Dishing the Dirt

Agatha was feeling more and more attracted to Mark. But there was one thing she had to get clear. She told him about the few in the village that she knew had gone to Jill. “Why did you lie to me when you said you knew nothing of the murders? Gwen got her hooks into you when she called to invite you to her party. She told you all about her son and how this private detective was persecuting her. You were even acting as host at her garden party. Like a knight errant you probably phoned her from your car on the road here and told her you were on the case.”


He gave a reluctant laugh. “Now you’ve made me feel like a fool. Gwen told a pathetic story and I was sorry for her. I thought I was going to scare off some hard-faced bat instead of a woman with shiny hair and smelling of summer. Look here, let’s forget about Gwen and be friends.”

His hair was thick and red with threads of silver shining in the sun.

“Are you married?” asked Agatha.

“No. My poor wife died of cancer three years ago. And you?”

“Divorced. Any children?”

“No. And you?”

“None either.”

He smiled at her across the table and Agatha’s treacherous heart gave a lurch. “You didn’t answer my question. Friends?” He held his hand across the table.

Agatha shook it. “Friends,” she echoed.

“Why don’t we have dinner tomorrow night?”

“Perhaps,” said Agatha cautiously. “Give me your card and I’ll phone you. I often have to work late.”

“We haven’t drunk much of this wine,” said Mark. “I’d better get back to the party.”

“And what will you report?”

“That a charming lady such as yourself can have no evil intentions. I’ll phone you.”

*

As soon as he had gone, Agatha lit up a cigarette. The bottle was almost half full but she did not feel like drinking any more. She could feel a rising bubble of excitement. Agatha often had dreams of being married. Would she need to remove to Dubai? But then reality took over. Men such as Mark did not want to marry middle-aged women. They usually wanted some young charmer of child-bearing age. She wondered what tales of persecution Gwen was regaling him with.

A shadow fell across the table. Agatha looked up. “Drinking alone?” asked James.

“No, I had company,” said Agatha. “Get yourself a glass and you can have some of this wine before it gets too warm.”

When James returned and poured himself a glass of wine, he asked, “Have you got over your fright of having been nearly killed?”

“Mostly. I feel I should maybe rent a flat in Mircester. My cottage just does not seem safe. But I don’t like to think of my cats being stuck in a city flat.”

“Then let Doris have them.”

“Perhaps.”

“Drink is not the solution. Unlike you to order a whole bottle.”

“I didn’t order it. As I said, I had company. He’s just left.”

“Who’s ‘he,’ Agatha?”

Agatha proceeded to tell him the whole story, about how she had been caught spying on Gwen and how she had become friends with Mark.

“Go carefully,” counselled James when she had finished. “I’ve got contacts in Dubai. I’ll check on him.”

“He put an idea in my head,” said Agatha. “If Gwen has nothing to do with it, then perhaps the Oxford murders and the sophistication of bugging my house has turned me away from the people in Carsely. You know how it is these days with Cotswold villages. There are London people who only use a cottage for week-ends. Any of them you know about?”

“I’ve talked to some of the wives who are left down in the village all week, waiting for their husbands to come home at week-ends. They have to find amusement to pass the time. Going to a therapist when you don’t really need one is an ego trip. Just sit or lie there with a captive audience and talk about yourself.”

“Any particular one you can think of?” asked Agatha.

“There’s Bunty Rotherham. She’s married to Oran Rotherham, who has an electronics factory in Slough.”

“What sort of name is Oran?”

“It means pale green in Irish Gaelic.”

“Whereabouts is his house?”

“It’s just outside the village on the Ancombe road. You can’t see it from the road. There is a disused gatehouse with bricked-up windows at the foot of the drive, about half a mile from Carsely.”

“How do you know all this?”

“I was invited there to a party one week-end. They’ve got the lot: swimming pool, hot tub, tennis courts and croquet lawn.”