Dishing the Dirt (8 page)

“Won’t it be dumplings and red cabbage?”

“No, the menu’s varied.”

“I’ll meet you there,” said Agatha. What time?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“You’re on. I better go and soothe James down.”

*   *   *

“I wouldn’t trust that one as far as I could throw him,” raged James. “Cheeky sod.”

“He apologised very nicely,” said Agatha.

“Has it crossed your tiny mind that he might be the murderer?”

“I don’t think so,” said Agatha. “We’ve forgotten about wolfsbane or monkshood. The Carsely gardens are open to the public on Saturday. Let’s go round as many as we can and see if anyone is growing the stuff.”

“You go,” said James, folding his arms and staring out of the windscreen. “I have work to do. Are you seeing that chap again?”

“I shouldn’t think so,” lied Agatha. “I think he’s told us the lot. I wish someone would pay me to find out the identity of the murderer because a trip to Chicago would be expensive.”

*   *   *

Agatha dropped James and went to search out the soothing presence of her friend Mrs. Bloxby.

When she had finished telling Mrs. Bloxby all the latest news, the vicar’s wife looked worried.

“I would almost feel relieved if the murderer were someone from Chicago,” she said.

“Why?” demanded Agatha.

“I feel it must be someone Miss Davent was blackmailing.”

“She’s Mrs.”

“Oh, well. Her. They are slimy sorts of murders. Someone from Chicago would not necessarily know about you. Are you going to take that blackmailing ledger to Detective Wong?”

“I suppose I must,” said Agatha. “But I can’t say I stole it from Jenny Harcourt’s desk. I can’t lie and say she gave it to me or they’ll question her and she’s not that daft. Certainly, she wouldn’t have known it was there. For some reason, Jill picked on that as a good hiding place. She must have begun to feel threatened. I know, I’ll say it was shoved through my letter box. Now, to try to get Bill on his own. But first, I’d better go home and copy out what’s written in that book.”

Chapter Five

Through Patrick Mulligan’s contacts, Agatha found that Bill was due to finish his shift at seven that evening. Realising she was still very hungry, she stopped in at an all-day breakfast restaurant and demolished a plate of sausage, eggs, bacon and chips, all washed down with coffee. Then she managed to secure an appointment for a facial at a beauty parlour and feeling refreshed and newly made-up, she called in at the George Hotel bar for a double gin and tonic before finally taking up a position in the car park opposite police headquarters, where she could watch for Bill coming out.

At last she saw him emerging and called to him. “Get in the car,” ordered Agatha. “I’ve got something to show you.”

“What have you been up to now?” asked Bill.

“This came through my letter box,” said Agatha. She had carefully wiped the book free of prints other than her own, because she thought that they might have Jenny Harcourt’s fingerprints on file, as the woman was a kleptomaniac. Agatha suddenly wondered if Jill had hidden the book in that desk or if Jenny had stolen it.

“What do you think it is?” asked Bill.

“It looks to me of a record of blackmailing payments,” said Agatha. “There is only one initial at each payment.”

Bill had that sixth sense that a few good detectives are blessed with and he was suddenly sure that Agatha had not just received the book through her letter box.

“You’d better come back to the station with me and make a statement,” he said. “Are you telling me the truth? This really did come through your letter box?”

“Would I lie to you?”

“Yes.”

“Oh, Bill. Wilkes will get in on the act and he’ll bully me.”

“He’s off duty. Come along.”

*   *   *

As Bill carefully took down Agatha’s statement, he seemed to turn from friend to efficient detective. When exactly had she found the book? Why had she taken so long to contact the police? She should have phoned right away.

Exasperated, Agatha complained, “I wanted to tell you! Right! I did not want Wilkes accusing me of murder or interfering in a police investigation.” At last the ledger was bagged up and she was free to leave. “Coming for a drink?” she asked.

“No,” said Bill. “I’ll need to get onto this right away, and, sorry, but I’ll need to contact Wilkes at home.”

“Did you find out who sent me that poisonous bouquet?”

“Yes. One of the market traders said he found the flowers on his stall with a letter and a fifty-pound note asking him to deliver it to you. He didn’t want to leave his stall, so he gave that little boy the bouquet to take to your office. Just think, Agatha. If he hadn’t been so honest, he could have pocketed the money and taken the flowers home to his wife.”

