Dishing the Dirt

Unaware of what was going on, Agatha sat in her own cleaner’s cosy parlour and asked, “Why did you consult Jill Davent? I would have thought you were the last person to need a therapist.”


“I met her in the village shop,” said Doris Simpson. Her cat, Scrabble, jumped on her capacious lap and settled down to sleep. “I had been suffering with pains in my shoulders. She said it was tension and she could take the pain away. Well, the doctor couldn’t find nothing wrong so I thought I’d give it a try. She massaged my shoulders and said she was taking all my tension away. Then she not only made me cough up sixty pounds but charged me twenty for the massage oil.”

“If you are suffering from tension, you’re worried. Out with it.”

“I’m right ashamed. We decided to buy this council house, but I was overambitious, like. I’m behind with the payments and the bank is threatening to repossess.”

Agatha thought rapidly. The council houses were good solid property.

“Who would you have left it to, if you had succeeded in buying it?”

“We haven’t even made a will, Agatha. We couldn’t have children and there’s no one close.”

“Well, here’s what we’ll do,” said Agatha. “I’ll buy it, but you live in it till the end of your days. I’ll put a codicil in my will to that effect. We’ll see the lawyers and bank tomorrow.”

“But your job is dangerous! What if me and hubby outlive you? You won’t get any benefit.”

Agatha hadn’t thought of that. On the other hand, Doris was a superb cleaner and she looked after Agatha’s cats when Agatha was away.

She shrugged. “Oh, let’s go for it. Deal?”

“Oh, Agatha! You’re a saint. May you live forever.”

But out in the nighttime darkness of the Cotswolds, someone was already planning to send Agatha Raisin to an early grave.





Chapter Four

Everything seemed to grind to a halt. Spring moved into summer. Agatha could not find out the results of Mrs. Danby’s illness, except that somehow it was because she had picked up a leaf. But what type of leaf? Agatha could not understand why it was taking them so long to identify it.

The fact was, as Patrick Mulligan was at last able to find out, that the leaf had somehow become lost in the forensic lab. How?

A young forensic scientist who had gone on holiday was eventually tracked down to one of the Greek islands. At first she claimed to know nothing about it, but under the grilling of two Thames Valley detectives, who were determined not to find out that their journey had been unnecessary, burst into tears and confessed she had opened the lab window to call down to her boyfriend and several bits and pieces had blown out.

A hurried and frantic search of all the debris below that window at last revealed the little envelope blown up against a wire fence.

This Simon was also able to tell Agatha because he was in constant touch with Ruby, although, so far, he had not persuaded her to come out on a date with him.

The leaf was at last identified as coming from monkshood, a deadly killer of a plant. It was once used to kill wolves and mad dogs and was then called wolfsbane. All parts of the plant are poisonous and it doesn’t even need to be taken by mouth; the poison can be absorbed through the skin. It looks like a delphinium and the most common colour is purple.

“So are they going to exhume Herythe’s body?” asked Agatha one morning as he staff were gathered in the office.

“No point,” said Patrick. “It’s the perfect killer and the poison doesn’t stay in the body. But the police are regarding it as murder and Charles has been pulled in for questioning.”

“Why Charles, of all people?”

“Someone tipped off the police that he was heard threatening to kill Herythe in the bar of the George.”

“I’d better get round there and see if there’s anything I can do,” said Agatha.

She was about to leave when there came a tentative knock on the door. Agatha opened it and found herself faced with a small boy carrying a bouquet of flowers. “Are you Mrs. Raisin?” he asked.

“That’s me.”