Dishing the Dirt

*

Agatha arose late next morning to find that Charles had left. Patrick Mulligan phoned her to tell her that Justin had taken poison on the road to the police station. He had died horribly. They thought it might be cyanide but were waiting for the results of the autopsy. The three officers who had been driving him to headquarters were in trouble because they had not handcuffed him. There was worse to come. The news was broken to Mr. Nichols, who had said he would identify the body. He had asked Bill Wong and Alice Peterson to wait while he changed. When they felt he was taking too long about it, they had gone up to his bedroom to find the door locked. Bill had finally managed to break it down to find that Justin’s father had hanged himself.

“Where on earth does one get a cyanide pill in this day and age?” asked Agatha. “And why didn’t they tell Charles that Justin had committed suicide instead of leaving him to worry that he might have caused brain damage?”

“Search me,” said Patrick. “In fact, the officers are also being berated for not having searched him before they put him in the car.”

When he had rung off, Agatha took a cup of black coffee into the garden and sat down and watched her cats chasing cloud shadows across the grass. The air was full of the scent of flowers. The birds were quiet as they always were in August.

Agatha finished her coffee and decided to walk up to the vicarage. With all the murder and mayhem, she had forgotten it was Sunday. People were leaving the church, stopping to shake hands with the vicar. The women in bright dresses, the happy chatter, all looked so safe. Agatha was about to turn away when she heard her name being called and swung round. Mrs. Bloxby came hurrying to meet her.

“Come back to the vicarage,” said the vicar’s wife, “and we’ll have a quiet drink and chat in the garden.”

“Won’t your husband mind?”

“Alf has got to rush off to Winter Parva to conduct another service.”

They started to walk towards the vicarage when Agatha stopped abruptly.

“What’s up?” asked Mrs. Bloxby anxiously.

“Nothing,” said Agatha. “I’m still a bit nervous.” But Agatha could have sworn that just for a moment she had sensed something evil, and then decided it must be the aftereffects of that sleeping pill.

Once in the vicarage garden, Agatha sat sipping sherry instead of her usual gin and tonic. Sherry seemed such a holy drink and surely the God that Agatha only believed existed in times of stress would approve and not send any more frights down into her life.

“What do you get out of believing in God?” she asked abruptly.

“Comfort,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

Snakes and bastards, thought Agatha, I must be going soft in the head.

“Is Sir Charles not still with you?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.

“No, he melted away like the Cheshire cat as usual,” said Agatha.

“And did James call this morning to see how you were?”

“Not him. He thinks I’m made of iron.”

“How did Charles get into your cottage?”

“In a weak moment, I sent him a set of keys. Just as well, or I’d be dead by now.”

“Have you ever considered,” said the vicar’s wife cautiously, “that Sir Charles’s pretty constant presence is stopping you from finding a suitable man?”

Agatha sighed. “I wish I could say that were the case. But only unsuitable men come my way and he’s often been there, to save me from them.” She paused. “I wonder if I should search round the village for wolfsbane.”

“The police did a thorough search for that plant, not only in this village but in all the villages round about,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Try to relax and leave it all to them.”

But when Agatha left, she felt she would never rest until she found out the identity of the murderer.