Dishing the Dirt
Authors: M. C. Beaton
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To Martin Palmer with many thanks for all his hard work
After a dismal grey winter, spring came to the village of Carsely in the Cotswolds, bringing blossoms, blue skies and warm breezes.
But somewhere, in the heart of one private detective, Agatha Raisin, storms were brewing.
When Agatha had been a member of the now defunct Ladies Society, she had got to know all the incomers to the village. But as most of her time was taken up away from the village, she did not recognise the thin woman who hailed her one Sunday when she was putting out the trash, ready for collection.
“It is Mrs. Raisin, is it not?” she called out in a reedy voice.
Agatha came to the fence of her thatched cottage. “I am Victoria Bannister,” said the woman. “I do so admire you.”
Victoria was somewhere in her eighties with a long face and a long thin nose and large pale eyes.
“Oh, I just do my job,” said Agatha.
“But you have come such a long way from your poor beginnings,” said Victoria.
“What poor beginnings?” snarled Agatha. She had been brought up in a Birmingham slum and somehow always dreaded that somewhere, someone would penetrate her lacquer of sophistication and posh accent.
“I heard you came from such a bad start with drunken parents. I do so admire you,” Victoria said again, her pale eyes scrutinising Agatha’s face.
“Piss off!” said Agatha furiously and went into her cottage and slammed the door.
Victoria walked off down Lilac Lane feeling happy. She enjoyed goading people.
* * *
Inside her cottage, Agatha stared bleakly at her reflection in the hall mirror. She had glossy brown hair and small bearlike eyes, a generous mouth, and although quite small in stature, had long well-shaped legs. Over the years, she had laminated herself with the right clothes, and the right accent. But deep down, she felt vulnerable. She was in her early fifties, which she reminded herself daily was now considered today’s forties.
She knew her ex-husband, James Lacey, a travel writer, had just returned from abroad. He was aware of her background as was her friend, Sir Charles Fraith. Surely neither of them would have gossiped. She had challenged James before and he had denied it. But she had to be sure. That therapist, Jill Davent, who had moved to the village had somehow known of her background. James had sworn then he had never told her anything, but how else would the woman have known?
Agatha had visited Jill, prompted by jealousy because James had been seen squiring her around. She had told Jill a highly romanticised story of her youth, but Agatha had left in a fury when Jill accused her of lying.
“Any odd and sod can call themselves a therapist these days,” she said to her cats. “Charlatans, the lot of them!”
* * *
She went next door to his cottage and rang the bell. James answered and smiled in welcome. “Come in, Agatha. I’ve got coffee ready. If you must smoke, we’ll have it in the garden.”
Agatha agreed to go into the garden, not because she particularly wanted to smoke, but because the inside of James’s cottage with its bachelor surroundings always reminded her how little impact she had made on his life when they were married.
Blackbirds pecked at the shabby lawn. A magnolia tree at the bottom of the garden was about to burst into bloom, raising pink buds up to the pale blue sky.
James came out with two mugs of coffee and an ashtray.
“Someone’s been gossiping about me,” said Agatha. “It must be Jill Davent. Someone’s found out about my background.”
“I could never understand why you are so ashamed of your upbringing,” said James. “What does it matter?”
“It matters to me,” said Agatha. “The Gloucestershire middle classes are very snobby.”
“Only the ones not worth knowing,” said James.
“Like some of your friends? Did you tell anyone?”
“Of course not. I told you before. I do not discuss you with anyone.”
But Agatha saw a little flash of uneasiness in his blue eyes. “You did say something about me and recently, too.”
He ran his fingers through his thick black hair, hair that only showed a little grey at the temples. He cursed Agatha’s intuition.
“I didn’t say anything about your background but I took Jill out for dinner and she asked a lot of questions about you, but I only talked about your cases.”
“She’s counselling Gwen Simple. She knows I was on that case where I nearly ended up in one of her son’s meat pies.”
Agatha’s last case had concerned a Sweeny Todd of a murderer over at Winter Parva. Although she suspected his mother, Gwen, of having helped in the murders, no proof was found against the woman.
“Actually, it was more or less on your behalf that I took not only Jill out for dinner, but Gwen as well.”
Agatha stared at him, noticing that James with his tall, athletic body was as handsome as ever. Jill looked like a constipated otter, but there was something about Gwen Simple that made men go weak at the knees.
“So what did creepy, slimy Gwen have to say for herself?” she asked.
