Dishing the Dirt

by M C Beaton

  “Not much. He lived upstairs.”

  “Oh, snakes and bastards!” howled Agatha. “I didn’t even think to have a look. He could be lying dead up there.”

  “Don’t think so. No ambulance. Have a bun.”

  “Ta. So what else?”

  “Didn’t speak to the neighbours. His clients mostly called in the evenings. Yesterday evening, one young woman, blond, slim, that’s all the description.”

  “Could be you,” said Agatha gloomily.

  “Two men at different intervals, both looking like middle-aged businessmen, one tall and thin and the other small and tubby. Not much to go on.”

  “I should have looked for a client list,” mourned Agatha, “instead of rushing out to phone the police. But you know how it is, one fingerprint and they’d haul me in for breaking and entering. I’ll come back when things have quietened down and try the next-door neighbours. The police are already knocking at doors.”

  “That’s why I couldn’t try them myself,” said Toni. “All I could do was to pretend to be one of the crowd. Have another bun. They’re very comforting.”

  “Oh, well, why not?”

  There came a rapping on Agatha’s window. The detective who had interviewed her earlier said, “You are to come with me to Thames Valley Police to be interviewed. Leave your car here. An officer will drive you back. Who is this young lady?”

  Oh, to be young and beautiful, thought Agatha grumpily. The man’s practically leering.

  “Miss Toni Gilmour,” said Agatha. “One of my detectives.”

  “She’d better come with you. I don’t want anyone messing up this crime scene.”

  * * *

  Agatha made her statement again to a refreshingly young and efficient female detective. She was just about to leave when the ax fell. She was told that she had to recover her car and then drive to Mircester police headquarters and make another statement, and Agatha knew that Wilkes’s idea of an interview could run into hours.

  There was no sign of Toni. Agatha got into her car and phoned her.

  “I got chased away,” said Toni. “I’ll come back this evening, if you like.”

  “Let me think about that. Do you know if they’ve found Clive?”

  “Not a sign of him. A friendly policeman told me his flat was empty before he got reprimanded.”

  “I hope to God he’s all right,” said Agatha. “I’ve got to go to Mircester to make another statement. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  Agatha knew the rush-hour traffic would be building up and so she decided to drive to the Botley road and exit Oxford by the ring road.

  But as she got to the bottom of Beaufort Street, the traffic slowed to a stop and she could see police erecting a barrier.

  She swung off into the Gloucester Green car park and then made her way on foot to the barrier. “I must get past,” she said to a policeman on duty. “My train’s about to leave,” she lied, quickly thinking of an excuse to find out what had happened.

  “All right. But keep clear of the police activity on the canal bridge. There are enough rubberneckers there already.”

  Agatha hurried down Worcester Street to Hythe Bridge Street. “What’s up?” Agatha asked a man.

  “Body in the canal,” he said.

  With a feeling of dread, Agatha elbowed her way to the front, ignoring angry protests. A weak sun was gilding the black waters of the canal. As Agatha watched, the sun shone down on the dead face of Clive Tremund as his body was dragged from the water.

  She realised that if she was spotted by any detectives who had been at Clive’s house, then there would be more questions, and so she shoved her way back through the crowd.

  * * *

  Agatha felt miserable as she drove to Mircester. Clive had been her one hope of getting a break in the case. Once she got to Mircester and before she went into police headquarters, she phoned Patrick Mulligan and briefed him on what had been happening. “See if your old police contacts can tell you anything,” said Agatha.

  As the long interview progressed, Agatha realised to her horror that Wilkes was beginning to regard her as the number-one suspect. He seemed to believe that Agatha had searched Tremund’s offices herself, because there was something in her past she did not want anyone to know.

  After fifteen minutes, Agatha lost her temper. “I want a lawyer,” she shouted.

  She was escorted to a waiting room where she phoned criminal lawyer Sir David Herythe. She had met David at a party on one of her brief visits to London the year before. Agatha had found him very attractive, so, she thought, why not kill two birds with one stone. She knew he commuted to London from Oxford.

