Dishing the Dirt

“Is it wolfsbane or monkshood?” asked Simon.

“Two names for the same plant,” said Toni. “I prefer wolfsbane. Sounds more murderous.” Her phone rang. She pulled it out of the pocket of her shorts. Simon heard her say, “Hullo, Agatha. What? Are you sure? Do you believe that?”

When she had rung off, she said, “It seems as if Victoria Bannister is the murderer, or so the police believe.”

“Why on earth do they think that?”

“When they pried open her dead hands, she was clutching wolfsbane. And she left a note, saying the death had been on her conscience. They found two plants in her shed with a lot of the leaves torn off.”

“I don’t believe it,” said Simon. “It’s a nasty death.”

“Agatha says she confessed to killing her neighbour’s dog. What if someone knew about that?” said Toni. “A village lady such as Victoria would not be able to face the shame. And she said ‘murder,’ not ‘murders.’ Can you imagine Victoria even killing Tremund and dumping him in the river? It’s ridiculous. But, believe me, the police have been under a lot of pressure from the media. They won’t want any other solution. Oh, there’s Gwen in the doorway. Let’s look at her garden anyway.”

Gwen still looked as if she had stepped down from a mediaeval painting from her dead-white face, long nose and thick eyelids shielding brown eyes. She was wearing a long silk summer gown in a swirling pattern of green and gold.

She stood very still, watching them as they entered the garden and made their way from plant to plant to bush to flower.

“Gwen gives me the creeps,” whispered Simon, “but she wouldn’t have the strength, say, to murder Tremund.”

“That one could charm a man into doing it for her,” said Toni.

Gwen had moved into the garden and was speaking to a large muscular man.

He approached Toni and Simon and growled, “Get lost. Mrs. Simple has had enough of you detectives making her life a misery. Get out or I’ll throw you out!”

“See what I mean?” said Toni when they had beaten a retreat.

*

As Roy Silver sat in Agatha’s living room that evening, desperately switching from news channel to news channel in the hope of seeing himself talking to the press and failing to find anything, Simon was arriving at Ruby’s house in Oxford.

He had an engagement ring in his pocket and was clutching a large bouquet of roses.

Ruby answered the door but turned her face away to avoid a kiss. “I’ve heard the news,” she said curtly. “Case solved. This is not a good evening, Simon. I’ve had a hard day and I’m pretty tired. Can we take a rain check?”

“The case isn’t solved by a long shot,” said Simon, looking hurt and disappointed. Two children appeared behind Ruby and stared at him with flat eyes.

“What? Come in, sit down,” said Ruby, suddenly smiling. “What do you mean it’s not solved?”

She led him into the kitchen. Simon, although she had originally invited him for dinner, noticed gloomily that there were no signs of cooking.

The boy, Jonathan, said, “Have you brought us presents?”

“Sorry,” said Simon.

“Go and watch television,” ordered Ruby. “You can have half an hour before bed.”

They trailed off. “Now,” said Ruby eagerly. “What’s all this?”

Simon told her about Victoria killing the neighbour’s dog and said that Agatha was sure someone had threatened to expose her, left her the wolfsbane, and Victoria had committed suicide or that she had been forced into leaving the note.

Ruby rose from the kitchen table and came back with a notebook and began to write busily. Simon felt he was back in the interrogation room as she asked question after question. At last she leaned back in her chair and smiled. “Is Agatha Raisin really clever?”

“Well, sometimes you wouldn’t think so. But she blunders about, never giving up and she’s got the most marvellous intuition.”