by M C Beaton
“He’s writing a sermon. I’ll ask him.”
She went along to her husband’s study and told him about their visitor. “Can you cope, dear?” he asked. “I’m awfully busy.”
On the road back, she popped into the bathroom and stared at her face in the mirror. Her brown hair with its streaks of grey was screwed up on top of her head. She loosened it and brushed it down before going back to join him.
They sat and talked for an hour while outside the storm rolled away. Mrs. Bloxby felt like a girl again.
After he had left, the phone rang. It was Agatha. “I hear there is some newcomer to the village,” she said.
If I tell her, thought the vicar’s wife, she’ll be right round there, made up to the nines.
To her horror, she heard herself impulsively lying. “I wonder who that can be?” she said, blushing as she said it.
* * *
Agatha heard all about the newcomer from Phil Marshall in the office the next morning, but was not pleased to hear that a detective, however retired, had landed in her village. As far as Agatha was concerned, she was the only detective that mattered.
“There’s one thing that bothers me still,” she said. “I would like to know who inherits the Tweedy estate. I mean, there’s madness in that family and I would like to be assured that there is not some relative of theirs going to call on me with an ax. Patrick, can you find out?”
She almost forgot about it until later in the day when Patrick said, “You’re out of touch with what is going on in that village of yours. An elderly fourth cousin inherits and has been round to look at the Tweedy house. She’s called Miss Delphinium Farrington.”
“If the weird Tweedys went so far as to leave everything to her, then it stands to reason she must be as weird as they were. I thought people couldn’t benefit from a crime.”
“They can if they didn’t commit it, or so I believe,” said Patrick. “Although I think the insurance company will want their money back.”
“You know,” said Agatha, “when I had a dream of moving to a Cotswold village, I envisaged placid rosy-cheeked villagers whose families had been around for generations, not a series of murderous incomers.”
“The old village families have all been priced out of their villages,” said Phil.
“Well, they shouldn’t have sold their properties,” said Agatha ruthlessly.
* * *
At the end of another week, Agatha had decided to take the whole week-end off. She also wondered where Charles was, but put off trying to phone him. She wondered if he had fired Gustav.
Gustav was the main reason that Charles had not contacted Agatha. The trouble was, he thought, that no one had a staff of servants anymore and Gustav did so much. Gustav swore blind that he had called the police and had even written down the name of the policeman he had spoken to. When he finally questioned Bill Wong, Charles found to his relief that Gustav had phoned, but to Mircester headquarters instead of dialling 999, and the new copper who had taken the call had mistaken Gustav’s Swiss accent for that of an East European babbling about tape recorders and so had not bothered to report it.
He called at Agatha’s cottage, and finding her not at home, decided to visit Mrs. Bloxby instead.
He found Agatha, Mrs. Bloxby and a tall man who was introduced as Gerald Devere sitting in the vicarage garden. Agatha, he noticed, was wearing full war paint and was surrounded by a cloud of heavy French perfume. Oh, dear, thought Charles. Here comes obsession number 102.
Then his curious eyes fastened on the vicar’s wife. He had never seen her wear her hair down before and she also had pink lipstick on. Surely not!
“Agatha!” said Charles sharply. “I hate to break up the party but I must talk to you in private.”
“We’re all friends here,” said Agatha, flashing a coquettish look from under heavily mascaraed eyelashes at Gerald.
“It’s private and very urgent,” said Charles.
Agatha sulkily agreed to leave with him.
“We’ll go to the pub,” said Charles. “I need a stiff drink.”
“Let’s just hope you’ve got your wallet,” said Agatha sourly.
Once they were seated in the pub, Charles said, “Back off from Gerald, Aggie.”
“Why on earth…?”
“Mrs. Bloxby’s got a crush on him.”
“Never! She wouldn’t. She’s a saint!”
“She’s human and leads a dreary life. She won’t do anything about it, Aggie, but let her have one little dream and stop jumping all over it with your stilettos.”
Agatha opened her mouth to make a sharp retort and then closed it again. She remembered that pink lipstick and the hair brushed down on the shoulders. Also, the vicar’s wife had been wearing a smart green wool dress Agatha had not seen before.
But Gerald was so, well, marriageable. And Mrs. Bloxby was married. Therefore, surely if Agatha lured Gerald away she would be saving her friend from disaster, pain and a possible broken marriage.
Charles studied the emotions flitting across Agatha’s face. “You like me as a friend, don’t you, Agatha?”
“Of course,” she said. “You’ve saved my life.”
“I don’t want your gratitude,” snapped Charles. “I just don’t want you to do anything to ruin our friendship. And competing with Mrs. Bloxby is just not on.”
“Oh, all right,” said Agatha. “If you say so.”
It was evening before Charles took himself off. Church in the morning, thought Agatha happily. Gerald’s bound to be in church.
* * *
The real autumn had come at last when Agatha set off for the church, more soberly dressed and made-up than usual, just in case Charles should take it into his head to check up on her to see if she was following orders. Throughout the service, Agatha spent the time arguing with the God she only believed in in times of stress about her smoking habit and how it was only a little sin. She could not spot Mrs. Bloxby but she did recognise Gerald’s tall figure.
Agatha stood outside and waited for him to emerge. He came out at last and beside him was a new Mrs. Bloxby with her hair tinted rich brown and worn in a coronet on top of her head. And she was wearing a glamorous white fun fur. Her gentle face was delicately made up.
As she approached them, Gerald said, “See you later, Margaret,” nodded to Agatha and hurried off.
Other parishioners came up to talk to the vicar’s wife and Agatha rushed off, her mind racing. Yes, she really would be doing Mrs. Bloxby a favour if she could lure Gerald away.
