Agatha gave her an almighty push and sent her flying and then set off at a run.

Once in the hotel, she hurried up to her room and lovingly hung the precious coat away in the wardrobe.

Enough was enough. One more day and she would check out.

After dinner, she reluctantly joined the other guests in the lounge, where the colonel was opening the Scrabble board.

The tall masculine woman turned out to be Miss Jennifer Stobbs and the small weedy one, Miss Mary Dulsey. The old crabby man, Harry Berry, smelt of mothballs and peppermints. Daisy Jones was flirting coyly with Colonel Lyche.

"So few guests," said Agatha.

"We're all residents, apart from you," said Jennifer. She had a heavy, sallow face with a bristle of hairs above her upper lip. Her hair, streaked with grey, was close-cropped. "Get a lot of guests in the season and at weekends."

"Are you any good at Scrabble, Agatha?" asked the colonel. Agatha was momentarily startled by the use of her first name. The members of the old-fashioned ladies' society in her home village of Carsely addressed one another as Mrs. this and Miss that.

"Average," said Agatha, and then remembered dismally the cosy evenings spent with James playing Scrabble when they had been engaged.

She played as best as she could, but the others were not only dedicated Scrabble players but also crossword addicts, and so Agatha did badly compared to the others.

"Did you go to Francie?" asked Daisy.

But Agatha was already ashamed of having spent one hundred pounds on what she believed was probably two bottles of coloured water and so she lied and said, "No."

"Oh, you should, she's very good."

Another game started. Agatha tried harder this time but still had the lowest score. "That's it for this evening," said Colonel Lyche. Agatha was surprised to find out it was just after midnight.

She refused the colonel's offer of a drink and went up to her room, thinking that they had all been good company, and once you got to know the elderly, it was amazing how much younger they became.

She took off her blouse and put it in her laundry bag. Then she removed her skirt and went to the massive wardrobe to hang it up.

She swung open the door.

Then she screamed.

TWO

HER beloved mink coat was hanging in shreds and it had been daubed with red paint.

She backed away from the wreck of it. Agatha found she was trembling. She clenched her shaking hands and then was overtaken with an outburst of anger. There would only be the night porter on duty. She would call the police. She looked up the local phone book, pressed "9" for an outside line and dialled Wyckhadden police station.

"Evening, Wyckhadden police," said a bored voice.

Agatha curtly snapped out the details of the desecration of her fur coat. "Anything else damaged?" asked the voice, still as bored. Agatha looked wildly around the room. "Not that I can see."

"Don't touch anything. We'll have someone along directly."

Agatha began to look around the room. Nothing else seemed to have been touched. Even her jewel case, open on the dressing table, still had all her pieces of jewellery in it.

She called the night porter and explained tersely what had happened and that she had called the police. "I'll be up right away," he said.