Dishing the Dirt

by M C Beaton

  A shadow fell across her. She swung round. Justin was looking at her quizzically. “Who was at the door?”

  “I didn’t open it,” said Agatha. “Some salesman. I’ve ordered lunch. Should be here soon. Let’s enjoy the garden.”

  * * *

  Toni phoned Simon on his mobile. “Agatha’s not answering the door. Is she all right?”

  “That beautiful young man I phoned you about. I think our Agatha’s smitten, so she won’t want you around.”

  “That’s ridiculous,” said Toni.

  “That’s our Agatha,” said Simon.

  * * *

  As Agatha talked about her previous cases, she decided that the attraction she felt for Justin was maternal. Sometimes, infrequently, she thought it would have been nice to have children. She had felt strong maternal feelings for Toni, but that had unfortunately left her trying to manipulate the girl’s life until she had backed off. So feeling much more comfortable, she chatted until the food arrived and they moved back into the kitchen.

  Halfway through the meal, she remembered she was supposed to be detecting and asked Justin if his father had ever been in Chicago.

  “I don’t know if he’s been in Chicago,” said Justin. “I know he went to a couple of conferences in America, but that was when Mother was still alive.”

  “I think I had better meet your father,” said Agatha. “Would this evening be convenient?”

  “I should think so. I’ll phone him when we’ve finished eating and set something up.”

  When Justin left, he kissed Agatha on the cheek. He had phoned his father and he would expect them at six o’clock. Justin said he would collect Agatha from her office.

  After he had left, Agatha’s hand involuntarily fluttered up to the cheek he had kissed. She felt suddenly lonely and old.

  * * *

  Reminding herself fiercely that any feelings she had for Justin were maternal, she forced herself not to change into something more glamorous. She called on Doris and gave her a new set of keys and the new code supplied by the locksmith, and set out for the office.

  It was only when she arrived at the office that she realised the murderer could be someone in the crowds outside, watching to see who came and went. She phoned Justin and explained it would be safer if he just gave her directions to his home. Then she sadly opened a cupboard and took out a large box of disguises.

  The frumpier the better, she thought. I must look like a worried client.

  Before she changed, she took the precaution of phoning a car rental company and asked them to leave the car in the square and bring the keys and contract up to the office.

  After she had paid for the car rental, she changed into a drab dress and flat shoes. On her head she put a plain dark wig that looked as if it had been badly permed. She stuffed pads in her cheeks and put on a pair of glasses. Leaning heavily on a stick, she eventually left the office, watched by a worried Mrs. Freedman.

  The car was a new anonymous-looking black Ford. After studying the directions, she set off, with many nervous looks in the rearview mirror in case she was being followed.

  The Nichols’ house turned out to be a large mansion on the edge of the town. A short gravelled drive led up to the house. Before she got out of the car, Agatha took the pads out of her cheeks and removed the glasses and wig. She carefully applied make-up and brushed her hair until it shone. She wriggled out of the dowdy frock, and was leaning over into the backseat to pick up her linen dress wearing only a brief lacy bra and knickers when a knock at the window made her jump. Justin was smiling in at her. Agatha lowered the window and said, “Get off with you and give me a moment. I’m just getting out of this disguise.”

  Justin grinned. “I was just admiring the view.”

  Cursing, Agatha slipped on her linen dress and a pair of high-heeled sandals, sprayed herself with La Vie Est Belle and walked up to the front door where Justin was waiting.

  He kissed her warmly on the cheek. “You smell nice. Do come in. We’re in the garden.”

  Although Agatha guessed the house had been built at the beginning of the twentieth century, the entrance hall looked dark and baronial. There were two suits of armour and beside them, two antique-looking carved chests. The floor was highly polished parquet with fine Oriental rugs placed like coloured islands across its expanse. Justin turned left and led her through a large drawing room. It somehow looked soulless, as if it had been put in the hands of an unimaginative interior designer. The carpet was mushroom-coloured, as was the velvet three-piece suite. An enormous flat screen TV dominated one wall. The coffee table had a glass showcase top holding a collection of medals. There were vases of silk flowers everywhere. French windows were open to the garden where a thickset grey-haired man sat at a table.

