Dishing the Dirt

“I’m shaky,” said Agatha. “It was really nasty.”


Wilkes came back. “The first estimate of the time of death from the liver temperature is yesterday evening, maybe between seven and midnight. The coroner will have a better idea when he checks the content of her stomach. It can’t be Davent. You’re his alibi, Mrs. Raisin.”

“Not necessarily,” said Agatha stubbornly. “I left the restaurant at nine-thirty. He would have time to get to Carsely and bump her off.”

“Highly unlikely,” said Wilkes sourly. “Now, you, Sir Charles Fraith. We’ll now have your version of events.”

Agatha envied the calm way Charles talked. He looked just as if finding a gruesome murdered body was a normal event. She had nearly gone to his bed the night before, stopping herself just in time, reminding herself that casual sex was out. But she had longed to be held and comforted. Neither James nor Charles were exactly affectionate, she thought. James was more of the “wham, bam, thank you, ma’am” type of lover. Charles was expert and yet when it was all over, he remained as much of an enigma as ever, never betraying what he really thought of her. She closed her eyes against the glare of the sun and went off into a dream of a steady, dependable man. He would have a rugged face and wear tweeds. He would potter about the garden and in the winter’s evenings, they would sit by the fire. He would be passionate and loving in bed. He—

“You’ve gone quite red, Aggie,” said Charles.

“It’s the sun,” said Agatha, opening her eyes and looking at the beautifully dressed and barbered figure that was Charles.

The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” said Alice.

She returned, followed by Toni, Simon and James.

“James phoned us,” said Toni. “How awful, Agatha. Are you all right?”

“Surviving,” said Agatha. “We’d better move indoors. There isn’t enough room here.”

“We’re off,” said Wilkes. “Report to headquarters later today and sign your statements. And don’t speak to the press!”

*

James, Simon and Toni settled themselves in the garden chairs vacated by the police and demanded to know what on earth had been happening. James said the news of Victoria’s death had gone round the village, thanks to a policeman on duty who had been found gossiping.

Agatha wearily went over the whole thing again, including her dinner with Davent. She had just finished when there came a furious ringing at the doorbell.

“I’ll go,” said Toni.

“Look through the spy hole and if it’s the press, don’t open the door.”

When Toni came back, she said ruefully, “If you wonder why the ringing has stopped, Agatha, your friend Roy Silver is on your doorstep, holding forth.”

Agatha groaned. “James, be a darling and go and open the door and jerk him inside.”

Roy Silver had once worked for Agatha when she had run her public relations business.

James returned with a sheepish-looking Roy. To Agatha’s horror, the young man seemed to be covered in tattoos. “What a mess you’ve made of yourself,” she said. “Do you know that when that fad dies, you’ll be left with a large bill for cosmetic surgery to get all that removed?”

They all stared at the spider decorating his neck and the swirling multicoloured tattoos of snakes up his arms. “It washes off,” said Roy sulkily. “It’s the thing. I’m doing PR for this boy band, Hell on Earth. They’re going to be big.”

“What did you say to the press?” demanded Agatha. “I’ve been warned not to talk to them.”

“I simply told them the truth,” said Roy moodily. “I said I had helped you with cases before and I was helping you with this one.”

“How did you know about this one?” asked Toni.