Dishing the Dirt

“These are for you.”


Agatha was just reaching for the bouquet when Toni shrieked, “Don’t touch it. You, boy, drop it on the floor.”

Startled, the boy did as he was told.

“Look at the flowers,” said Toni. “That looks like monkshood.”

“Who gave you those flowers?” asked Agatha.

The boy was small and fair-haired. “It was a big chap. He gave me ten pounds to deliver them.”

The flowers were wrapped in gold paper. “Did you touch the flowers anywhere?” Patrick asked the boy.

“N-no.”

“The stems are wrapped up so he should be all right,” said Patrick. “I’ll call the police.”

“What’s your name?” Agatha asked the boy.

“Jimmy Martin, miss.”

“Look, Jimmy, go into the toilet over there and wash your hands thoroughly. That bouquet may be poisonous. You’ll need to wait here. The police will want to interview you.”

“Like in the fillums?”

“Just like that.”

“Wicked!”

*

There was a long delay, waiting for the boy’s mother to arrive before he could be interviewed. His description of the big man who had given him the flowers was vague. But it had taken place at the corner of market square, which was covered by a video camera. Not for the first time, Agatha fretted at not having the powers of the police. She would dearly have loved to have a look at the videotape.

When it was all over, and the boy had been taken home by his mother, Charles strolled in.

Agatha told him about the latest development. The usually urbane and unflappable Charles looked worried. “So you’re the killer’s new target. You’d better take a holiday, Agatha.”

“Not me,” said Agatha. “Patrick, take money out of the petty cash and stand drinks for your old police buddies and find out what’s on that video.”

“Too soon,” said Patrick. “Give it a few hours. I’ll get on with that divorce case and then I’ll let you know if I find out anything.”

“So, Charles,” said Agatha, “how did you get on?”

“Wilkes was really nasty,” said Charles. “The press are breathing down his neck. He all but accused me outright. Come on, Aggie. I could do with a drink.”

“Too early.”

“The sun is over the poop deck or whatever.”

“Wait until I arrange things here. What have we got, Toni?”

“Simon and I have that missing girl. Patrick’s got his divorce case and Phil is going with him to take pictures. And you forgot about yourself. So you have some free time.”

“All right, Charles,” said Agatha. “One drink and then I’ll get back here and go through my notes.”

*

In the pub, Agatha surveyed Charles over the rim of her glass. There he sat, impeccably tailored and barbered, as if they had never known a few nights of passion. Agatha’s hands began to shake and she carefully put her glass down on the table. “Take a deep breath,” said Charles. “It’s not every day someone tries to kill you, although it sometimes begins to look like that. Be sensible. Go away for a long holiday. Leave it to the police for once.”

“It would haunt me,” said Agatha. She carefully lifted her glass again and took a swig of gin and tonic. “There must be something in Jill Davent’s past. I find my mind has been blocked by Gwen Simple. I want her to be guilty. I feel she got away with murder. So who else have I got? There are the ones in the village who consulted Jill. Bannister’s a vicious old bitch but I can’t see her as a murderer. Doris wouldn’t harm a fly and Mrs. Tweedy’s too old. I took a note of Jill’s old address in Mircester. I think I’ll go there and ferret around. There must be some reason she moved to Carsely. Why leave a big town where she could have found many more clients? She paused. “Why were the police questioning you?”

“I threatened to kill Herythe and was overheard.”