Dishing the Dirt (15 page)

“I know that,” said Agatha. “Look, I’m tired. Can’t this wait until tomorrow?”

“No, it can’t wait. You want the truth? Well, listen to this. Ruby made my life hell and she drove my father into alcoholism. I’ve dreamt for years of a way to get rid of her and you gave me that way. All those murders. Who would suspect me if another one was committed? So I watched and waited outside her house for an opportunity. That night I followed her to Mircester. I saw her park her car in the middle of that storm. I guessed the CCTV cameras wouldn’t be able to pick up anything because of the power cut and there was another crack of thunder and I broke the glass of the back window of her car.”

That beautiful face seemed to Agatha the epitome of evil. She had been trying to give up smoking but now she grabbed her packet of cigarettes and lit one up.

He grinned. “Last cigarette before the execution?”

Then he dodged as Agatha seized a milk bottle off the table and threw it at him. From his pocket, he produced a length of wire with a piece of wood at the end. Agatha jumped to her feet and made for the garden door. He seized her and bore her down onto the floor.

“Help me!” screamed Agatha as the cruel wire went round her neck.

Then suddenly he went limp. Panting, Agatha rolled out from under him and struggled to her feet. Charles was standing there with a poker in his hand.

“Got anything to tie him up?” he asked. “I hope I haven’t killed him.”

With shaking hands, Agatha jerked open a kitchen drawer and pulled out a roll of garden twine.

“Phone the police,” ordered Charles. “I’ll tie him up after I find out if he’s still breathing.”

While Agatha phoned, he tied Justin’s hands and feet and then checked his pulse. “He’s alive. Hope I haven’t given the bastard brain damage or we won’t get a confession.”

“I got it on tape,” said Agatha. Her face was chalk white and her legs seemed to have turned to jelly.

Justin recovered consciousness. “You’ve got nothing,” he whispered. “I’ll deny the whole thing.”

Agatha fumbled in her handbag and took out the tape recorder. She ran the tape back and then pressed the button to play it. Appalled, Justin heard his voice coming over loud and clear.

*   *   *

Charles and Agatha were finally left alone, after a long night. Agatha wondered how Justin’s father would survive the news. It transpired he had been sacked from his job months before for drunkenness. Agatha had not been thanked for her detective work and Charles had been grilled about whether he thought he had used reasonable force.

“Aren’t you going to phone the press and tell them it was you who solved Ruby’s murder?” asked Charles.

Agatha took a swig of black coffee and lit a cigarette. “I’ve been warned not to speak to the press. Everything is sub judice before the court case.”

“I could leak it for you.”

“Don’t do that,” said Agatha wearily. “Wilkes would come down on me like a ton of bricks.”

“You’re a very good detective, Agatha.”

“I sometimes wonder.”

“Who else would have sensed there was something up with Justin?”

Agatha scowled into her drink. She was suddenly sure that her suspicions about Justin had been prompted by jealousy when she had seen him with Gwen Simple.

She sighed. “Maybe the police would have got round to it anyway.”

There was a ring at the doorbell. “Ignore that,” said Charles.

“No, I’ll go.”

Agatha came back into the kitchen followed by Mrs. Bloxby and James Lacey.

“What’s been happening?” asked James. “I’ve just got back and heard in the village shop about your cottage swarming with police.”

“I was worried, too,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “By the time the Chinese whispers reached the vicarage, I heard you had been arrested.”

“I’ll make a pot of coffee,” said Charles, “and Agatha can tell you all about it.”

“Get me another coffee,” said Agatha. “I can hardly keep my eyes open.”

As Agatha recounted her adventures, she began to feel the whole thing was unreal, that she had imagined it all. When she had finished, James said, “Now all you have to do is solve the other murders.”

Charles entering with a tray of coffee said sharply, “I think Agatha should leave that to the police.”

James laughed. “Oh, Agatha won’t leave it alone. She’s as tough as old boots.”

“Look,” said Charles, “she’s just escaped being murdered. The best thing she can do is take a few days off and chill out.”

Both men glared at each other.

I think they are both in love with her in their odd ways, thought Mrs. Bloxby. Oh, why doesn’t Agatha get married and settle down?

