Dishing the Dirt

When she had finished her first course, Agatha said, “But you did think it might be a village murder and that the police are wasting their time looking at the Chicago end of the business.”


“Just a feeling. Murder on such a scale would make anyone think it should be someplace like Birmingham rather than an English village. Anyway, what do you really know of that cleaner of yours?”

“Doris? Honest as the day is long.”

“And Mrs. Tweedy?”

“She may be a bitch but she’s pretty old.”

“I bet there’s someone in Carsely you haven’t even thought of.”

“I can’t believe that,” said Agatha. “Jill had consulting rooms in Mircester before she moved to the village. I wonder why she moved. More suckers to be found in a large town.”

“Maybe one of her Mircester clients threatened her,” said Mark. “Maybe that’s why she moved. Oh, here’s the steak.”

Agatha was a fast eater. Mark, on the other hand, carefully cut off small pieces of steak one at a time and chewed them thoroughly before dissecting another bit.

“I’m tired of talking about murder,” said Agatha. “Tell me about yourself.”

“Not much to tell,” he said, lifting a tiny piece of baked potato to his mouth. “Boring clerical work mostly. I might retire. There’s a neighbour of yours called James Lacey. Writes books, doesn’t he?”

“Yes, he’s my ex.”

“Didn’t work out?”

“Obviously,” said Agatha curtly.

“Well, I could do that. Write books, I mean.”

“You’d need a private income.”

“I have that.”

Agatha’s dream of Dubai faded. It wouldn’t be the same, love in a cottage. She’d tried that with James.

“Could you possibly introduce me to James Lacey?”

“Yes, I can do that.” Agatha was suddenly tired of his company. “Look, if we skip dessert and coffee, we can go now and catch him before he goes to bed.”

*

As Mark talked enthusiastically to James about his ambition to write a book, Agatha gathered that Mark wanted to write any sort of book without knowing whether it was to be fiction or nonfiction. James found out that Mark’s favourite reading was spy stories and suggested he could write one based on his experiences in Dubai. Agatha began to think there was something almost schoolboyish about Mark.

At last she yawned and said she had to go to bed. Mark reluctantly left with her and walked her to her cottage next door. To her irritation, Agatha recognised Charles’s car.

“Are you going to invite me in?” asked Mark.

“Not tonight. I’m tired.”

“We must do this again. I’ll phone you.” He kissed her warmly on both cheeks.

Agatha let herself into her cottage. Charles was asleep on the sofa with the cats on his lap. She glared at him and then went up to bed.

Would she really need to be in love with a man to get married to him? Mark was easy company. She paused. Where was the murderer now? Was she putting Mark in danger? And what about Charles and James? What about herself?

She opened her bedroom window and leaned out. A squat dark figure was just hurrying out of the lane. Agatha felt a spasm of pure dread. Whoever it was hadn’t been walking a dog. There were only two cottages in Lilac Lane, her own and James’s, and the lane ended at a field.

She rushed downstairs and shook Charles awake. “There was someone out in the lane,” she said.

Charles straightened up, spilling cats onto the floor. “So what?”

“So what reason does anyone have for coming along here?”

He got to his feet. “I’ll go and have a look.”

“No!” screamed Agatha, hanging on to him. “I don’t want to lose you.”