Dishing the Dirt

*

Although Agatha kept busy the following day and looked forward to her date with Tris, she found she was nervous. Somewhere out there was a murderer trying to kill her. The first attempt had failed but surely the murderer would try again. Usually, she would have fretted about what to wear for her date, but fear of a lurking murderer made her concentrate on her work to try to banish fear.

She got into her car after work and reversed into a lamppost. Cursing, she got out. There wasn’t much damage. Taking a deep breath, she drove carefully to Evesham, looking all the while in the rearview mirror in case she was being followed. A man driving a BMW appeared to be tailing her closely. Agatha swung into a lay-by and waited but the BMW drove on. She suddenly wanted to forget about her date and get home to the security of her cottage, well protected by burglar alarms. She missed her cats. Although they often seemed indifferent to her, there had been occasions when, sensing her distress, they had followed her up to bed and snuggled down beside her. And where was faithless Charles?

*

At that moment, Charles, who had called on Agatha, and, finding her not at home, knocked on James’s door and asked if he knew where Agatha had gone.

James let off a diatribe about Agatha’s morals. He ended with, “And I don’t believe her when she says it isn’t a date. Just detecting.”

“Might check it out,” said Charles. “Where does this Davent live?”

*

“You’d better order for me,” said Agatha after a look at the menu. “All this is new to me.”

He signalled the waitress and ordered two vodkas. “This’ll be my limit,” said Agatha. “I don’t want to be charged with drink driving.”

“By the time you’ve got through this meal,” said Tris, “you’ll be as sober as anything. The food really mops the alcohol up.”

He ordered a thick mushroom soup to start and then to follow, bigos, a “hunter” stew full of various types of meat and sausages, cooked in sauerkraut, and a pile of potato pancakes. He wanted to order beer, but Agatha said she detested the stuff so he ordered more vodka. They talked idly of this and that, about the decline of the centre of Evesham and what had caused the death of the high streets of Britain, Agatha being lulled by the heavy food and the vodka. When he ordered yet more vodka, she didn’t protest. Agatha was tired of feeling frightened. And he was an attractive man. He couldn’t be gay. He’d been married. She fought down the voice in her head reminding her of gays she had known who were married. And did it matter a damn anyway? It was not as if she was going to spend the night with him. She began to talk about the murders and how an attempt had been made on her life.

Over the dessert of huge slices of cheesecake, he leaned across the table and took her hand. “You’re a very attractive woman, Agatha. I wish you would drop this case.”

“Why?”

“It’s too dangerous. Just drop it.”

He was staring into her eyes and his grip on her hand tightened. His voice had held a note of command.

Agatha could feel the euphoria induced by vodka and heavy food fading away. She tried to pull her hand away, but he held on to it.

“Promise me,” he said. “I am sure if you go on with this investigation, something really nasty could happen to you. He’s already tried to kill you with wolfsbane.”

Agatha jerked her hand savagely away with such force that a glass went flying. “How did you know it was wolfsbane?” she asked. “That wasn’t in the newspapers.”

“It stands to reason. Herythe was killed with wolfsbane.”

“But Jill was strangled and Clive Tremund was clubbed and drowned.”

“Don’t get mad at me,” pleaded Tris. “It was an educated guess. It was—”

“Hullo, darling. Not watching your waistline again?”