  He listened patiently to her furious tirade and then to her relief, he said he was actually in Oxford and would be right over. David knew that Agatha had a knack of getting into situations which drew in a lot of publicity and David loved to see his own photograph in the newspapers.

  He arrived half an hour later and walked with Agatha to the interview room. He was a tall man with silver hair and a high-bridged nose. He was famous for his waspish remarks in court.

  He quickly established that Agatha had not been charged with anything, that she had already made a full statement to the Oxford police, suggested they read the report and stop wasting his client’s time, smiled all round and ushered Agatha out.

  “Let’s have dinner,” he said. “The George?” And without waiting for a reply, he set off with long rangy strides. Agatha raced to keep up with him.

  * * *

  As the evening was fine and warm, the earlier miserable weather having cleared, they found a table on the terrace overlooking the hotel gardens.

  Agatha lit a cigarette and studied her companion’s face. He was examining the menu as if reading a brief. His face was lightly tanned.

  “Been on holiday?” asked Agatha.

  “Yes, Monaco, at a friend’s place. Be with you in a minute. Food is a serious business. I’m going to be very conventional. I’ll have the lobster salad followed by tournedos Rossini. Oh, how grand. They have a bottle of Chateau Montelena Sauvignon 2010.”

  Agatha blinked rapidly, recognising the wine as the most expensive on the menu.

  Not another cheapskate, she thought. He’s going to stiff me with the bill. She realised she was very tired and that her make-up needed repair. But what did it all matter, she grumbled to herself, with dead bodies following me around like wasps?

  “I’ll have the same,” she said.

  He waved an imperious hand to summon the waiter and gave the order.

  Agatha could only be thankful that he had not ordered another bottle of wine to accompany the first course.

  “Now,” he said, “tell me all about it.”

  Agatha gave him a succinct report without her usual exaggerations.

  When she had finished, he said, “So we have a therapist with dicey credentials, who, nonetheless, must have had a strong personality to draw in quite a few clients. Can you think of anyone in the village amongst the people who consulted her who might be a murderer?”

  “It can’t be my cleaner, Mrs. Simpson. Too decent and honourable. I would like it to be Victoria Bannister because she’s a malicious old cow. Mrs. Tweedy, I don’t know, but she is elderly. But my money’s on Gwen Simple. Remember her? Son put people in meat pies?”

  The first course arrived and they both concentrated on eating it, Agatha finding that she was very hungry.

  Then he surprised her by saying, “I could be of help to you. I have seen so many criminals. I have not yet finished my holiday. If you like, I could visit the four clients that you know of and see what conclusions I come to.”

  Agatha hesitated. “I would not charge you a fee,” he said. “It would be a sort of busman’s holiday.”

  Looking at him with new eyes, Agatha realised he was an attractive man. Was he married?

  When the main course arrived, he turned all his attention to the food and wine, leaving Agatha to eat her dinner automatically a
nd dream of being married to him. And wouldn’t that put Charles’s nose out of joint!

  By the end of the meal, he had taken a note of the names and addresses of the three women who had consulted Jill. He had a good contact in the police in Oxford and felt sure he could find out a lot about Clive Tremund.

  More than that, he paid the bill!

  He escorted Agatha back to her car in the square and said he would call on her in her office on the following afternoon.

  * * *

  When she arrived home, Agatha patted her cats, fed them, and then rushed to her computer to look up Sir David Herythe. He had been married to a glamorous model but the marriage had ended in an amicable divorce.

  Rats, thought Agatha, dismally looking at a photograph of the ex-wife. She was blond and beautiful. If his taste ran to arm candy, there wasn’t much hope for one middle-aged detective.

  Mind you, there weren’t any children and that—

  “How’s it going?” asked Charles from behind her. Agatha leapt up in alarm. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “Heard about Tremund’s murder and came to hold your hand. Why are you looking up Sir David Herythe?”

