Dishing the Dirt (19 page)

“Not necessarily,” said Agatha. “It could have been her ex-husband. I can’t believe that anyone in this village has the know-how to bug my cottage.”

“But there are incomers to these Cotswold villages the whole time.”

“I’ll check it out with Mrs. Bloxby. But I feel sure she would have told me if there was anyone new to the village that might fill the bill.”

“I’ve got to dash,” he said. “Maybe see you tomorrow?”

“Phone me,” said Agatha.

He gave her a warm hug.

Well, well, well, thought Agatha, after he had left. It could work out. I could be Mrs. Dretter. I wish I could be married in white. I’ve always wanted a proper wedding. She glanced at the clock and judged it too late to call on Mrs. Bloxby and decided to see her after the church service.

*   *   *

Agatha really meant to go to the service but she slept late and only arrived at the church just as the service was finishing. Quite a large number of people began to stream out. Agatha waited patiently while Mrs. Bloxby talked to various villagers. At last she approached Agatha.

“Your husband’s sermons seem to have become popular,” commented Agatha.

“It’s because he used the King James Bible and the old
Book of Common Prayer,
” said Mrs. Bloxby. “People come from villages all around. The old language is so comforting in a world full of uncertainties. Would you like to come to the vicarage for coffee or something?”

“Yes,” said Agatha. “I do need your advice.”

“The signs are up for the Moreton Agricultural Show,” said the vicar’s wife. “Quite sad because it means that summer is over. I hope they get good weather for it. Some years, the field has been a sea of mud.”

Agatha waited until they were both seated in the vicarage with glasses of sherry and said, “Mark Dretter called on me last night.”

“The man from Dubai?”

“Yes, him. He keeps suggesting the murderer might be someone from the village. I said I didn’t think there was anyone in Carsely with the expertise to bug my cottage and he said what about incomers. Know of anyone?”

“Only one fairly recent arrival, a Mr. Bob Dell.”

“What does he do?”

“He is retired. I believe he was a banker. He wears frocks.”

“He what?”

“He likes to dress as a woman.”

“Why didn’t I hear about this?” demanded Agatha. “A transvestite. It’s a wonder he hasn’t been driven away.”

“As a matter of fact, he is popular. Even Alf has warmed to him because he brought armfuls of flowers to decorate the church. He contributes to all sorts of charities.”

“Where does he live?”

“Badgers Loan. That Victorian villa, on Glebe Street at the back of the village store. It was owned by old Mrs. Dell, who died last year. She was ninety-four, very agile for her years. But her brain had begun to wander and she drove her motorised wheelchair right into the pond. She died of shock, they think. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it.”

“I must have been away,” said Agatha. “I think I’ll call on this Bob Dell.”

“You won’t make remarks about his dress,” cautioned Mrs. Bloxby.

“I,” said Agatha Raisin, “am the soul of tact.”

*   *   *

Bob Dell answered the door to her. He was a tall man in his sixties with a large nose and small mouth. He was wearing a blond wig and make-up and his thin body was draped in a long flower-patterned dress. Agatha introduced herself and he invited her in.

He led the way into a sitting room. The room was dominated by a grand piano covered with a fringed shawl. There were many photographs in silver frames on side tables and the floor was covered in a Persian rug. A stuffed owl in a glass case was placed in the middle of the room. One wall was lined with bookshelves. The three-piece suite was covered in bright chintz. Agatha sat down on the sofa and he lowered himself into an armchair facing her. He had forgotten to smooth the skirt of his dress under him and so he exposed a pair of long hairy legs in tights ending in white court shoes like sauce boats.

“Are you new to cross-dressing?” asked that soul of tact, Agatha Raisin.

“I only started last year,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“You haven’t shaved your legs.”

“I hate doing it. That’s why I wear long dresses. Are you usually so rude?”

“Sorry. Just curious. You’ve heard about all those murders?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Know anything about electronics?”

“Can barely use the computer. I hate machines.”

What you see is what you get, thought Agatha. This man is a gentle soul. But he needs help.

“Never economise on a wig,” said Agatha. “That blond bird’s nest you’ve got on your head screams fake. Phone up a firm called Banbury Postiche and get their catalogue. Aren’t you getting a course of female hormones?”

“No, I’m new to all this. Are you usually so blunt?”

