Dishing the Dirt

Dishing the Dirt by M. C. Beaton



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To Martin Palmer with many thanks for all his hard work





Chapter One

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.