Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden

After a few moments, there was a knock at her door. The night porter was young for an establishment such as the Garden Hotel, being somewhere in his forties. He had an unhealthy open-pored grey face, a droopy moustache and dyed black hair. He stared in awe at the wreckage of Agatha's coat. "Did you forget to lock your room?" he asked.

"I did not forget. I was playing Scrabble with the others. I locked my door and kept the key in my handbag."

"Some of our residents are very forgetful," he said.

"I am not senile!" howled Agatha. "If I say I locked my door, then that is what I did!"

Elderly people do not sleep very well and somehow the other residents must have sensed something was going on. The door to Agatha's room was open. Mrs. Daisy Jones, wrapped in a pink silk quilted dressing-gown, appeared, peering in, shortly followed by the colonel, still dressed. They both exclaimed in horror over the vandalism.

"I blame the welfare system," said the colonel. "They've got young people down here who've never done a day's work in their lives." The rest of the residents soon crowded in, chattering and exclaiming.

"I think you should all go away," said Agatha desperately. "The police will want to dust the room for fingerprints."

"Which of you is Mrs. Raisin?" called a voice from the doorway. The residents parted to reveal a squat burly man in a tight suit and anorak and a policewoman who looked as if she was half asleep.

The residents shuffled out into the corridor. "Detective Constable Ian Tarret," said the man, shutting the door on the elderly residents. "This the coat?"

"That was the coat," said Agatha bitterly.

"Let's begin at the beginning, Mrs. Raisin. You are a visitor?"

"Yes. I've only been here a few days."

"Why Wyckhadden? Know people here?"

"No, I wanted someplace for a holiday, that was all."

"Have you worn the coat since your arrival?"

"Yes, I wore it to a dance on the pier last night. I went with Inspector Jimmy Jessop."

"I thought you didn't know anyone in Wyckhadden."

"He picked me up in a pub," said Agatha, and despite her distress she maliciously hoped that bit of gossip would get round the police station.

"Now, there are people around who attack people wearing fur. Anyone have a go at you?"

"Yes, this morning, on the prom, just before I got to the hotel. There were some young people sitting on a wall. A girl with spiky hair, noserings and earrings attacked me."

"Didn't you report it?"

"Would you have done anything about it?"

"Certainly. You should have reported it. Anyone else make adverse comments?"

Agatha thought guiltily of the witch of Wyckhadden, Francie Juddle. She did not like to confess she had been consulting a witch. And what if it came out that she had asked for a love potion?

"No," she lied.

"We'll have the fingerprint men along in the morning."

"Why the morning? Why not now?"

"We're a bit pushed. Lots of work."

"A crime wave in Wyckhadden?"

"It's not that. It's lack of funds. We're only a small station. The forensic boys have to come from Hadderton, the main town. Perhaps you'd like to drop into the station in the morning and make a full statement."

"Yes," said Agatha wearily.

"Is the coat insured?"

"No. I mean if I'd been at home it might have come under the house-contents insurance, but I never thought of taking out travel insurance to go to a place like this."

"You'll know better next time," he said in a heavy, sententious way that made Agatha want to hit him.

Agatha looked at the policewoman. She was sitting on the bed, her chin drooped on her chest, her eyes closed. "Your policewoman's asleep," she said.

"Constable Trul!" barked Tarret.

"I wasn't asleep," she said. "I was thinking." Tarret turned to the night porter. "We'll go downstairs. You'd better tell us who could have had access to a key to this room."

Agatha saw them out. She felt like a drink but this hotel was too old-fashioned to have anything modern like a minibar. She slumped down in a chair. She shouldn't have lied about her visit to Francie. Her eyes narrowed. It was Francie who had criticized her coat. Such as that horrible girl on the prom who had attacked her would hardly stroll into an expensive hotel. Her mind made feverish by the wreck of her coat, Agatha suddenly decided it could not have been anyone else but Francie. The residents of the hotel had all been playing Scrabble with her. Daisy Jones had left at one point to "powder her nose," as she delicately put it, but she had gone in the direction of the Ladies' on the ground floor. Then the colonel and Mr. Berry had left the game on two occasions to buy drinks. But by no stretch of the imagination could she imagine either elderly gentleman nipping up the stairs to slash her coat.

It must be that dreadful Francie, Francie who was probably lying in smug sleep at that very moment.

Agatha decided to go and wake her up. If she was the culprit, then she might still have some evidence of red paint on her hands or under her fingernails.