She remembered Doris had baked her a lemon drizzle cake, which she had stored in her kitchen freezer. She would take that to Gerald as a welcome to the village. She took it out of the freezer. It was covered in frost and as hard as a brick. She shoved it in the microwave but forgot to turn the dial to defrost. When she took it out, it appeared to have half melted over the plate. Determined not to let this setback stop her, she firmly wrapped the hot melting mess in cling film, put it in a bag and headed up to Gerald’s villa. He answered the door and stood looking down at her. “Mrs. Raisin?”
“I told you to call me Agatha,” said Agatha with what she hoped was a winning smile. “I’ve brought you a cake.”
“Dear me. What a hospitable lot you ladies are! I have so many cakes. Are you sure you don’t want to keep it?”
“No, please take it.”
“You must excuse me. I am in the middle of an important phone call. Another time?”
He took the bag from her, went in and shut the door.
Snakes and bastards, thought Agatha furiously. I don’t believe that phone call. What if he’s got Mrs. Bloxby in there?
She moved a little away, but then burning curiosity overtook her. She walked quietly up the side of his villa, hoping to be able to peer in the French windows that overlooked the garden at the back.
She moved silently up to the windows. She could see nothing in the windows except her own reflection. Agatha pressed her face against the glass a
nd cupped her hands.
“What on earth do you think you are doing?” came a harsh voice from behind her.
Agatha jumped nervously and turned round to find Gerald staring down at her. “I was in the potting shed and saw you snooping.”
“I was leaving and I thought I saw some stranger going up the side of your house. I thought I had better check,” said Agatha desperately.
“As you can see, I am all right. Goodbye.” He turned on his heel and strode back to the potting shed.
Agatha trailed miserably off. If only she had decided to work at the week-end. Now she was left with a long empty day to think about how silly she had been.
The phone was ringing when she let herself into her cottage. She rushed to answer it. It was Mrs. Bloxby. “Have you got time to drop up here?” she asked. “I want to consult you about something.”
“Sure,” said Agatha dismally. “Be right with you.”
What if Gerald told her about me snooping? thought Agatha. Or how will I handle it if she confesses to being in love with him?
At the vicarage, Mrs. Bloxby ushered Agatha into the drawing room. Agatha was too nervous to accept any offer of refreshment, saying, “What is it?”
“It’s the allotments.”
“Those strips of land outside the village?” said Agatha, bewildered.
“Yes. The problem is that they were owned by a trust which has lapsed and the land now belongs to Lord Bellington. He wants to sell the land to a developer and put a housing estate on it.”
“If he has the legal right to do so, then I cannot see what anyone can do about it,” said Agatha.
“But I wondered if you could engineer some publicity and start up a petition,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
Agatha half-closed her eyes as a horrible memory of being nearly buried alive in an allotment flooded back into her mind.
She stood up abruptly.
“I’m sorry, but quite frankly it will be a cold day in hell before I have anything to do with allotments again.”
Mrs. Bloxby stared in dismay as Agatha went out of the vicarage and off into the village.
Agatha Raisin was not to know how wrong she was and how those wretched village allotments would lead to murder.
About the Author
M.C. Beaton, who was the British guest of honor at Bouchercon 2006, has been hailed as the “Queen of Crime” by The Globe and Mail. In addition to her New York Times and USA Today bestselling Agatha Raisin novels, Beaton is the author of the Hamish Macbeth series and four Edwardian mysteries. Born in Scotland, she currently divides her time between the English Cotswolds and Paris. Visit her on Facebook or at www.mcbeaton.com. Or sign up for email updates here.
Also by M. C. Beaton
AGATHA RAISIN
The Blood of an Englishman: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
Something Borrowed, Someone Dead: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
Hiss and Hers: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
As the Pig Turns: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
Busy Body: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
There Goes the Bride: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
A Spoonful of Poison: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
Kissing Christmas Goodbye: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
Love, Lies and Liquor: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
The Perfect Paragon: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
The Deadly Dance: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
Agatha Raisin and the Haunted House
Agatha Raisin and the Case of the Curious Curate
Agatha Raisin and the Day the Floods Came
Agatha Raisin and the Love from Hell
Agatha Raisin and the Fairies of Fryfram
Agatha Raisin and the Witch of Wyckhadden
Agatha Raisin and the Wizard of Evesham
Agatha Raisin and the Wellspring of Death
Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist
Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage
The Walkers of Dembley: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
The Potted Gardener: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
The Vicious Vet: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
The Quiche of Death: An Agatha Raisin Mystery
The Skeleton in the Closet
EDWARDIAN MYSTERY SERIES
Our Lady of Pain
Sick of Shadows
Hasty Death
Snobbery with Violence
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Contents
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Epilogue
About the Author
Also by M. C. Beaton
Copyright
This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
DISHING THE DIRT. Copyright © 2015 by M. C. Beaton. All rights reserved. For information, address St. Martin’s Press, 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, N.Y. 10010.
www.minotaurbooks.com
Cover art by Tierney and Wood
The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:
Beaton, M. C.
Dishing the dirt: an Agatha Raisin mystery / M. C. Beaton.—First edition.
pages; cm. —(Agatha Raisin mysteries; 26)
ISBN 978-1-250-05742-6 (hardcover)
ISBN 978-1-4668-6118-3 (e-book)
1. Raisin, Agatha (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 2. Women private investigators—England—Cotswold Hills—Fiction. 3. Murder—Investigation—Fiction. I. Title.
PR6053.H4535D57 2015
823'.914—dc23
2015022096
e-ISBN 9781466861183
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First Edition: September 2015
