Dishing the Dirt (13 page)

“Who are you meeting?”

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

“He’s too young for you.”

“I don’t know what 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.

“I didn’t get a report from you about this,” said Agatha.

“I was going to get round to it,” protested Patrick, “but with so many suspects, it didn’t seem top of the list. Also, Gwen Simple’s phone has been bugged by the police for ages. Nothing there. Doesn’t even get a call from her son.”

“There are still such things as mobiles.”

“Got that covered as well. Nothing.”

“Send me over what you’ve got,” said Agatha. “All of it. Even the stuff you don’t think is important.”

When she rang off, she said crossly to Charles, “I think Patrick is beginning to behave like the Lone Ranger.” She told him what Patrick had said.

Charles shrugged. “Patrick’s ex-police so he probably still feels loyalty to the plod. But he should have told you about Gwen’s phones being bugged. Let’s see what Nichols has to say for himself.”

*   *   *

Mr. Nichols had been drinking, but was still coherent. Asked about Ruby, he went off into a paean of praise.

Agatha interrupted brutally. “Was she having an affair with Carson while she was married to you?”

“I didn’t want to believe it,” he said mournfully. “I wouldn’t believe it, but Justin, poor little lad as he was then, was miserable. I said I’d prove him wrong and hired a detective. I was devastated at what he found out. I said I would forgive her, but she said it would be better for everyone if I agreed to a divorce. She said if I did that, I could keep Justin. If I didn’t, she swore she would get custody. Justin pleaded to stay with me. What could I do? So I agreed to the divorce.”

“Wait a minute,” said Agatha. “She was only his stepmother. No court would give her custody.”

“She said she would reveal some family secrets I didn’t want exposed.”

“What secrets?”

“They’re secrets and that’s how they’ll stay!”

“So why are you still in love with this terrible woman?” asked Charles.

“Oh, she was a goddess when we were married. You don’t know her. Carson seduced her. He’s a wicked man. I’ll bet he killed her.”

“Was Justin fond of his stepmother?” asked Agatha.

“That’s the sad bit,” said Mr. Nichols. “He never forgave her.”

“So why did he encourage you to engage my services?” asked Agatha.

“He said it was odd that we weren’t getting any information from the police. He said we should try to find out something ourselves. He said it would put my mind at rest. He’s a good boy and he loves his dad.” Mr. Nichols raised his glass and took a large swallow of whisky.

His eyes filled with tears. “I wish I could have my Ruby back again.”

They took their leave. “I think you’re barking up the wrong tree, Agatha,” said Charles. “Look, Ruby was garroted right after that message from Simon. That drunk in there is so advanced in alcoholism that he lives in a world of fantasy.”

“Maybe he could have thought that if he couldn’t have her, he would make sure no one else could,” said Agatha.

“Did you have anyone else checking up on him?”

“I asked Simon to look into it.”

Agatha phoned Simon. “Nichols is ex–Special Forces,” he said. “You know, SAS, and they keep quiet about details.”

When Agatha told Charles, he said, “That paints a different picture. He’d certainly know how to bump her off. But he’s probably been sunk in booze for so long, I can’t see him moving away from the chair and whisky bottle. Justin didn’t say anything, but I doubt if Mr. Nichols had that job of his for a while.”

*   *   *

When they were back in Agatha’s cottage, Charles helped himself to a drink and moved out into the garden, followed by the cats. Agatha sat down at her computer and began to read everything on the murders.

After an hour, the doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” called Charles. “I ordered Chinese food.”

Agatha realised she was very hungry and followed him through to the kitchen, where he was placing containers on the kitchen table. “Dig in,” he said. “I feel like beer. Got any?”

“No, but there’s a bottle of white wine in the fridge.”

They ate companionably, until Agatha suddenly put down her chopsticks and stared at him.

“Let’s think about Justin,” she said.

“Why?”

“Even as a child, he complained constantly about her. He must have wanted to be rid of her. What if he hated her?”