  “I employed him,” said Agatha, “to get me out of the clutches of Wilkes, who seems to think I go around murdering people.”

  “He’s wickedly expensive,” said Charles.

  Agatha switched off her computer and moved to the drinks table.

  “If you’re having a nightcap,” said Charles, “get me a brandy.”

  Agatha poured two goblets of brandy and handed one to Charles. She sat down beside him on the sofa.

  “Listen to this, my miserly friend,” she said. “He not only paid for a very expensive dinner at the George, but he has a week’s holiday left and is going to detect for me. For nothing!”

  “Oh, do be careful, Aggie. He tears people apart.”

  “That’s his job. He prosecutes people.”

  “I’m not talking about his behaviour in court. I’ve met him before at several parties. He befriends someone, usually a woman, and when his interest dies, he mocks her in public.”

  Agatha felt a qualm of unease. Then she rallied. “Look, I need all the help I can get.”

  * * *

  The next morning, Agatha, who had gone up to bed telling Charles to lock up on his way out, was irritated to find him sitting at the breakfast table. What if David should drop by?

  “I thought you had left,” she said grumpily.

  “I’m bored,” said Charles, lifting Hodge off his knee. “I thought I’d join you in a bit of detecting.”

  Agatha hesitated. Then she remembered the magic of Charles’s title had been the means before of gaining good interviews. “But buy your own cigarettes,” she added as she tried to move her packet of Bensons out of his reach. She wasn’t quick enough and he extracted one and lit it.

  Producing an electronic cigarette from her handbag, Agatha fiercely inhaled.

  “Oh, have a real one,” urged Charles. “You may not get cancer but you’ll give yourself a hernia trying to get a hit from one of those.”

  “I must give up,” fretted Agatha. “It’s so yesterday to smoke. Not to mention the smell.”

  Charles blew a smoke ring and smiled lazily at her. He rose to his feet and let the cats out into the garden. “No need for the pets to suffer.”

  “I thought of trying Mrs. Tweedy first. She’s reported to be very old but she may be able to tell us something about Jill. I’ll have a coffee and then we’ll take a walk up there.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Tweedy lived in a cul-de-sac at the back of the vicarage in a row of Georgian cottages. There was no bell. Agatha seized a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head and hammered with it.

  The door opened and an elderly woman surveyed her. Agatha introduced herself and Charles and they were invited in. Mrs. Tweedy led them through a small dining area to her living room. The room was very dark because of the ivy which covered the windows. Flickering sunlight, shining through the ivy leaves, danced about the room, which was sparsely furnished with a three-piece suite covered in chintz and a small television set. Mrs. Tweedy was a thickset woman with grey hair and a pugnacious face. She was wearing a dress with a chintz pattern, like the furniture. Her long, gnarled fingers were covered in diamond rings. Her thick black-stockinged legs ended in a pair of tartan slippers. Her eyes were small and shrewd.

  “We want to ask you for your impression of Jill Davent,” Agatha began.

  “People are saying you killed her,” said Mrs. Tweedy.

  “Well, I didn’t,” said Agatha. “What did you make of her?”

  “Good listener. No one listens to the old these days. In fact, nobody listens to anyone these days. While you’re talking to them, all they do is wait for you to finish so they can talk about themselves.”

  “Is that the only reason you went to her?” asked Charles. “To get someone to listen to you?”

  “And what’s up with that, may I ask?”

  “Not a thing,” said Charles. “What did you make of her?”

  “Silly bitch!” said Mrs. Tweedy venomously.

  “What? Why do you say that?” asked Agatha.

  “Last session, I was talking about my life. I miss my brother, who died in an accident. I was living in Oxford and decided to move to the country because cities can be lonely places. Well, I was talking and her phone rang. She took it out into the hall and shut the door. I went to the door and listened. She must have been talking to a fellow because it was ‘darling this’ and ‘darling that.’ Then she came back in and said the session was over and tried to charge me. I told her to get stuffed. Never went back. I wish I had never come here. This village is creepy and you, Agatha Raisin, are one of the creepiest things about it—entertaining your fancy man here at nights.” She glared at Charles.

