Dishing the Dirt

Agatha sank down into a garden chair and eased her tortured feet out of her sandals. “James and I went to see the Rotherhams. I think he’s a thug.”


“A very generous thug,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “He gave five thousand pounds to the village sports club and two thousand to the church repair fund.”

“I didn’t even know that house of theirs existed,” said Agatha.

“They bought it six months ago,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “It was nearly a ruin and they must have spent a fortune repairing it.”

“Do they have any servants apart from a thug called Roger?”

“They get the cleaning done by a firm in Evesham and engage a catering company if they are entertaining. He has the most peculiar stage Irish accent.”

“I wonder if he ever went to Chicago,” said Agatha.

Mrs. Bloxby leaned back in her chair and closed her eyes. She looked tired. Who would be a vicar’s wife? thought Agatha. Dogsbody, nurse, therapist, always kind, always tactful. No pay and very little thanks.

“Isn’t it nearly your birthday?” she asked.

Mrs. Bloxby opened her eyes. “It’s tomorrow.”

“Going out to celebrate?”

“I shouldn’t think so. Alf always forgets.”

“I’ve got to go. Remembered something. Don’t get up. I can see myself out.”

*

Once back in her cottage, Agatha sat down at her computer and wrote out a flier and printed off a pile of copies. The flier said, “IT IS MRS. BLOXBY’S BIRTHDAY TOMORROW. SEND A CARD TO OUR HARDWORKING VICAR’S WIFE.”

Putting on a pair of flat walking shoes, she set out round the village, shoving fliers through letter boxes until she felt too tired to go on.

Returning to her cottage, she remembered she had an unopened bottle of Chanel No. 5 that James had given her for Christmas last year. She found some fancy wrapping paper in a drawer in the kitchen and wrapped it up. Then back to the computer to send an e-mail gift card. She would leave the scent on the doorstep of the vicarage in the morning before she went to work. It was a Sunday and most of the shops now closed. She could only hope that some people in the village could manage to send birthday wishes.

*

Mrs. Bloxby was preparing her husband’s breakfast the following morning when the doorbell rang. Before she could open the door, she had to clear away a great pile of mail. When she did open the door, a florist’s van was parked outside. “You’ve got a lot of bouquets,” said the deliveryman. “I’ll carry them inside for you. You’d better move all these parcels off the doorstep so I don’t trip.”

Mrs. Bloxby stood amazed as he carried bouquet after bouquet into the vicarage.

The vicar appeared. “What’s going on here?” he demanded.

“It’s my birthday,” said his wife. “Look at all the flowers! And can you help me get all those parcels that are on the doorstep? I’ll take most of the flowers to decorate the church. How lovely. Interflora must have been working overtime.”

The vicar stood staring at his wife like a deer caught in the headlamps. Then he said, “Back in a minute.”

He rushed to his study. He had recently been at an auction with a friend and on impulse had bid for a pretty gold Edwardian brooch inlaid with moonstones and small chip diamonds. He had planned to give it to his wife on their wedding anniversary in November. It came in a red morocco leather box. He took it out of the locked drawer at the bottom of his desk and hurried back with it. His wife was reading the cards on the flowers. “Here,” he said gruffly. “Happy birthday.”

“Oh, Alf,” said Mrs. Bloxby, opening the box. “It’s beautiful. How on earth did everyone know it was my birthday?”

“I think I said something,” lied the vicar. He was suddenly sure Agatha Raisin was behind it and he was damned if he was going to let her take the credit. “Let’s get all these parcels in.”

Because the shops had been closed on Sunday, the presents were things like cakes and homemade jams.

The phone rang. Mrs. Bloxby answered it. It was Agatha to say happy birthday.