Dishing the Dirt

“I am Mark Dretter. I have just taken a cottage in Ancombe.”


“Look,” said Agatha, wishing she had worn low heels because the straps of her high-heeled sandals were beginning to become uncomfortable, “I’m tired of standing in the heat. Can we talk somewhere more comfortable?”

“Why not? I only met Gwen today when she called on me and invited me to her party. Where do you suggest?”

“I can drive you to the pub in Carsely and we can talk there.”

“You lead the way,” said Mark, “and I’ll follow you.”

*

How old is he? wondered Agatha. I think he’s about my age. He’s very good-looking and he’s got a great physique. Could he have been lying? Maybe he’s close to Gwen and wants to find out what I know. Oh, I do hope Charles doesn’t choose to make one of his sudden appearances.

At the Red Lion, they chose a table in the garden. To her surprise, he ordered a bottle of cold white wine.

“Aren’t you worried about being caught for drunk driving?” she asked. “It’s all right for me. I can leave my car here and walk home.”

“I’ll be quite safe,” said Mark. “It’s only a few miles to Ancombe and I don’t plan to get drunk.”

“Before I tell you all about it,” said Agatha cautiously, “when did you arrive back from Dubai?”

“Yesterday. I got my sister to choose a cottage in the Cotswolds for me and I wired her the money.”

“And what do you do?”

“I work at the British embassy. I’m on leave.”

“Spook?”

“Not me. Just an underling. Now let’s hear about this murder.”

“Murders,” corrected Agatha.

He listened intently as Agatha told him the whole story, ending up with Justin’s attempt on her life.

When she had finished, he said, “And I was hoping for a quiet life in an area where nothing bad happens. But it seems a bit hard to suspect Gwen just because of her awful son.”

“How did you hear about that?” asked Agatha.

“My sister told me.”

“But not about the other murders? You get the British newspapers in Dubai. You must have read something.”

“It’s all coming back to me. Yes, I did read about it. For a start, I wasn’t aware Carsely was so close and the other murders took place in Oxford.”

With one of her sudden flashes of intuition, Agatha thought, he’s lying. Gwen’s already snared him and he’s doing his best to find out what he can and report back to her.

Agatha rated her own appearance very low. It never dawned on her that this was caused by her previous bad taste in men. Those experiences that had reduced her self-worth. Suddenly she realised he was speaking.

“It seems to have started with that therapist,” he said. “The fact that when she was in Chicago, she was a hooker makes things difficult. Look at it the other way. People in this village went to Jill for counselling. Someone was afraid that Oxford detective had found out something. Then there is the barrister. Perhaps the murderer knew from your bugged cottage that he was going to be investigated and overrated his abilities. Now we come to Victoria Bannister. What was she like?”

“Bitch. Nosy. Jealous. Spinster.”

“Right. She spied on you. She may have known who went to consult Jill. Just maybe she fancied herself as a sort of Poirot and went around accusing Jill’s clients, saying, you are the murderer. If it hadn’t been for the Chicago connection, you would have concentrated on this village. I mean, wolfsbane suggests someone with a good knowledge of plants.”