Dishing the Dirt (17 page)

*   *   *

Instead of going home, Agatha drove to the vicarage, reflecting that living in the country made one lazy. In London, she had walked miles. In the country, she had developed the habit of driving even short distances.

The vicar answered the door and glared at her. He turned and walked away but he left the door open. Agatha followed him in and heard his voice shouting, “That Raisin woman is here again. Why don’t you just invite her to stay?”

Mrs. Bloxby appeared. “Oh, let’s go into the garden. The day has turned quite humid and there’s not a breath of fresh air. What can I get you?”

“Nothing,” said Agatha. “I want to talk.”

Agatha sank down into a garden chair and eased her tortured feet out of her sandals. “James and I went to see the Rotherhams. I think he’s a thug.”

“A very generous thug,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “He gave five thousand pounds to the village sports club and two thousand to the church repair fund.”

“I didn’t even know that house of theirs existed,” said Agatha.

“They bought it six months ago,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “It was nearly a ruin and they must have spent a fortune repairing it.”

“Do they have any servants apart from a thug called Roger?”

“They get the cleaning done by a firm in Evesham and engage a catering company if they are entertaining. He has the most peculiar stage Irish accent.”

“I wonder if he ever went to Chicago,” said Agatha.

Mrs. Bloxby leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She looked tired. Who would be a vicar’s wife? thought Agatha. Dogsbody, nurse, therapist, always kind, always tactful. No pay and very little thanks.

“Isn’t it nearly your birthday?” she asked.

Mrs. Bloxby opened her eyes. “It’s tomorrow.”

“Going out to celebrate?”

“I shouldn’t think so. Alf always forgets.”

“I’ve got to go. Remembered something. Don’t get up. I can see myself out.”

*   *   *

Once back in her cottage, Agatha sat down at her computer and wrote out a flier and printed off a pile of copies. The flier said, “
IT IS MRS.
BLOXBY’S BIRTHDAY TOMORROW
.
SEND A CARD TO OUR HARDWORKING VICAR’S WIFE
.”

Putting on a pair of flat walking shoes, she set out round the village, shoving fliers through letter boxes until she felt too tired to go on.

Returning to her cottage, she remembered she had an unopened bottle of Chanel No. 5 that James had given her for Christmas last year. She found some fancy wrapping paper in a drawer in the kitchen and wrapped it up. Then back to the computer to send an e-mail gift card. She would leave the scent on the doorstep of the vicarage in the morning before she went to work. It was a Sunday and most of the shops now closed. She could only hope that some people in the village could manage to send birthday wishes.

*   *   *

Mrs. Bloxby was preparing her husband’s breakfast the following morning when the doorbell rang. Before she could open the door, she had to clear away a great pile of mail. When she did open the door, a florist’s van was parked outside. “You’ve got a lot of bouquets,” said the deliveryman. “I’ll carry them inside for you. You’d better move all these parcels off the doorstep so I don’t trip.”

Mrs. Bloxby stood amazed as he carried bouquet after bouquet into the vicarage.

The vicar appeared. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

“It’s my birthday,” said his wife. “Look at all the flowers! And can you help me get all those parcels that are on the doorstep? I’ll take most of the flowers to decorate the church. How lovely. Interflora must have been working overtime.”

The vicar stood staring at his wife like a deer caught in the headlamps. Then he said, “Back in a minute.”

He rushed to his study. He had recently been at an auction with a friend and on impulse had bid for a pretty gold Edwardian brooch inlaid with moonstones and small chip diamonds. He had planned to give it to his wife on their wedding anniversary in November. It came in a red morocco leather box. He took it out of the locked drawer at the bottom of his desk and hurried back with it. His wife was reading the cards on the flowers. “Here,” he said gruffly. “Happy birthday.”

“Oh, Alf,” said Mrs. Bloxby, opening the box. “It’s beautiful. How on earth did everyone know it was my birthday?”

“I think I said something,” lied the vicar. He was suddenly sure Agatha Raisin was behind it and he was damned if he was going to let her take the credit. “Let’s get all these parcels in.”

Because the shops had been closed on Sunday, the presents were things like cakes and homemade jams.

The phone rang. Mrs. Bloxby answered it. It was Agatha to say happy birthday.

