Free Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden by M. C. Beaton

pointed teeth in a hiss. Agatha eyed it warily in case it flew at her again.
    Janine came in. She had dyed blonde hair piled up on top of her head. She had hard pale blue eyes fringed with white lashes, a thin, long nose and that L-shaped jaw which used to be regarded as a thing of beauty in Hollywood actresses of the eighties.
    “What can I do for you?” she asked, smiling. The smile was not reflected in her hard, assessing eyes. Agatha felt that every item she was wearing had been priced.
    “Your mother – excuse me, my condolences on your sad loss – sold me some hair tonic. I wonder if you have any left.”
    “No, I’m sorry. I threw a lot of that stuff out. I don’t deal so much in potions. I have seances, palm-reading, tarot, things like that. I could read your palm.”
    “How much?”
    “Ten pounds.”
    Pretty steep, thought Agatha, but she was anxious to ingratiate herself with Janine.
    “All right.”
    “Give me your hands.”
    Agatha held out her hands. “You have a strong character,” said Janine. “Like getting your own way.”
    “I don’t need a character assessment,” said Agatha testily.
    “You have suffered a bereavement recently, a violent bereavement.” Agatha’s husband’s murder had been in all the papers. “There are now three men in your life. Each loves you in his own way, but you will never marry again. There has been a great deal of danger in your life up until now, but that is all gone. You will now lead a quiet life until you die. Nor will you have sex with anyone from now on.”
    “How can you tell all that?” Agatha was feeling angry.
    “There is an affinity between us. You found my mother. There is a psychic bond between us. That is all.”
    What a rotten ten pounds’ worth, thought Agatha, and then was about to say something when she was hit by an idea.
    “You said you do seances,” she said.
    “Yes, I call up the spirits of the dead.”
    “So who does your mother say murdered her?”
    “It is too early. Any day now. She is getting established on the other side.”
    Can’t be unpacking anyway, thought Agatha sourly.
    “Look, there’s six of us along at the Garden Hotel. Would you consider doing a seance for us if the others are agreeable?”
    “Certainly.”
    “At the hotel?”
    “No, I always do seances here.”
    I’ll bet you do, thought Agatha. Too many tricks to carry along.
    She said aloud, “I’ll check with the others and let you know.”
    She paid over ten pounds. “How much do you charge for a seance?”
    “Two hundred pounds.”
    “Blimey.”
    “It takes a lot out of me.”
    And a lot out of everyone else’s pocket, thought Agatha as she stumped along the promenade some minutes later.
    When she arrived at the hotel, she took a look in the lounge. Mary was on her own by the fire, knitting. Agatha decided to join her. Mary rarely said anything. Jennifer always acted as spokeswoman for both of them.
    Taking off her coat, Agatha sat down opposite her. Mary gave her a brief smile and went on knitting. She must have been quite pretty once, in a weak, rabbity sort of way, thought Agatha.
    “I went to see Janine,” said Agatha.
    “Francie’s daughter? What was she like?”
    “Read my palm at great expense and talked a lot of bollocks. Still, it might be a hoot if we all went along to one of her seances.”
    “Do you think those things are real?”
    “I can’t see how. But it might be fun. She charges two hundred pounds, would you believe? Still, split up amongst six of us, it isn’t too bad.”
    “I wonder if she can tell about the living? I mean, if her spirits can tell about the living.”
    “I doubt if she can any more than I can bring myself to believe she talks to the dead. Why the living?”
    “Just someone I was keen on a long time ago.”
    “A man?” asked Agatha, who often wondered whether Mary was in a relationship with Jennifer.
    “Of course, a man. I often wonder where he is and what he is doing.”
    “Didn’t it work