*   *   *

When Agatha parked outside her cottage, James came hurrying to meet her. “There’s something you should know,” he said.

“What?”

“I think Davent gets highlights put in his hair and that dimple on his chin, I’ll bet, was put there by a cosmetic surgeon.”

“So what?” demanded Agatha. “I’ve just had a facial.”

“It’s different for men. He’s probably gay.”

“If he’s gay, why has he asked me out on a date?”

“Probably to bump you off, you silly woman.”

“Oh, go and take a running jump, you tiresome bore.”

James swung round and stomped off.

Agatha was just about to unlock her door, when a car bearing Wilkes and Bill drove up, followed by a forensic unit. Agatha groaned. Of course, they would want to check her door for fingerprints.

“Get in the car,” ordered Wilkes. “We’ve got to let the forensic boys do their stuff.”

“No,” said Agatha. “I don’t want to sit in a stuffy car. You can interview me in the pub.”

*   *   *

It was a warm, humid evening. They sat at a table in the pub garden, away from the other drinkers.

To Agatha’s relief, Wilkes was less suspicious than Bill. But while she talked, Agatha was aware of Bill’s almond-shaped eyes fastened on her face, those beautiful eyes he had inherited from his Chinese father. Bill Wong had been her first friend after she had moved to the Cotswolds. Agatha was very fond of the young detective and hated lying to him. The tape recorder on the table recorded everything Agatha said.

Victoria Bannister watched the group through the pub window. From her vantage point, it looked to her as if Agatha were being treated with great respect. She felt a sudden surge of jealousy. The fact that Agatha had promised to keep her name from the police did not seem to count. She was bitterly jealous. She had staked out Jill’s consulting room, watching her clients, trying and failing to summon up courage to plead with Jill to stop blackmailing her. Surely, she had not been the only one blackmailed. But she did not want to find herself in the clutches of a murderer. She did not trust Agatha to keep her name from the police. Victoria suddenly decided that she needed company in her misery. Perhaps if she followed the last likely person she had seen visiting Jill and had followed them home, she might get help.

*   *   *

Although Agatha kept busy the following day and looked forward to her date with Tris, she found she was nervous. Somewhere out there was a murderer trying to kill her. The first attempt had failed but surely the murderer would try again. Usually, she would have fretted about what to wear for her date, but fear of a lurking murderer made her concentrate on her work to try to banish fear.

She got into her car after work and reversed into a lamppost. Cursing, she got out. There wasn’t much damage. Taking a deep breath, she drove carefully to Evesham, looking all the while in the rearview mirror in case she was being followed. A man driving a BMW appeared to be tailing her closely. Agatha swung into a lay-by and waited but the BMW drove on. She suddenly wanted to forget about her date and get home to the security of her cottage, well protected by burglar alarms. She missed her cats. Although they often seemed indifferent to her, there had been occasions when, sensing her distress, they had followed her up to bed and snuggled down beside her. And where was faithless Charles?

*   *   *

At that moment, Charles, who had called on Agatha, and, finding her not at home, knocked on James’s door and asked if he knew where Agatha had gone.

James let off a diatribe about Agatha’s morals. He ended with, “And I don’t believe her when she says it isn’t a date. Just detecting.”

“Might check it out,” said Charles. “Where does this Davent live?”

*   *   *

“You’d better order for me,” said Agatha after a look at the menu. “All this is new to me.”

He signalled the waitress and ordered two vodkas. “This’ll be my limit,” said Agatha. “I don’t want to be charged with drink driving.”

“By the time you’ve got through this meal,” said Tris, “you’ll be as sober as anything. The food really mops the alcohol up.”

He ordered a thick mushroom soup to start and then to follow, bigos, a “hunter” stew full of various types of meat and sausages, cooked in sauerkraut, and a pile of potato pancakes. He wanted to order beer, but Agatha said she detested the stuff so he ordered more vodka. They talked idly of this and that, about the decline of the centre of Evesham and what had caused the death of the high streets of Britain, Agatha being lulled by the heavy food and the vodka. When he ordered yet more vodka, she didn’t protest. Agatha was tired of feeling frightened. And he was an attractive man. He couldn’t be gay. He’d been married. She fought down the voice in her head reminding her of gays she had known who were married. And did it matter a damn anyway? It was not as if she was going to spend the night with him. She began to talk about the murders and how an attempt had been made on her life.