“The vicarage is full of flowers,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “I feel like a film star.”

Agatha’s voice was suddenly sharp with concern. “Make sure all the bouquets are from the florist and no one has sneaked a homemade one in. Don’t want you dying of wolfsbane.”

When she rang off, Mrs. Bloxby told her husband what Agatha had said. They searched the bouquets, reading the cards, but all had come from the florist. “What a lot of thank you letters I am going to have to write,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

The vicar realised for the first time that, even though it was morning, his wife looked tired.

“Look, someone’s even sent a bottle of champagne. I’ll open it now and then I’ll help you open the presents. And I am taking you out for dinner tonight.”

Mrs. Bloxby’s eyes filled with tears. “You are so good to me, Alf. Isn’t it too early for champagne?”

“Not on your birthday. I’ll get the glasses.”

*   *   *

In her office that morning, Agatha allocated jobs for the day. “You haven’t got one for yourself,” said Toni.

“I would like a quiet day so that I can go over my notes,” said Agatha. The real truth was she wanted to be beside the phone in case Mark called. Of course, he could call her on her mobile number but Agatha was already fantasising about marrying him. Also, her secretary, Mrs. Freedman, had taken the day off to visit her niece.

When her detectives had left, Agatha discovered that Mrs. Freedman received quite a lot of phone calls. She longed to shout at callers to get off the line, but business was business, and so she settled down to take notes about missing pets, adulterous husbands and all the other bread and butter cases the agency dealt with. By three in the afternoon, she felt cross and hungry. She ordered a pizza to be delivered while she made herself yet another cup of black coffee.

Agatha had her mouth full of pizza when the phone rang. She picked it up. “Yes, may I help you?” she said, although because her mouth was full of pizza, it sounded more like, “Is, may elp yi.”

“I would like to speak to Agatha Raisin.” It was Mark. Agatha spat out her mouthful of pizza on the office floor.

“Mark!” she cooed. “It is Mark, isn’t it?”

“Yes, Agatha. I wondered whether you would like to join me for dinner tonight?”

“That would be lovely,” said Agatha. “What time and where?”

“The George. At eight o’clock?”

“Lovely. I’ll see you there.”

She had just replaced the receiver when Charles strode into the office.

“What are you doing here?” snapped Agatha.

“Why so hostile? Had a boring lunch with a cousin and thought I’d drop in on you.”

“Well, I’m busy, so drop out.”

Charles stared at the floor beside Agatha’s desk. “Have you been sick?”

“No, it was too hot. I’ll clean it up. I’m sorry, Charles, but I really am too busy.”

“Who is he?” asked Charles.

“Who what?”

“You’ve got that travel bag of yours beside the desk, which usually means you plan to change into something slinky for a date. Good thing you didn’t vomit pizza on it.”

“You’re talking rubbish. Oh, clear off. You make my head ache.”

“Well, don’t come crying to me if he turns out to be a rat.”

Charles strolled off. Agatha cleaned the mess off the floor. The afternoon dragged on. Then one by one her detectives returned with their reports.

“I don’t think any of this stuff warrants overtime,” said Agatha. “So you can all go home.”

*   *   *

“She’s got a date,” said Toni as she walked down the stairs from the office with Simon. “Any idea who it might be?”

“Not a clue. Anyway, whoever it is ought to be warned that our murderer might bump him off. Sometimes I think this murderer is out there, watching Agatha, and enjoying the fact that she hasn’t got any idea who he is.”

“I wonder if we should follow her, just to make sure she is safe,” said Toni.

Simon laughed. “You would think we were talking about a wayward adolescent. She wouldn’t thank us for interfering.”

*   *   *

Agatha was ten minutes late arriving at the George. She had put on heavy make-up, wiped it off, tried again, decided that it was too little, and just as she decided she was happy with the result, a blob of mascara fell on her cheek and she had to start all over again.

She was wearing a scarlet chiffon jersey dress with a low neckline and scarlet red high-heeled shoes. A diamond pendant and little diamond earrings completed the ensemble.

Mark Dretter rose to meet her and Agatha suddenly felt very overdressed. The long French windows at the end of the restaurant were wide open because the evening was warm and humid. Mark was wearing a blue-and-white-checked shirt open at the neck. But he said, “You look magnificent.”

