Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden Read Free Page A

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.
    Half an hour later, wrapped up in her mink coat, 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.
    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 a winged armchair beside 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