Dishing the Dirt

*

David Herythe’s cleaning woman, Mrs. Danby, let herself in the following morning. She reset the burglar alarm and went into the kitchen, hoping to be able to have a cup of tea before Mr. Herythe, whom she knew to be an early riser, descended the stairs.

She was not only able to have a cup of tea in peace but a cigarette as well. Then she began to clean the downstairs. When, by midmorning, her employer did not appear, she began to become worried. His car was in the drive. Heaving the old vacuum up the stairs and cursing her employer for being too mean to buy one of the newer, lighter ones, she left the machine on the landing and pushed open David’s bedroom door.

A shaft of sunlight shining in between a gap in the heavy curtains shone full on the twisted rictus of agony that was David’s face.

Mrs. Danby backed slowly away. She knew she should check for a pulse but she was too frightened to go anywhere near that awful death mask. She retreated to the landing and slammed the door, scrabbled in the pocket of her old trousers for her phone and called the police before going downstairs on shaky legs to cut off the burglar alarm and leave the door open.

*

Two police cars arrived, then three detectives and then the pathologist, followed closely by a forensic team, whose job it was to go over the whole house, while Mrs. Danby sat on a kitchen chair in the front garden, shivering despite the warmth of the day.

*

Agatha allowed a small television in the corner of her office to play the BBC’s twenty-four-hour news service, so long as the volume was turned low. She was just saying to Phil, “Get your cameras and we’ll try that adultery case again,” when Phil said, “Listen!” He went over and turned up the sound on the television. David Herythe’s face came up on the screen, dressed in wig and gown. “His body was found at his home in Oxford by his cleaner, Mrs. Danby,” the announcer was saying, “but the police do not suspect foul play. Preliminary reports suggest that the eminent barrister died of a massive heart attack.”

“Don’t believe it,” said Agatha. “Where’s Patrick?”

“At the supermarket, checking out the staff to see who’s been nicking the electric goods.”

Agatha phoned him and told him about Herythe. “Have you any contacts in the Thames Valley Police?” she asked.

“I’ve got one. I’ll see what I can find out.”

Agatha rang off and turned to Simon. “Find out this Mrs. Danby’s address and get over there. It must be murder.”

*

It was evening before Simon was able to track down the cleaner who lived in tower block on the Blackbird Leys council estate. The door was opened by a young woman with an improbable colour of aubergine hair, two nose rings, and holding a screaming baby.

“Mrs. Danby?” asked Simon.

“Naw, she ain’t speaking to no press, so get lost.”

“I’m not press. I’m a detective,” said Simon.

“Oh, well, that’s different. Hey, Beryl,” she called, “another of them police.”

Simon knew he should reveal his proper identity but he decided to do that as he was leaving.

He was ushered into a filthy living room, showing that some cleaners can’t be bothered with their own homes after they’ve finished cleaning someone else’s. Empty pizza boxes littered the floor, empty beer cans spilled over out of a plastic bin in the corner and old newspapers and magazines were piled up everywhere.

The woman with the baby said, “I’m off home, Mum, to get Frank’s tea. I’ll be round in the morning.”

When she had gone, Simon said, “Just a few questions, Mrs. Danby.”

“Could you give me a minute to change?” said Mrs. Danby. She raised one powerful freckled arm and sniffed her armpit. “I stink something awful.”

“Go ahead,” said Simon. When she had gone, he opened a window wide because it wasn’t only Mrs. Danby’s armpits that stank.