  “You ought to make an honest woman of her.”

  Before Agatha could say anything, Charles smiled and said, “You are one truly horrible woman.”

  Mrs. Tweedy let out a cackle of laughter. “I like a man who speaks his mind.”

  “And I hate old frumps who speak theirs!” yelled Agatha. “I’m getting out of this dump!”

  As they left, they were followed by roars of laughter from the old lady.

  “Ah, the dignity and grace of old age,” said Charles as they walked through the village. “Let’s visit Mrs. Bloxby and see if she’s picked up some gossip. Also, you should let Bill know about that ‘darling’ phone call. Pity we haven’t the means to trace it. I mean, if she carried the phone out it must have been on her mobile and that’ll be in the evidence locker.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Agatha. “It could be one of those hands-free phones and it might still be there. If only we could break in and have a look. You can find out recent phone calls. I wonder who inherits? Wait a moment and I’ll phone Patrick and see if he’s found out anything.”

  Charles wandered up to the road. People were coming and going from the village shop. It all looked like a rural idyll. In the old days, he thought, Agatha would be blamed for attracting murder and burnt at the stake.

  “That’s interesting,” said Agatha, coming to join him. “Her brother inherits. He’s called Adrian Sommerville and he lives in Mircester. He’s an interior decorator and I’ve got the address.”

  “Oh, well, bang goes tea and sympathy at the vicarage,” said Charles. “We’ll take your car.”

  “Meaning, you’ll take my petrol, cheapskate.”

  * * *

  “You’re slipping, Aggie,” commented Charles as they approached Mircester. “You should have looked up Sommerville in the phone book.”

  “Don’t tell me how to do my job,” said Agatha huffily. “I’ve got the address. I don’t need to phone. Let’s see. He’s got a business address in The Loans. That’s the lane by the abbey. We’ll park in the main square and walk.”

  * * *

  There was a brass plaque outside the d
oor with the legend SOMERVILLE INTERIORS. A small sign said, PRESS BELL AND ENTER.

  Inside, a blonde was sitting behind a reception desk. She put down a copy of House & Garden, smiled at them and asked how she could be of assistance.

  Agatha performed the introductions, wishing not for the first time that she was in the police force and could just flash a warrant card.

  The secretary disappeared into an interior office. They waited.

  Agatha was just saying, “Do you think he’s escaped out the back?” when the blonde returned.

  “Mr. Sommerville can spare you a few moments,” she said grandly, radiating disapproval from every thread of her tailored power suit.

  Adrian Sommerville came as a surprise. Agatha was expecting some sort of willowy stereotype, but the man who rose to shake hands with them was dark and squat, wearing a sober grey suit, silk shirt and tie. He had a thick thatch of black hair, thick lips and designer stubble. He was seated behind an antique desk. Agatha and Charles sat down on chairs facing him. The walls of the office were decorated with photos of expensive-looking rooms.

  His first question surprised Agatha. “Who is paying you?”

  “No one,” said Agatha. “The murder took place in my village and I want to know who did it.”

  “I hear the police suspect you.”

  “Well, I didn’t murder anyone,” retorted Agatha crossly. “I wouldn’t be wasting my time otherwise.”

  “Unless to throw them off the scent.”

  Agatha half rose to her feet but Charles pulled her down.

  “Stop being so aggressive,” he said. “Don’t you want to find out who murdered your Jill?”

  “Of course I do. But it’s better to leave it to the police.”

  “We’re sorry for your loss,” said Charles. “But it’s a loss you don’t seem to be grieving over. What do you plan to do with her house?”

  “Sell it. Why?”

  “I might like to buy it,” said Charles. “I collect properties. Hobby of mine. How much?”

  “Five hundred thousand or so.”

  “Rubbish,” said Charles. “A nasty little cottage where a murder has taken place? Three hundred thousand?”