Dishing the Dirt

They passed through a hall with white walls. A curving stone staircase, also white but with a black wrought iron banister, led upwards. Then into a large room where everything seemed white from the leather sofa and armchairs to the white walls on three sides, the fourth being large windows. A coffee table held copies of the latest glossy magazines. A white nude sculpture of a woman dominated the room. The windows were open onto a terrace. The man trotted in front of them. Agatha noticed that despite the formality of his dress, he was wearing trainers. Maybe he wasn’t really a butler but some sort of strong-arm man. They walked down steps from the terrace to the back of the house where a man and a woman were sprawled in their swimming costumes on loungers beside a table. Bunty was wearing a skimpy bikini over her salon tan. Agatha realised thankfully that she was not one of the women she had insulted in the pub. Oran rose from his lounger and sat on the end of it. His chest was covered in a thick mat of black hair. He had a black beard and moustache. Even the backs of his powerful hands were hairy.

Bunty was the picture of a trophy wife from her pout mouth, collagen enhanced, to her painted toenails. “Roger,” she said, “bring chairs and we’ll all sit round the table and have drinkies.”

Had Roger really muttered a four-letter word before he turned away? He certainly didn’t seem to like taking orders from Bunty. But he came back in a few moments, pushing four fold-up chairs on a trolley. He opened them up and set them round the table. Bunty uncoiled from the lounger and sat at the table, waving a hand at Agatha and James, diamond rings flashing in the sun, to indicate they should do the same. Oran heaved his powerful bulk into another chair. “What’ll yiz be havin’ in the way o’ a drink?”

“Nothing for me,” said James. “I’m driving and I’ve already reached my limit.”

“Not for me, either,” said Agatha.

Bunty pouted and called to Roger, “Fix me a tequila.”

Roger scowled but disappeared inside the house.

“So what’s the reason for the visit?” asked Oran.

“My cottage was recently bugged,” said Agatha. “Do you or your wife know of anyone in the village with the knowledge to do it?”

His eyes were suddenly hard. “Apart from me, d’ye mean?”

“Of course,” said James quickly.

“Not a clue,” said Oran. “If that’s all you came about, you’d better clear off. Roger!”

Roger promptly appeared. “See them out,” said Oran. He returned to the lounger and closed his eyes.

“That man’s a villain, if ever there was one,” said Agatha, after she had shoe-horned herself into James’s car.

“I think he’s just a rather bluff self-made man,” said James.

“No, he’s a villain,” protested Agatha, “and that Roger is enough to give anyone the creeps.”

“Okay,” said James, swinging the car out of the drive and onto the Carsely road, “let’s say you’re right. Can you imagine him consulting Jill?”

“No, but Bunty might,” said Agatha. “She’s stuck in the country all week. You have to be pretty narcissistic to get all the body work she’s had done. Did you notice those breasts?”

“Couldn’t take my eyes off them,” said James, and Agatha glared at him.

“Silicone if I ever saw it,” said Agatha. “And that wind-tunnel face-lift. So she trots along to Jill to talk about herself and maybe talks too much about the shifty side of Oran’s business. He gets alarmed and bugs my cottage to find out what we know.”

“Agatha, I went to one of their parties and it was full of the great and the good of the Cotswolds.”

“And did anyone ask about me?”

“Several people. You are by way of being a village celebrity.”

“Did Bunty or Oran ask about me?”

“Not that I can remember. Here we are. I am sure you are sober enough to drive home.”

This time, James came round and hauled Agatha out of the passenger seat.

“I may see you tomorrow,” he said, “but I’ve got a lot of writing to do.”

Agatha remembered Mark Dretter’s invitation to dinner. “Don’t force yourself,” she said. “I’m going to be too busy.”

*

Instead of going home, Agatha drove to the vicarage, reflecting that living in the country made one lazy. In London, she had walked miles. In the country, she had developed the habit of driving even short distances.

The vicar answered the door and glared at her. He turned and walked away but he left the door open. Agatha followed him in and heard his voice shouting, “That Raisin woman is here again. Why don’t you just invite her to stay?”

Mrs. Bloxby appeared. “Oh, let’s go into the garden. The day has turned quite humid and there’s not a breath of fresh air. What can I get you?”

“Nothing,” said Agatha. “I want to talk.”