James gave a reluctant laugh and turned to Mrs. Bloxby. “You must long for the days when there weren’t so many incomers.”

“Well, Mrs. Simple and her son had been in Winter Parva for some time. I wonder how many murders went unnoticed before all this expert technology.” said the vicar’s wife. “But do forget about these murders, Mrs. Raisin. Be safe.”

“I’ll think about it,” said Agatha.

Chapter Nine

But that night, as she tossed and turned in bed, Agatha felt she simply could not let go. The murderer was out there, and, if not stopped, would kill again. The next target might be me, thought Agatha. She had kept her bedside light on to banish the fears brought by darkness. She regretted having bought a thatched cottage because nameless creatures rustled in the thatch.

Her bedroom door opened and Charles, who had been sleeping in the spare room, walked in, wrapped in a dressing gown.

He was carrying a glass of milk. “Drink this,” he ordered. “And here’s a sleeping pill. I picked up a prescription today for my aunt. She won’t miss one.”

“I don’t drink milk and I never take sleeping pills,” complained Agatha.

“Do as you’re told for once in your life,” said Charles, “or I will ram this pill down your throat.”

“Oh, all right,” said Agatha grumpily. She swallowed the pill. Then she said, “I never thanked you for saving my life.”

“All in the day’s work,” said Charles. “Go to sleep.”

After he had left, Agatha felt she would never sleep when she suddenly plunged down into a dream where Justin was chasing her round a village fair with an ax.

*   *   *

Agatha arose late next morning to find that Charles had left. Patrick Mulligan phoned her to tell her that Justin had taken poison on the road to the police station. He had died horribly. They thought it might be cyanide but were waiting for the results of the autopsy. The three officers who had been driving him to headquarters were in trouble because they had not handcuffed him. There was worse to come. The news was broken to Mr. Nichols, who had said he would identify the body. He had asked Bill Wong and Alice Peterson to wait while he changed. When they felt he was taking too long about it, they had gone up to his bedroom to find the door locked. Bill had finally managed to break it down to find that Justin’s father had hanged himself.

“Where on earth does one get a cyanide pill in this day and age?” asked Agatha. “And why didn’t they tell Charles that Justin had committed suicide instead of leaving him to worry that he might have caused brain damage?”

“Search me,” said Patrick. “In fact, the officers are also being berated for not having searched him before they put him in the car.”

When he had rung off, Agatha took a cup of black coffee into the garden and sat down and watched her cats chasing cloud shadows across the grass. The air was full of the scent of flowers. The birds were quiet as they always were in August.

Agatha finished her coffee and decided to walk up to the vicarage. With all the murder and mayhem, she had forgotten it was Sunday. People were leaving the church, stopping to shake hands with the vicar. The women in bright dresses, the happy chatter, all looked so safe. Agatha was about to turn away when she heard her name being called and swung round. Mrs. Bloxby came hurrying to meet her.

“Come back to the vicarage,” said the vicar’s wife, “and we’ll have a quiet drink and chat in the garden.”

“Won’t your husband mind?”

“Alf has got to rush off to Winter Parva to conduct another service.”

They started to walk towards the vicarage when Agatha stopped abruptly.

“What’s up?” asked Mrs. Bloxby anxiously.

“Nothing,” said Agatha. “I’m still a bit nervous.” But Agatha could have sworn that just for a moment she had sensed something evil, and then decided it must be the aftereffects of that sleeping pill.

Once in the vicarage garden, Agatha sat sipping sherry instead of her usual gin and tonic. Sherry seemed such a
holy
drink and surely the God that Agatha only believed existed in times of stress would approve and not send any more frights down into her life.

“What do you get out of believing in God?” she asked abruptly.

“Comfort,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

Snakes and bastards, thought Agatha, I must be going soft in the head.

“Is Sir Charles not still with you?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.

“No, he melted away like the Cheshire cat as usual,” said Agatha.

“And did James call this morning to see how you were?”

“Not him. He thinks I’m made of iron.”

“How did Charles get into your cottage?”

“In a weak moment, I sent him a set of keys. Just as well, or I’d be dead by now.”

“Have you ever considered,” said the vicar’s wife cautiously, “that Sir Charles’s pretty constant presence is stopping you from finding a suitable man?”

