Dishing the Dirt

The air outside was heavy with the smell of roses. It was a magnificent garden with a smooth green lawn bordered by roses of every colour.

Mr. Nichols rose to meet her. He had once been a handsome man, Agatha guessed, but he now had one of those boozer’s faces which looked as if the features had been blurred. His nose was thick and open-pored, his eyes a faded blue crisscrossed with red veins. He had a large drink on the table in front of him which smelled of vodka. Poor Justin, thought Agatha. Alcoholics will drink vodka, believing it has no smell.

Mr. Nichols had a potbelly, straining at the belt of his trousers.

He stood up and shook Agatha’s hand. “Can Justin get you a drink?”

“It’s all right. I’m driving,” said Agatha. “But I wouldn’t mind a black coffee.”

“Justin,” he ordered, “tell Mrs. Frint to make a pot of coffee and bring some biscuits as well. Now, I must find out who murdered poor Ruby. I still think about her a lot. I mean, I always hoped she would come back to me.”

“You mean even after she walked out on you, you still have strong feelings for her?”

“I love her,” he said.

“First I must warn you, Mr. Nichols, that there is a dangerous murderer out there. By employing me, you may put yourself in danger. This killer managed to get into my cottage and bug it. Is Mrs. Frint your housekeeper?”

“Yes, excellent lady.”

“Then she must be told not to let anyone in the house—telephone, water, gas, anything like that even though whoever may seem to be carrying the right identification.”

The watery, red-veined eyes of the perpetual drinker looked at Agatha with all the pleading of a beaten dog. “Find who killed my Ruby,” he said.

*

Justin escorted Agatha out. He paused on the doorstep. “What about meeting for dinner one night so you can let me know if you have found anything?”

Agatha looked into those blue eyes and felt herself weaken. “We’d better meet somewhere pretty out of the way,” she said cautiously. “I don’t want the murderer coming after you.”

“What about tomorrow night? There’s the Black Bear in Moreton. Safe. Lots of people around. I could meet you there at eight o’clock.”

Agatha’s longing to have dinner with Justin fought with a dark image of murdered Herythe. Her longing won.

“All right,” she said cautiously. “I’ll make sure I’m not followed.”





Chapter Eight

Agatha left the office early the following day, planning to spend time getting ready for the dinner with Justin. Of course, he was too young to fancy her, and surely she was too old to develop feelings for such a young man.

And yet, when she let herself into her cottage and found Charles in the kitchen, she was furious. “How did you get in?” she raged.

“Doris lent me her keys. She’s worried about you being alone and so am I.”

“Well, that’s good of you,” said Agatha, mollified. “But I’m going out this evening and I don’t want you around when I get back.”

“Who are you meeting?”

“None of your business. Push off, Charles.”

“He’s too young for you.”

“I don’t know what you are talking about.” Agatha made for the stairs. “I am going to change and I don’t want you here when I get back.”

But her plan for a leisurely hour and a half had been ruined. All the while she listened but could not hear any sign of him leaving. When she eventually went downstairs, it was to find the cottage empty and Doris’s keys lying on the kitchen table.

Agatha fretted. Charles was really a good friend and had saved her so many times from sticky situations. Well, she would get him a set of keys, but after she saw how things progressed with Justin.

*