Dishing the Dirt

“People come from all over,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “They start stocking up for Christmas because you can get a lot of things here you can’t buy anywhere else and the prices are reasonable.”


As they wandered amongst the stalls, Agatha could not see the attraction. Did people actually give wooden salad bowls for Christmas? And if you wanted a concrete frog for your garden, how did you get it home?

“I’ll find Mrs. Simple first,” said Mrs. Bloxby, “and come back and let you know if she’s with some man. I’ll meet you in the refreshment tent.”

Agatha bought a cup of tea and looked around for a place to sit down. All the tables were full. There was an elderly gentleman on his own so she went up and asked, “Is it all right if I sit here?”

“Go ahead.” He squinted up at her through thick glasses. “But it ain’t no use chatting me up. I’m spoken for.”

“Never crossed my mind,” said Agatha.

“Why?”

Agatha sighed. “You’re too old for me.”

“You ain’t hardly a spring chicken yourself.”

Agatha looked at his ancient face. “Do you mean women still chase you?”

“Like flies round a honey pot. All widders. Few of us men left down at the social club. Was married the once. Ain’t what it’s cracked up to be. Marriage, that’s wot. Nag, nag, nag, from morning till night. When my Tilly was in her coffin I could swear I could hear her, going on and on and on.”

Mrs. Bloxby came up to the table and Agatha said quickly, “Let’s go outside.”

Once outside the tent, she asked eagerly, “Anything?”

“She’s got a very beautiful young man helping her. I’m afraid it’s young Mr. Nichols.”

“Surely not. It can’t be!” exclaimed Agatha.

“I wish it weren’t.”

“I’d better have a look to make sure. No. Wait a moment. I’ve got his mobile number.”

Agatha dialled. With a sinking heart, she recognised Justin’s voice. “Don’t say my name,” she said. “I’m outside the tea tent.”

She rang off and waited anxiously, jumping nervously when Justin came up behind her and said breezily, “Hullo, Agatha. I remember you. It’s Mrs. Bloxby, isn’t it?” Agatha said, “What are you doing helping Gwen Simple?”

“I’m detecting,” said Justin. “Thought I’d lend a hand.”

“Listen! She could be a murderess. It’s not safe.”

“I think she’s all right. Mrs. Simple is very quiet and kind.”

“She’s as quiet and kind as a cobra,” hissed Agatha.

“I said I would help her, so I am going back there,” said Justin stubbornly. “I’ll phone you later.” And with that, he darted away through the crowd.

Despite the heat of the day, Agatha shivered. She had a sudden feeling of menace. But the crowds drifted back and forward, the village band played, the air was full of the smells of tea and cakes and it looked a safe, rural setting.

*

Later, while she waited for Justin to phone, Agatha worked through her notes. What if, she wondered, the murder of Ruby Carson had nothing to do with the other murders? And yet it had happened right after Simon had told her on the phone about Jill’s book being found. She sighed. Simon could hardly go detecting in Oxford where police and detectives would be working hard to find out who had murdered Ruby.

When the doorbell rang, she went to answer its summons, expecting to see Justin but it was only Charles.

“Oh, it’s you,” she said. “I was waiting for Justin Nichols.”

“The beautiful boy.”

“I’m worried about him. He’s decided to be a detective and to that end was helping Gwen sell silk flowers at the Ancombe fair.”

“She’s probably wrapped her coils around him.”

“I tried to warn him,” fretted Agatha. “Look, Charles, what do you think of this idea? What if the murder of Ruby has nothing to do with the others?”