“Just trying to help. Where did you get that dress?”

“It was one of my mother’s. She was very tall.”

“Won’t do. Wait a moment.” Agatha took her iPad out of her capacious handbag. “I’m just going to search for something. Ah, here we are. In Lower Oxford Street there’s a shop called Trannies Delight. All sorts of clothes and things for people like you. I’ll write it down.”

“You are very kind. I’ll go up to town tomorrow.”

Agatha stood up. Having decided Bob could not possibly be the murderer, she was suddenly anxious to leave.

But she turned in the doorway and said, “Why a village like this? Wouldn’t you be better off in London, where there must be lots of people like you?”

He smiled and said, “Oh, it would surprise you what you find in Cotswold villages. I am not alone.”

Agatha walked away, feeling a cold breeze starting up. Soon it would be autumn. As she was turning the corner of Glebe Street, she suddenly froze. She sensed evil. She looked wildly around. Then she shrugged and walked on. Her near escape from death had left her nervous.

As she walked past the general store now closed for the Sunday afternoon, she had a sudden memory of visiting the Cotswolds as a child while her drunken parents in the grotty caravan they had borrowed from a friend bitched about how boring it all was. The child, Agatha, had found it enchanting. That was the start of her lifelong dream of living in the Cotswolds. But now there was a serpent in this Garden of Eden.

A brisk wind had sprung up, chasing the grey clouds above away to the east. In her cottage, she petted her cats and let them out into the garden and then checked her phone for messages. There was only one and it was from Mrs. Bloxby. “I forgot to remind you about the baking competition next Saturday,” the vicar’s wife said. “I know you will be too busy to contribute anything but there is a Sale of Work stall and I cannot get anyone to run it. Can you help?”

Agatha phoned her and said she would do it provided nothing came up to stop her attending. She was just wondering how to pass the rest of the day. She was sick and tired of studying all her notes on the murder cases.

There was a ring at the door. Agatha carefully looked through the spy hole first and saw Toni standing outside. She opened the door. “Come in. What brings you?” asked Agatha.

“Just a social call,” said Toni. “I’m tired of going out on dates just to go out on dates, if you know what I mean. I hear you’ve got a new man in your life. Had dinner at the George.”

“Oh, Mark Dretter. He’s very handsome and I can’t understand why I don’t find him attractive. Want coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

The doorbell rang again. “Help yourself,” said Agatha, “while I see who’s at the door.”

It was Bill Wong. “What’s happened?” demanded Agatha.

“Nothing,” said Bill. “It’s my day off and I thought I would look you up.”

“Come into the kitchen. Toni’s just arrived.”

There was another ring at the doorbell. “If that’s Simon, don’t answer it,” said Toni sharply. “He’s started following me around again.”

“Your car’s outside and mine,” said Agatha. “If it is him, I’ll need to let him in.”

But it was Phil Marshall. “I thought I’d see how you were bearing up,” he said.

“Come in. Bill and Toni are in the kitchen.”

Agatha reflected that nothing ever seemed to ruffle Phil. His gentle face and silver hair worked wonders at interviews. People always felt safe with him.

Toni made him a mug of coffee. “No breakthrough on the murders yet?” Phil asked Bill.

“Not a thing. What about you, Agatha?”

“Nothing.”

“Wilkes had a mad hope we could pin all the murders on Justin and get the press off our backs, but at the time of Tremund’s murder, for example, Justin was up in London working for a large company.”

“What about Gwen Simple?” asked Agatha.

“Sorry. Nothing there. We’re not even checking her phone calls now. Besides, she’s alibied up to the hilt.”

“I never thought she would murder people herself, but get someone to do it for her,” said Agatha.

“Like her latest beau?”

“Who’s that?” asked Agatha.

“A chap called Mark Dretter. Squeaky clean. On leave from the embassy in Dubai.”

“He’s not her beau,” said Agatha. “He’s been trying to help me with some detective work.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” said Bill. “They go everywhere together.”

Agatha’s face darkened. Had Mark only befriended her so that he could report to Gwen how she was getting on with trying to solve the murders?

“Anyway,” she said huffily, “he’s got some mad idea it might be someone in this village.”

“Are there any weirdos in this village, Agatha?” asked Bill.

“Not that I know of. One cross-dresser but that’s nothing these days.”