  The air outside was heavy with the smell of roses. It was a magnificent garden with a smooth green lawn bordered by roses of every colour.

  Mr. Nichols rose to meet her. He had once been a handsome man, Agatha guessed, but he now had one of those boozer’s faces which looked as if the features had been blurred. His nose was thick and open-pored, his eyes a faded blue crisscrossed with red veins. He had a large drink on the table in front of him which smelled of vodka. Poor Justin, thought Agatha. Alcoholics will drink vodka, believing it has no smell.

  Mr. Nichols had a potbelly, straining at the belt of his trousers.

  He stood up and shook Agatha’s hand. “Can Justin get you a drink?”

  “It’s all right. I’m driving,” said Agatha. “But I wouldn’t mind a black coffee.”

  “Justin,” he ordered, “tell Mrs. Frint to make a pot of coffee and bring some biscuits as well. Now, I must find out who murdered poor Ruby. I still think about her a lot. I mean, I always hoped she would come back to me.”

  “You mean even after she walked out on you, you still have strong feelings for her?”

  “I love her,” he said.

  “First I must warn you, Mr. Nichols, that there is a dangerous murderer out there. By employing me, you may put yourself in danger. This killer managed to get into my cottage and bug it. Is Mrs. Frint your housekeeper?”

  “Yes, excellent lady.”

  “Then she must be told not to let anyone in the house—telephone, water, gas, anything like that even though whoever may seem to be carrying the right identification.”

  The watery, red-veined eyes of the perpetual drinker looked at Agatha with all the pleading of a beaten dog. “Find who killed my Ruby,” he said.

  * * *

  Justin escorted Agatha out. He paused on the doorstep. “What about meeting for dinner one night so you can let me know if you have found anything?”

  Agatha looked into those blue eyes and felt herself weaken. “We’d better meet somewhere pretty out of the way,” she said cautiously. “I don’t want the murderer coming after you.”

  “What about tomorrow night? There’s the Black Bear in Moreton. Safe. Lots of people around. I could meet you there at eight o’clock.”

  Agatha’s longing to have dinner with Justin fought with a dark image of murdered Herythe. Her longing won.

  “All right,” she said cautiously. “I’ll make sure I’m not followed.”

  Chapter Eight

  Agatha left the office early the following day, planning to spend time getting ready for the dinner with Justin. Of course, he was too young to fancy her, and surely she was too old to develop feelings for such a young man.

  And yet, when she let herself into her cottage and found Charles in the kitchen, she was furious. “How did you get in?” she raged.

  “Doris lent me her keys. She’s worried about you being alone and so am I.”

  “Well, that’s good of you,” said Agatha, mollified. “But I’m going out this evening and I don’t want you around when I get back.”

  “Who are you meeting?”

  “None of your business. Push off, Charles.”

  “He’s too young for you.”

  “I don’t know wh
at you are talking about.” Agatha made for the stairs. “I am going to change and I don’t want you here when I get back.”

  But her plan for a leisurely hour and a half had been ruined. All the while she listened but could not hear any sign of him leaving. When she eventually went downstairs, it was to find the cottage empty and Doris’s keys lying on the kitchen table.

  Agatha fretted. Charles was really a good friend and had saved her so many times from sticky situations. Well, she would get him a set of keys, but after she saw how things progressed with Justin.

  * * *

  The evening was calm and serene, with a huge yellow moon floating above the village rooftops. Agatha remembered that blue moon. How odd it had looked. Although Moreton was only fifteen minutes away, she took a circuitous route down the backroads, past the Batsford estates office, checking all the time in the rearview mirror, but there was no one else on the road.

  She hesitated outside the Black Bear. She was being silly and all because this young man was beautiful. And by being silly, she could be putting him in danger.

