Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden Read Online Free PDF Page B

to move on?”
    Jimmy rose to his feet. “I’ll do what I can. Bring Mrs Raisin here a gin and tonic and me a half-pint of lager.”
    “This has never happened to me before,” said Mr Martin crossly. He was a plump man in a tight suit with a high colour.
    “I have never had a coat slashed before,” said Agatha crossly. “Are we getting these drinks or not?”
    The manager strode off, his fat shoulders stiff with disapproval.
    Through the window, Agatha could see Jimmy talking to the press. A waiter came in with the drinks. Agatha suddenly realized that the police had made an oversight. They had not searched her handbag. If they had, they would have found that wretched love potion. She opened her handbag and took the small bottle out, planning to shove it down the side of the armchair and then recover it later. But a shaft of sunlight through the windows lit up the glass of lager Jimmy had ordered. Why not? thought Agatha. And I hope it poisons him. Probably only sugar and water. She looked around the empty lounge and then tipped half the bottle into the lager. Then she remembered Francie had said five drops. Agatha stared anxiously at the lager. It had turned a darker colour. She shoved the bottle down the side of the armchair.
    Jimmy came back in, sat down, and took a hefty pull from his glass. “There’s no moving the press. But I tried.”
    Agatha looked at him anxiously. “Lager all right?”
    “I suppose so,” said Jimmy. “Funny sort of back taste, but there’s all these odd foreign lagers around these days. Where was I?”
    “You were insulting me,” said Agatha. “You were saying I probably ripped up my own coat and then went out and killed Francie Juddle.”
    “I’m sorry. I told you. Look, I’ll tell you what got up my nose about you. No, I don’t think you did it because as you say, you would hardly put your fingerprints over everything and then phone the police. The fact is…I told you about that other murder we had in Wyckhadden?”
    “Yes.”
    “It was a disaster. A woman in one of the old fishermen’s cottages was found dead, beaten to death, quite savagely, an old woman. Her jewellery had gone and the contents of her purse. We suspected the grandson who had form, and we were closing in on him. He shared a flat with two other ne’er-do-wells in the council estate at the back of the town. But along comes this Miss Biddle, a local resident, spinster in her fifties. Had read every detective story ever published and fancied herself as the local Miss Marple. It was common enough gossip around the town about the grandson, everyone saying they were pretty sure he did it. So she decided to go and confront the grandson herself, lying to him, telling him she had proof positive he had done it. So he bashes her to death. We catch up with him in Brighton and get him on both counts. Miss Biddle used to waylay me on the street, bragging about how she had solved the case of the missing cat or had found someone else’s lost handbag, so when you started up at the pier dance about all your adventures, I thought, oh God, we’ve got another one here.”
    “If you check up with Mircester police, they can confirm my stories,” said Agatha frostily.
    “I did phone Mircester police this morning and talked to a Detective Inspector Wilkes. He didn’t exactly confirm your stories about being the great detective. The way he put it, it was more like you had a habit of blundering into things.”
    “After all the help I’ve given them!” Agatha was outraged.
    “Anyway, Agatha,” said Jimmy, suddenly smiling at her, “keep out of this one.”
    “As soon as you give me permission to leave this hell-hole, I’m going,” said Agatha. She picked up her gin and tonic and took a swallow and shuddered. “Too early in the day for me.”
    “It’s two in the afternoon.”
    “I’ve missed lunch.”
    “Come on and I’ll take you for a bite of something.”
    Agatha stared at him. He was smiling again. Was there