Dishing the Dirt

*

Once more on her own, she realised she was hungry and headed for the Red Lion. The pub had become a gastro pub, which meant the same old food with the usual gastro pub descriptions. Salads were “drizzled” with vinaigrette. There was a soup of “foraged” greens. Cheese on toast was described as “whipped goat’s curd, garden shoots and pickled alliums.” She ordered the “taste of Italy, home-cooked lasagne with hard-cut chips.” “What are hard-cut chips?” Agatha asked the landlord, John Fletcher.

“Because it’s hard to get the frozen ones out of the bag,” he said.

“And you don’t even blush,” said Agatha. “Okay, I’ll have the lasagne and a glass of Merlot.”

“You’ll be sitting outside then,” said John, “so you can smoke.”

“I’ve given up,” lied Agatha because she wanted to join the ranks of the saintly nonsmokers.

John gave her a cynical look. “Well, if you change your mind, let me know.”

“Forget the chips,” said Agatha. “I’ll have the shaved salad instead. What’s a shaved salad?”

“I prepared it while I was shaving,” said John.

“Oh, ha, so very ha.” Agatha retreated to a table. A television set was mounted over the bar with the sound turned down. Richard Dawkins, that celebrity agnostic, was mouthing away about something, no doubt trying to mess up someone’s Sunday, thought Agatha. Funny how Christianity bashing had become so fashionable. She waved to various people she knew but no one came over to her table. Agatha realised that once again the village associated her with murder. Was her conviction that somehow Gwen Simple was behind it the wrong one?

Her food arrived. It looked like the same old pub grub they had served before the fancy menus. She ate mechanically, turning over what she knew about the murders in her mind.

Agatha still felt shaken after the latest attempt on her life and had a longing to finish her meal, go home, go to bed and pull the duvet over her head. But, instead, she decided to drive to Ancombe and spy on Gwen.

*

Gwen was hosting a small party in her front garden. She was wearing an old-fashioned sort of tea gown of some gauzy patterned material, which floated about her body. Her hair was piled on top of her head. Her long thin nose and hooded eyes in her white face made her look more than ever as if she had stepped down from some mediaeval painting. Agatha stood behind a tree at the corner of the garden to shield herself from the guests. Two late arrivals walked past her and made their way into the garden.

Agatha noticed that a very handsome man was helping serve the drinks. He was as tall as James but with red hair and a tanned face. The new arrivals said something to Gwen, who looked straight at the tree behind which Agatha was hiding. She said something to the handsome man, who strode down the garden. Agatha was scurrying off to her car when he caught up with her.

“Mrs. Simple wants to know what you are doing spying on her,” he said.

“I am a private detective and—”

“So she told me. What are you doing here?”

“Mrs. Simple is one of the suspects in a detective case I am investigating.”

“The fact that her wretched son is a murderer doesn’t make her one. She is phoning headquarters to put in a claim of harassment.”

“Snakes and bastards. They’ll be down on me like a ton of bricks. When that chap nearly murdered me, they treated me as if I were a villain.”

He looked curiously down at her. The sun was shining on Agatha’s shiny hair. She was wearing a white shirt blouse with a short skirt, which showed off her excellent legs. A faint scent of Miss Dior drifted round her.

“I’ve just got back from Dubai. What’s this about you nearly being murdered?”

“Don’t you think you’d better introduce yourself?” said Agatha.