  “Are you going in or what?” demanded a man’s voice behind her. “You’re blocking the entrance.”

  “Sorry,” mumbled Agatha. She pushed open the door of the dining room and went in.

  Justin was seated at a corner table. He rose to meet her. “You look pretty,” he said, kissing her on both cheeks.

  No one had ever called Agatha Raisin pretty before. She gave him a radiant smile as she sat down opposite him.

  Agatha had forgotten what huge servings they gave at this restaurant. She had ordered steak and ale pie and it made her waistline tighten just looking at it. Unfortunately, Justin said, “I cannot bear women who just pick at their food,” so Agatha did her best and was relieved when Justin rose and said he needed to go to the loo. For one mad moment, she thought of tipping the whole thing into her handbag, but instead, she took it up to the counter and told the waitress to take her half-finished plate away.

  “Good heavens!” said Justin when he returned. “I’ll need to eat fast to catch up with you.” He wanted to hear more about Agatha’s adventures and so Agatha bragged happily, until Justin finished his meal and the waitress came up with the dessert menu.

  “Nothing for me,” said Agatha.

  “I’m sure your son could manage something,” said the waitress and Agatha could feel all her silly dreams crashing about her ears, even when Justin said gallantly, “Not my mother, my date.”

  Agatha suddenly could not wait for the evening to end. She thanked Justin for the meal and said she would be in touch with him as soon as she learned anything new.

  Once home, she petted her cats, wondering whether to send them back to Doris for safety. But they were company and she felt lonely.

  * * *

  In the following weeks, Agatha and her detectives went about their work nervously, each one worried that they might be the murderer’s next target, but nothing happened. Patrick reported that the police did not seem to have found anything new. Justin phoned a couple of times, inviting Agatha out, but each time she said it was not safe.

  The agency seemed to be drawing in a lot of work: missing teenagers, divorces, firms who thought a member of the staff was stealing, a supermarket that claimed that liquor was disappearing, and so the list went on.

  And while she worked, Agatha found her thoughts kept turning to Gwen Simple. She could not imagine Gwen having the strength to strangle anyone or to throw a body in the river, but she knew that men went weak at the knees in her company and wondered if she had an accomplice.

  Mrs. Bloxby told Agatha that Gwen had started a business making silk flowers and would be selling them at a stall at Ancombe crafts fair at the week-end.

  The vicar’s wife said she would accompany her and they set off in Agatha’s car.

  “Have you see anything of Sir Charles?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.

  “No, he disappears from time to time,” said Agatha bitterly. “I sometimes think I could be lying dead on my kitchen floor for all he cares, and that goes for James, too. He went off on his travels and didn’t even call to say goodbye. Here we are in Ancombe. Don’t like the place.”

  “It’s all right,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “You’ve just had bad luck with some of the residents in the past. Look, you can park in that field next to the fair.”

  “They must think everyone drives a four-by-four,” grumbled Agatha as her car bumped over the ruts in the field. She was directed by a Boy Scout to a remaining place at the far corner. “I didn’t think it would be this busy,” said Agatha.

  “People come from all over,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “They start stocking up for Christmas because you can get a lot of things here you can’t buy anywhere else and the prices are reasonable.”

  As they wandered amongst the stalls, Agatha could not see the attraction. Did people actually give wooden salad bowls for Christmas? And if you wanted a concrete frog for your garden, how did you get it home?

  “I’ll find Mrs. Simple first,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “and come back and let you know if she’s with some man. I’ll meet you in the refreshment tent.”

  Agatha bought a cup of tea and looked around for a place to sit down. All the tables were full. There was an elderly gentleman on his own so she went up and asked, “Is it all right if I sit here?”

  “Go ahead.” He squinted up at her through thick glasses. “But it ain’t no use chatting me up. I’m spoken for.”

  “Never crossed my mind,” said Agatha.

  “Why?”

  Agatha sighed. “You’re too old for me.”

