Dishing the Dirt

“Why?”


Charles didn’t want to tell her that he had lost his temper when Herythe had threatened to seduce her. “Oh, he got on my nerves. I had forgotten how waspish he could be. Take someone with you to Mircester,” urged Charles. “I’ve got to go home. Got a meeting with the land agent.”

“I’ll be all right,” said Agatha. “I think I’ll be safe now.”

“But for how long?” asked Charles. “What about your cats?”

“What about them?”

“You get your milk delivered, don’t you? Little bit of poison injected into the bottle.”

“All right. I’ll take them to Doris. I swear they like her better than me. I forgot to ask you. How did you get on with the Bannister woman?”

“Nothing but spite and malice. Two sandwiches short of a picnic.”

Outside the pub, Charles paused for a moment and watched Agatha as she walked to her car. She was wearing a short linen skirt, which showed her excellent legs to advantage. He had begged Wilkes to give her police protection, but Wilkes had said brutally that he had no intention of wasting manpower on a woman who had chosen a dangerous job. Charles decided to call on her that evening, although he rationed his visits to Agatha. It was, he told himself, no use becoming overfond of a woman who was a walking obsession constantly searching for a host. Agatha’s habit of falling in love with highly unsuitable men had irritated him in the past. He wondered gloomily who the next one would be.

*

What had once been Jill’s consulting rooms was now a handbag shop. A man with a thick moustache and an even thicker Eastern European accent approached her and asked if she would like to see any of the bags.

“No,” said Agatha. She handed over her card. “I’m interested in the therapist who used to have an office here. Did you buy the premises from her?”

“No, I rent, see. Don’t know no therapist.”

“Who do you rent from?”

“Harcourt and Gentle.”

“Where can I find them?”

“In the shopping arcade.”

*

Mircester’s shopping arcade was an uninspiring place, half full of closed shops. The other half boasted chain stores and the estate agent.

Agatha pushed open the door and went in. A tall woman was sitting at a desk. She had grey hair and was wearing old-fashioned harlequin glasses. Agatha thought she looked remarkably like Dame Edna Everidge.

“Take a seat, dear,” said the woman. “You can call me Jenny. What can I do you for? That’s my little joke. We like to put our customers at ease. Some poor souls are forced to downsize and Jenny’s here to hold their poor hands. Why I remember, just the other day—”

“Stop!” commanded Agatha. “I am a private detective and would like some information about one of your previous clients.”

“Naughty, naughty! Jenny does not give out information about clients.”

“And Agatha would like to point out to Jenny that this client was brutally murdered.”

“Oh, Jill Davent! Such a tragedy. I wept buckets. I’m ever so sensitive.”

The door opened and a tubby, balding man bustled in. “It’s all right, Mother,” he said. “Thanks for minding the shop. You can go home now. Ah, here’s your nurse.”

A muscular woman came in and led Jenny away. “I’m James Harcourt,” said the man, sitting down in the chair his mother had vacated. “I don’t know how Mother got the key to this place or how she got out of the home. I locked up and went out for only ten minutes.”

“Which home is your mother in?” asked Agatha.

“Sunnydale. So what are you looking for?”

Agatha handed over her card and explained the reason for her visit.

“I really can’t tell you anything,” he said. “She took a short lease for only six months.”

“Where was she before that?”

“Some address in Evesham.”

“Would you please let me have it?”

“I gave all the documents to the police. You’ll need to ask them.”