“Agatha! The poor woman is still very traumatised. Jill did most of the talking.”
Gwen probably sat there with a mediaeval-type gown on to suit her mediaeval-type features, thought Agatha bitterly. That one doesn’t even have to open her mouth. She just sits there and draws men in.
“So did Jill have anything to say about the case?” she asked. “And I thought Gwen had sold the bakery and moved.”
“Jill naturally will not tell me what a client says,” remarked James. “And Gwen has moved to Ancombe.”
“I would have thought she would want to get as far away from Winter Parva as possible,” said Agatha. “I mean, a lot of the villagers must think she’s guilty.”
“On the contrary, they have been most sympathetic.”
“Tcha!” said Agatha Raisin.
* * *
Agatha decided to call on her friend, Mrs. Bloxby. She suddenly wondered why on earth this therapist should have gone to such lengths as to ferret out her background. As usual, the vicar’s wife was pleased to see her although, as usual, her husband was not. He slammed into his study.
As Mrs. Bloxby led the way into the garden, Agatha poured out her worries. “I’ll get you a glass of sherry,” said Mrs. Bloxby soothingly.
As she waited for her friend to come back, Agatha felt herself beginning to relax. Over in the churchyard, daffodils were swaying in the breeze amongst the old gravestones. In front of her, a blackbird pecked for worms on the lawn.
Mrs. Bloxby returned with a decanter of sherry and two glasses. After she had finished pouring out the drinks, she said, “I find it most odd that Miss Davent should obviously have gone to such lengths to dig up your background. She must see you as a threat. And if she sees you as a threat, what has she got to hide?”
“I should have thought of that,” said Agatha. “I’m slipping. And why bring her business to Carsely? Surely she would get more clients in town.”
“I think she
makes
clients,” said the vicar’s wife.
“What do you mean?”
“For example, she called on me. She said it must be awful for me not to have had any children. That, you see, is a vulnerable spot. She was trying to draw me in so that I would decide to use her services. I told her I was very busy and showed her the door. Everyone has some weakness, some frailty. I do not want to spread gossip, but she has built up quite a client base. They come from villages round about as well as here. She is a very clever woman. You have been so outraged about her finding out about your background that you did not stop to wonder why she had targeted you in this way.”
* * *
On Monday morning, Agatha’s small staff gathered for a briefing. There was Toni Gilmour, blond, young and beautiful; Simon Black with his jester’s face; ex-policeman Patrick Mulligan; Phil Marshall, gentle and white-haired; and her secretary, Mrs. Freedman.
Agatha had decided she had given up caring about her lousy background and so she told them that somehow Jill had gone out to target her and she wondered why. “We’ve got other work to do,” she said, “but if you have any spare time, see what you can find out about her. Anyone these days can claim to be a therapist without qualifications. I can’t remember if she had any sort of certificates on her walls.”
“Why don’t I just visit her and ask her why she is targeting you?” said Phil. “She’ll deny it, but I could have a look around.”
“Good idea,” said Agatha.
“I’ll phone now and see if I can get an appointment for this evening,” said Phil.
“You’d better take sixty pounds with you,” said Agatha. “I’m sure that one will look on any visit as a consultation.”
* * *
Phil made his way to Jill’s cottage that evening, having secured an appointment for eight o’clock. The cottage was on the road leading out of Carsely. It had formerly been an agricultural labourer’s cottage and was built of red brick, two storied, and rather dingy looking. Phil, who lived in Carsely, knew it had lain empty for some time. There was a small, unkempt garden in the front with a square of mossy grass and two laurel bushes.
The curtains were drawn but he could see that lights were on in the house. He rang the bell and waited.
Jill answered the door and looked him up and down from his mild face and white hair to his highly polished shoes.
“Come in,” she said. There was a dark little hall. She opened a door to the left of it and ushered him into her consulting room. Phil looked at the walls. He noticed there were several framed diplomas. The walls were painted dark green and the floor was covered in a dark green carpet. The room had a mahogany desk which held a Victorian crystal inkwell, a phone and nothing else on its gleaming surface. There was a comfortable leather chair facing her and a standard lamp with a fringed shade in one corner, shedding a soft light.
Jill sat behind her desk and waved a hand to indicate he should take the seat opposite.
“How can I help you?” she asked. She had a deep, husky voice.
“I work for Agatha Raisin,” said Phil, “and it is well known in the village that you have been spreading tales about her poor upbringing. Why?”