  “You ain’t hardly a spring chicken yourself.”

  Agatha looked at his ancient face. “Do you mean women still chase you?”

  “Like flies round a honey pot. All widders. Few of us men left down at the social club. Was married the once. Ain’t what it’s cracked up to be. Marriage, that’s wot. Nag, nag, nag, from morning till night. When my Tilly was in her coffin I could swear I could hear her, going on and on and on.”

  Mrs. Bloxby came up to the table and Agatha said quickly, “Let’s go outside.”

  Once outside the tent, she asked eagerly, “Anything?”

  “She’s got a very beautiful young man helping her. I’m afraid it’s young Mr. Nichols.”

  “Surely not. It can’t be!” exclaimed Agatha.

  “I wish it weren’t.”

  “I’d better have a look to make sure. No. Wait a moment. I’ve got his mobile number.”

  Agatha dialled. With a sinking heart, she recognised Justin’s voice. “Don’t say my name,” she said. “I’m outside the tea tent.”

  She rang off and waited anxiously, jumping nervously when Justin came up behind her and said breezily, “Hullo, Agatha. I remember you. It’s Mrs. Bloxby, isn’t it?” Agatha said, “What are you doing helping Gwen Simple?”

  “I’m detecting,” said Justin. “Thought I’d lend a hand.”

  “Listen! She could be a murderess. It’s not safe.”

  “I think she’s all right. Mrs. Simple is very quiet and kind.”

  “She’s as quiet and kind as a cobra,” hissed Agatha.

  “I said I would help her, so I am going back there,” said Justin stubbornly. “I’ll phone you later.” And with that, he darted away through the crowd.

  Despite the heat of the day, Agatha shivered. She had a sudden feeling of menace. But the crowds drifted back and forward, the village band played, the air was full of the smells of tea and cakes and it looked a safe, rural setting.

  * * *

  Later, while she waited for Justin to phone, Agatha worked through her notes. What if, she wondered, the murder of Ruby Carson had nothing to do with the other murders? And yet it had happened right after Simon had told her on the phone about Jill’s book being found. She sighed. Simon could hardly go detecting in Oxford where police and detectives would be working hard to find out who had murdered Ruby.

  When the doorbell rang, she went to answer its
summons, expecting to see Justin but it was only Charles.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “I was waiting for Justin Nichols.”

  “The beautiful boy.”

  “I’m worried about him. He’s decided to be a detective and to that end was helping Gwen sell silk flowers at the Ancombe fair.”

  “She’s probably wrapped her coils around him.”

  “I tried to warn him,” fretted Agatha. “Look, Charles, what do you think of this idea? What if the murder of Ruby has nothing to do with the others?”

  Charles sat down at the kitchen table. The cats jumped onto his lap. “Now why do you think that?” he asked.

  “Often people who are murdered are what Scotland Yard calls murderees. They set up dangerous scenarios which lead to them being killed. Ruby was having an affair with the police chief superintendent. He says he was just on a visit, but Ruby screamed of ambition and as we know from Simon, she coldly used sex as a weapon. Is the superintendent married? What if his wife knew of the affair? What do we know of the latest ex-husband? Perhaps she slept with other men to further her career and then dropped them. There is no record of her having contacted Jill Davent. It seems to me that our murderer wants to eliminate anyone who was close enough to Jill to reveal his identity.”

  Charles looked at her curiously. He knew, from past experience, that Agatha’s seeming flights of fancy were based on sharp intuition.

  “So we should start at the beginning,” he said. “Let’s go now and see Mr. Nichols and find out who she might have been having an affair with when she was married to him.”

  “I’ll phone Patrick first and find out what he knows,” said Agatha.

  Patrick said that Ruby’s last husband was a detective inspector called Jimmy Carson. He had an impeccable reputation. In fact, Patrick had been to see him. He had said that Ruby was difficult and was always throwing scenes. He had been glad to agree to an amicable divorce. He only saw his children from time to time because he was always busy.