Over the dessert of huge slices of cheesecake, he leaned across the table and took her hand. “You’re a very attractive woman, Agatha. I wish you would drop this case.”

“Why?”

“It’s too dangerous. Just drop it.”

He was staring into her eyes and his grip on her hand tightened. His voice had held a note of command.

Agatha could feel the euphoria induced by vodka and heavy food fading away. She tried to pull her hand away, but he held on to it.

“Promise me,” he said. “I am sure if you go on with this investigation, something really nasty could happen to you. He’s already tried to kill you with wolfsbane.”

Agatha jerked her hand savagely away with such force that a glass went flying. “How did you know it was wolfsbane?” she asked. “That wasn’t in the newspapers.”

“It stands to reason. Herythe was killed with wolfsbane.”

“But Jill was strangled and Clive Tremund was clubbed and drowned.”

“Don’t get mad at me,” pleaded Tris. “It was an educated guess. It was—”

“Hullo, darling. Not watching your waistline again?”

“Oh, Charles,” said Agatha weakly. “What are you doing here?”

“Came to find you. The police want to talk to you again, so I thought I’d come and hold your hand. Maybe I’d better drive you. Been swilling the vodka, have you?”

Agatha made the introductions. “I’d better go,” she said to Tris.

“When will I see you again?” he asked.

“I’ll phone you,” said Agatha.

*   *   *

“How on earth did you find me?” asked Agatha, as they walked to Charles’s car.

“James told me about your interviewing Tristram Davent and knowing your predilection for unsuitable men, I went to the address James gave me and his sister told me where you were. Leave your car. I’ll take you to pick it up in the morning.”

When Agatha was seated in the passenger seat, Charles turned to her and asked curiously, “Why aren’t you livid with me for breaking up your date with fancy pants back there?”

“Drive on. He has to pass the car park to get to his home. I don’t want to see him again.”

“Okay.” Charles left the car park and swung round onto Port Street.

“It’s like this,” said Agatha. She told him what had happened in the restaurant. “It wasn’t just what he said,” she explained. “I’ve been a bag of nerves since the attempt on my life and he actually scared me.”

“Why on earth did you agree to a date with him?”

“I’m a detective! Remember!” howled Agatha. “I thought he might come up with some more interesting information on Jill.”

“Be honest, Aggie. He asked you for a date and you jumped at it. Raise your standards. A man with highlights in his hair.”

“It could be natural.”

“Rubbish.”

A tear ran down Agatha’s cheek. “J-just take me home and b-bugger off,” she sobbed.

Charles swung into a lay-by and switched off the engine.

“I didn’t mean to be so rude. Don’t cry. I’ve never seen you so rattled before. Cheer up. We’ll go to your cottage, have a drink and watch something silly on television. I know you won’t give up. So what’s your next move?”

Agatha dried her eyes and sniffed loudly. “I’m going round the Carsely gardens tomorrow. They’re open to the public. I want to see if anyone’s got wolfsbane.”

“If they had the stuff, they’ve probably uprooted it by now. Don’t worry. I’ll come with you. Do you know how to recognise it?”

“I’ve Googled lots of photos. It’s sometimes called monkshood and the poison is aconite.”

“Right. We’re on for tomorrow. But I do think you should tell Bill about your dinner. I mean, the man was threatening.”

“Maybe,” said Agatha, but feeling she could not bear another questioning as to why she had agreed to have dinner with Davent. She was only in her early fifties. But had she fallen so low, she wondered, that she would consider any man who asked her out attractive?

*   *   *

The following day, when they set out to tour the gardens, was sunny. Great fleecy clouds were tugged like galleons across a large blue Cotswold sky by a light breeze. “Not all the gardens are open to the public, surely,” said Charles.

“We’ll pretend we don’t know. I hope this isn’t a complete waste of time. Someone Jill got on the wrong side of in America could have followed her over.”

“Then,” said Charles, “one would think that person, having murdered her, would clear off back to the States. Okay. There’s Tremund. But whoever our murderer is, he might have thought Tremund had dug up something. But what about Herythe and the attempt on your life? That suggests someone closer to home.”