Agatha sighed. “I wish I could say that were the case. But only unsuitable men come my way and he’s often been there, to save me from them.” She paused. “I wonder if I should search round the village for wolfsbane.”

“The police did a thorough search for that plant, not only in this village but in all the villages round about,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Try to relax and leave it all to them.”

But when Agatha left, she felt she would never rest until she found out the identity of the murderer.

*   *   *

Once more on her own, she realised she was hungry and headed for the Red Lion. The pub had become a gastro pub, which meant the same old food with the usual gastro pub descriptions. Salads were “drizzled” with vinaigrette. There was a soup of “foraged” greens. Cheese on toast was described as “whipped goat’s curd, garden shoots and pickled alliums.” She ordered the “taste of Italy, home-cooked lasagne with hard-cut chips.” “What are hard-cut chips?” Agatha asked the landlord, John Fletcher.

“Because it’s hard to get the frozen ones out of the bag,” he said.

“And you don’t even blush,” said Agatha. “Okay, I’ll have the lasagne and a glass of Merlot.”

“You’ll be sitting outside then,” said John, “so you can smoke.”

“I’ve given up,” lied Agatha because she wanted to join the ranks of the saintly nonsmokers.

John gave her a cynical look. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”

“Forget the chips,” said Agatha. “I’ll have the shaved salad instead. What’s a shaved salad?”

“I prepared it while I was shaving,” said John.

“Oh, ha, so very ha.” Agatha retreated to a table. A television set was mounted over the bar with the sound turned down. Richard Dawkins, that celebrity agnostic, was mouthing away about something, no doubt trying to mess up someone’s Sunday, thought Agatha. Funny how Christianity bashing had become so fashionable. She waved to various people she knew but no one came over to her table. Agatha realised that once again the village associated her with murder. Was her conviction that somehow Gwen Simple was behind it the wrong one?

Her food arrived. It looked like the same old pub grub they had served before the fancy menus. She ate mechanically, turning over what she knew about the murders in her mind.

Agatha still felt shaken after the latest attempt on her life and had a longing to finish her meal, go home, go to bed and pull the duvet over her head. But, instead, she decided to drive to Ancombe and spy on Gwen.

*   *   *

Gwen was hosting a small party in her front garden. She was wearing an old-fashioned sort of tea gown of some gauzy patterned material, which floated about her body. Her hair was piled on top of her head. Her long thin nose and hooded eyes in her white face made her look more than ever as if she had stepped down from some mediaeval painting. Agatha stood behind a tree at the corner of the garden to shield herself from the guests. Two late arrivals walked past her and made their way into the garden.

Agatha noticed that a very handsome man was helping serve the drinks. He was as tall as James but with red hair and a tanned face. The new arrivals said something to Gwen, who looked straight at the tree behind which Agatha was hiding. She said something to the handsome man, who strode down the garden. Agatha was scurrying off to her car when he caught up with her.

“Mrs. Simple wants to know what you are doing spying on her,” he said.

“I am a private detective and—”

“So she told me. What are you doing here?”

“Mrs. Simple is one of the suspects in a detective case I am investigating.”

“The fact that her wretched son is a murderer doesn’t make her one. She is phoning headquarters to put in a claim of harassment.”

“Snakes and bastards. They’ll be down on me like a ton of bricks. When that chap nearly murdered me, they treated me as if I were a villain.”

He looked curiously down at her. The sun was shining on Agatha’s shiny hair. She was wearing a white shirt blouse with a short skirt, which showed off her excellent legs. A faint scent of Miss Dior drifted round her.

“I’ve just got back from Dubai. What’s this about you nearly being murdered?”

“Don’t you think you’d better introduce yourself?” said Agatha.

“I am Mark Dretter. I have just taken a cottage in Ancombe.”

“Look,” said Agatha, wishing she had worn low heels because the straps of her high-heeled sandals were beginning to become uncomfortable, “I’m tired of standing in the heat. Can we talk somewhere more comfortable?”

“Why not? I only met Gwen today when she called on me and invited me to her party. Where do you suggest?”

“I can drive you to the pub in Carsely and we can talk there.”