“I had to deal with a very posh client before I came here,” lied Agatha.

“Let’s choose something to eat,” said Mark, “and then you can tell me how you are getting on.”

Agatha’s bearlike eyes suddenly bored into him. “So that you can report to Gwen?”

He looked hurt. “Do you credit any man who invites you out for dinner as having an ulterior motive?”

“In my line of work, I’m suspicious of everyone,” said Agatha. “Sorry.”

“Never mind. What are you going to have to eat?”

Agatha had a healthy appetite but sadly knew that anything fattening seemed to go straight to her waistline. On the other hand, she told herself, she could start dieting the next day.

She ordered avocado stuffed with shrimp as a starter to be followed by steak and a baked potato. Mark said he would have the same and ordered a bottle of Macon to go with the meal.

“I can’t help remembering having a meal here with David Herythe,” said Agatha, “and then he ended up murdered. I hope I am not putting you in danger.”

He laughed. “My sister is a security freak. My cottage has steel shutters on the downstairs windows, a CCTV camera over the door and burglar alarms back and front. Still, when you think about it, the murderer must have been following you. Just think. Might even be in this restaurant.”

Agatha looked around the dining room. “They all look ordinary,” she said. “Mind you, it’s only after a murderer is caught that people say, look at those evil, staring eyes, or something like that, when in fact the murderer could be someone you would pass in the street without a second glance.”

“Perhaps this murderer has given up,” said Mark. “Have you got over that attempt on your life?”

“Of course,” said Agatha, clasping her hands, which had begun to tremble, on her lap.

She privately thought that she would never forget Justin’s attack. Her life had been threatened before and she had got over it quickly. Maybe she was suffering from an accumulation of attacks. Maybe she should get married and forget about being a detective. Maybe Dubai would be fun. She could play the hostess with the mostest at embassy parties. Would she have to wear a print dress and a large hat?

“Hullo!” said Mark. “I think you forgot I was here.”

Agatha threw him a flirtatious look. “Now how could I forget such a handsome man?”

He smiled. “Easily, I should think. Why do you suspect Gwen?”

“Because her son, the baker, was serving up people in meat pies. There were the two of them living in that bakery. Don’t tell me she didn’t know what was going on.”

“Mother love can be blind. Also, she wouldn’t have the strength. For example, you said that Tremund had been knocked on the head and pushed in the canal.”

“I think it would be easy for such as Gwen Simple to enchant some man so that he would murder for her.”

“But you told me the police had bugged her phone. She hasn’t let anything slip. In fact, she leads a blameless life. Do eat your food. We’ve plenty of time to talk.”

When she had finished her first course, Agatha said, “But you did think it might be a village murder and that the police are wasting their time looking at the Chicago end of the business.”

“Just a feeling. Murder on such a scale would make anyone think it should be someplace like Birmingham rather than an English village. Anyway, what do you really know of that cleaner of yours?”

“Doris? Honest as the day is long.”

“And Mrs. Tweedy?”

“She may be a bitch but she’s pretty old.”

“I bet there’s someone in Carsely you haven’t even thought of.”

“I can’t believe that,” said Agatha. “Jill had consulting rooms in Mircester before she moved to the village. I wonder why she moved. More suckers to be found in a large town.”

“Maybe one of her Mircester clients threatened her,” said Mark. “Maybe that’s why she moved. Oh, here’s the steak.”

Agatha was a fast eater. Mark, on the other hand, carefully cut off small pieces of steak one at a time and chewed them thoroughly before dissecting another bit.

“I’m tired of talking about murder,” said Agatha. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Not much to tell,” he said, lifting a tiny piece of baked potato to his mouth. “Boring clerical work mostly. I might retire. There’s a neighbour of yours called James Lacey. Writes books, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, he’s my ex.”

“Didn’t work out?”

“Obviously,” said Agatha curtly.

“Well, I could do that. Write books, I mean.”

“You’d need a private income.”

“I have that.”

Agatha’s dream of Dubai faded. It wouldn’t be the same, love in a cottage. She’d tried that with James.

“Could you possibly introduce me to James Lacey?”

“Yes, I can do that.” Agatha was suddenly tired of his company. “Look, if we skip dessert and coffee, we can go now and catch him before he goes to bed.”