“Oh, Bob Dell,” said Phil. “It’s odd. He wanted me to enlarge a photo of his niece. I often do some photo work for people in the village. I phoned him and said I was coming with it. I knocked and knocked but there was no reply.”

“Did you see anyone around?” asked Agatha.

“Just some big old chap on a bike.”

“I’m worried,” said Agatha. “I’m going up there. He didn’t strike me as the sort of man to ask you to bring the photo and then not answer the door.”

“I’ll go,” said Bill.

“I’ll come with you,” insisted Agatha. “The rest of you stay here.”

*   *   *

“I’m sure we must be worrying about nothing,” said Bill as he and Agatha hurried in the direction of Bob’s home.

“All I would do is worry for the rest of the day,” said Agatha stubbornly.

Glebe Street looked innocent and quiet. Agatha rang the bell beside the door of Bob’s villa. There was no reply. “Phil said something about knocking,” said Bill. “Maybe the bell doesn’t work.”

He hammered on the door.

A little breeze rustled through a clematis beside the door and then died away.

“See if you can open the door,” urged Agatha.

Bill tried the doorknob. “Locked,” he said.

“Break in!” said Agatha.

“I can’t. I haven’t a warrant. Let’s try round the back. He may be in the garden.”

They walked along a path at the left side of the villa. The garden was a profusion of flowers. On the patio was a garden table with a half-finished glass of wine and a book, its pages fluttering in the breeze. Draped over a chair by the table was a paisley shawl.

Agatha cupped her hands and peered in the French windows. It was the room she had sat in with Bob.

“Can you see anyone?” asked Bill.

“No one.”

“We’ll try later,” said Bill. “I’m sure you’re worried about nothing.”

Agatha would not give up. Her breath had steamed up the glass. She wiped it with a handkerchief and peered in again. Then she tried the handle on the window.

“It’s open,” she said, and before Bill could stop her, she went into the room, calling, “Bob! Are you there?”

There was a faint sound from behind the sofa. Agatha peered over and then shrieked, “Bill!”

Bob Dell lay on the floor. His face was a mass of blood.

Bill hurried in and knelt beside him. “His pulse is faint.” He phoned for an ambulance and then called police headquarters.

*   *   *

Toni and Phil had heard the sirens and hurried up to Glebe Street to find Bob Dell being loaded into an ambulance. Toni was worried about Agatha because Agatha’s face was chalk white.

“I think you should go to the hospital as well, Agatha,” said Toni. “You’ve had a bad shock.”

“I’ll be all right,” said Agatha. “I feel it’s got something to do with my visit to him.”

Wilkes came up to Agatha. “You may go home, Mrs. Raisin, and we’ll be with you shortly to take a statement.”

“Look at them!” said Agatha, pointing to the forensic team, who were about to enter the villa. “Masks, heads covered, suited up, little booties. If they were on television they would have shoulder-length hair and stilettos on.”

“Come along,” urged Toni, putting an arm around Agatha’s waist.

*   *   *

Back in Agatha’s cottage, Toni tried to persuade her to drink hot sweet tea but Agatha stubbornly demanded gin and tonic. “You don’t have any ice,” said Toni.

“Snakes and bastards! Who cares?” yelled Agatha.

Toni reluctantly fixed a gin and tonic. Agatha gulped it down and demanded another. “Don’t you think you ought to wait until after you’ve made your statement?” said Toni.

“No, I do not!”

To Toni’s relief, Agatha was still relatively sober when Wilkes and a detective Agatha did not recognise came to take her statement. Then Phil was questioned and explained that he had seen a heavyset man leaving Glebe Street on a bike. “I didn’t get a good look at him,” said Phil apologetically. “He had a baseball cap pulled down over his face. He was wearing grey trainers and a grey zip-up jacket. He had gloves on his hands.”

“We can only hope Mr. Dell survives the attack and can tell us who did this to him,” said Wilkes.

“Make sure there’s a police guard outside his hospital room,” said Agatha.

“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” snapped Wilkes. “You’re like the bloody angel of death, you are. Report to headquarters in the morning and we’ll have your statement printed out and ready for you to sign. The same goes for you, Mr. Marshall.”

After they had left, Toni said to Phil, “Would you wait with Agatha? I’ll go home and pack a bag. I think I should stay with her this evening.”