Dishing the Dirt

Agatha hesitated. Then she remembered the magic of Charles’s title had been the means before of gaining good interviews. “But buy your own cigarettes,” she added as she tried to move her packet of Bensons out of his reach. She wasn’t quick enough and he extracted one and lit it.

Producing an electronic cigarette from her handbag, Agatha fiercely inhaled.

“Oh, have a real one,” urged Charles. “You may not get cancer but you’ll give yourself a hernia trying to get a hit from one of those.”

“I must give up,” fretted Agatha. “It’s so yesterday to smoke. Not to mention the smell.”

Charles blew a smoke ring and smiled lazily at her. He rose to his feet and let the cats out into the garden. “No need for the pets to suffer.”

“I thought of trying Mrs. Tweedy first. She’s reported to be very old but she may be able to tell us something about Jill. I’ll have a coffee and then we’ll take a walk up there.”

*

Mrs. Tweedy lived in a cul-de-sac at the back of the vicarage in a row of Georgian cottages. There was no bell. Agatha seized a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head and hammered with it.

The door opened and an elderly woman surveyed her. Agatha introduced herself and Charles and they were invited in. Mrs. Tweedy led them through a small dining area to her living room. The room was very dark because of the ivy which covered the windows. Flickering sunlight, shining through the ivy leaves, danced about the room, which was sparsely furnished with a three-piece suite covered in chintz and a small television set. Mrs. Tweedy was a thickset woman with grey hair and a pugnacious face. She was wearing a dress with a chintz pattern, like the furniture. Her long, gnarled fingers were covered in diamond rings. Her thick black-stockinged legs ended in a pair of tartan slippers. Her eyes were small and shrewd.

“We want to ask you for your impression of Jill Davent,” Agatha began.

“People are saying you killed her,” said Mrs. Tweedy.

“Well, I didn’t,” said Agatha. “What did you make of her?”

“Good listener. No one listens to the old these days. In fact, nobody listens to anyone these days. While you’re talking to them, all they do is wait for you to finish so they can talk about themselves.”

“Is that the only reason you went to her?” asked Charles. “To get someone to listen to you?”

“And what’s up with that, may I ask?”

“Not a thing,” said Charles. “What did you make of her?”

“Silly bitch!” said Mrs. Tweedy venomously.

“What? Why do you say that?” asked Agatha.

“Last session, I was talking about my life. I miss my brother, who died in an accident. I was living in Oxford and decided to move to the country because cities can be lonely places. Well, I was talking and her phone rang. She took it out into the hall and shut the door. I went to the door and listened. She must have been talking to a fellow because it was ‘darling this’ and ‘darling that.’ Then she came back in and said the session was over and tried to charge me. I told her to get stuffed. Never went back. I wish I had never come here. This village is creepy and you, Agatha Raisin, are one of the creepiest things about it—entertaining your fancy man here at nights.” She glared at Charles.

“You ought to make an honest woman of her.”

Before Agatha could say anything, Charles smiled and said, “You are one truly horrible woman.”

Mrs. Tweedy let out a cackle of laughter. “I like a man who speaks his mind.”

“And I hate old frumps who speak theirs!” yelled Agatha. “I’m getting out of this dump!”

As they left, they were followed by roars of laughter from the old lady.