Dishing the Dirt

“What do you mean?”


“For example, she called on me. She said it must be awful for me not to have had any children. That, you see, is a vulnerable spot. She was trying to draw me in so that I would decide to use her services. I told her I was very busy and showed her the door. Everyone has some weakness, some frailty. I do not want to spread gossip, but she has built up quite a client base. They come from villages round about as well as here. She is a very clever woman. You have been so outraged about her finding out about your background that you did not stop to wonder why she had targeted you in this way.”

*

On Monday morning, Agatha’s small staff gathered for a briefing. There was Toni Gilmour, blond, young and beautiful; Simon Black with his jester’s face; ex-policeman Patrick Mulligan; Phil Marshall, gentle and white-haired; and her secretary, Mrs. Freedman.

Agatha had decided she had given up caring about her lousy background and so she told them that somehow Jill had gone out to target her and she wondered why. “We’ve got other work to do,” she said, “but if you have any spare time, see what you can find out about her. Anyone these days can claim to be a therapist without qualifications. I can’t remember if she had any sort of certificates on her walls.”

“Why don’t I just visit her and ask her why she is targeting you?” said Phil. “She’ll deny it, but I could have a look around.”

“Good idea,” said Agatha.

“I’ll phone now and see if I can get an appointment for this evening,” said Phil.

“You’d better take sixty pounds with you,” said Agatha. “I’m sure that one will look on any visit as a consultation.”

*

Phil made his way to Jill’s cottage that evening, having secured an appointment for eight o’clock. The cottage was on the road leading out of Carsely. It had formerly been an agricultural labourer’s cottage and was built of red brick, two storied, and rather dingy looking. Phil, who lived in Carsely, knew it had lain empty for some time. There was a small, unkempt garden in the front with a square of mossy grass and two laurel bushes.

The curtains were drawn but he could see that lights were on in the house. He rang the bell and waited.

Jill answered the door and looked him up and down from his mild face and white hair to his highly polished shoes.

“Come in,” she said. There was a dark little hall. She opened a door to the left of it and ushered him into her consulting room. Phil looked at the walls. He noticed there were several framed diplomas. The walls were painted dark green and the floor was covered in a dark green carpet. The room had a mahogany desk which held a Victorian crystal inkwell, a phone and nothing else on its gleaming surface. There was a comfortable leather chair facing her and a standard lamp with a fringed shade in one corner, shedding a soft light.

Jill sat behind her desk and waved a hand to indicate he should take the seat opposite.

“How can I help you?” she asked. She had a deep, husky voice.

“I work for Agatha Raisin,” said Phil, “and it is well known in the village that you have been spreading tales about her poor upbringing. Why?”

“Because she wasted my time. Any more questions?”

“You are supposed to help people,” said Phil in his gentle voice. “You are not supposed to go around trying to wreck their reputation. Your behaviour was not that of a caring therapist.”

“Get the hell out of here!” screamed Jill with sudden and startling violence.

Phil rose to his feet, clutched his heart, grabbed the desk for support, and then collapsed on the floor.

“Stupid old fart,” said Jill. “Too damn old for the job. I’d better get an ambulance.” She picked up the phone from her desk and left the room.