"I hope you enjoy the rest of your holiday," he said stiffly, and with that he turned and left. Mrs. Daisy Jones was in the reception as Agatha, head down, scuttled for the stairs.
"Good evening, Mrs. Raisin."
Agatha grunted by way of reply and scurried up the stairs. She dived into her room like an animal into its burrow. Sanctuary. What a horrible evening. And that wig had cost a fortune.
She had a feeling of panic. What on earth was she doing trapped in this hotel? She would check out tomorrow and move on.
In the morning, Agatha was just finishing her breakfast when she saw Daisy Jones heading for her table. Agatha raised a copy of the Daily Mail as a barrier, but undeterred Daisy said cheerfully, "I couldn't help noticing your hair last night. What happened?"
"It's the result of a nervous illness," said Agatha, who no longer wanted to brag about her exploits.
Daisy sat down and leaned over the table. Thick white powder filled the seams and cracks in her face and her small thin mouth was heavily painted. "I know someone who can help you," she whispered.
"I'm told by doctors that my hair will soon grow back," said Agatha 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.
Wrapped up in her mink coat, half an hour later, 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 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."
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.