Dishing the Dirt

Agatha led the way into the kitchen. “Take a seat,” she said, “and tell me your news.”


“I’ve been talking to Gwen,” he said. “She and Jill were friends.”

“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Agatha. “Criminals always feel comfortable in each other’s company.”

“Agatha! Gwen is a sweet woman and wouldn’t harm a fly.”

“Okay. Go on. What’s the news?”

“Gwen says that Jill told her that someone had threatened to kill her.”

“Yes, but who?”

“She couldn’t find out.”

Agatha sighed. “That doesn’t get me any further.”

“But don’t you see? It must have been one of her clients in the village.”

“Not necessarily,” said Agatha. “It could have been her ex-husband. I can’t believe that anyone in this village has the know-how to bug my cottage.”

“But there are incomers to these Cotswold villages the whole time.”

“I’ll check it out with Mrs. Bloxby. But I feel sure she would have told me if there was anyone new to the village that might fill the bill.”

“I’ve got to dash,” he said. “Maybe see you tomorrow?”

“Phone me,” said Agatha.

He gave her a warm hug.

Well, well, well, thought Agatha, after he had left. It could work out. I could be Mrs. Dretter. I wish I could be married in white. I’ve always wanted a proper wedding. She glanced at the clock and judged it too late to call on Mrs. Bloxby and decided to see her after the church service.

*

Agatha really meant to go to the service but she slept late and only arrived at the church just as the service was finishing. Quite a large number of people began to stream out. Agatha waited patiently while Mrs. Bloxby talked to various villagers. At last she approached Agatha.

“Your husband’s sermons seem to have become popular,” commented Agatha.

“It’s because he used the King James Bible and the old Book of Common Prayer,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “People come from villages all around. The old language is so comforting in a world full of uncertainties. Would you like to come to the vicarage for coffee or something?”

“Yes,” said Agatha. “I do need your advice.”

“The signs are up for the Moreton Agricultural Show,” said the vicar’s wife. “Quite sad because it means that summer is over. I hope they get good weather for it. Some years, the field has been a sea of mud.”

Agatha waited until they were both seated in the vicarage with glasses of sherry and said, “Mark Dretter called on me last night.”

“The man from Dubai?”

“Yes, him. He keeps suggesting the murderer might be someone from the village. I said I didn’t think there was anyone in Carsely with the expertise to bug my cottage and he said what about incomers. Know of anyone?”

“Only one fairly recent arrival, a Mr. Bob Dell.”

“What does he do?”

“He is retired. I believe he was a banker. He wears frocks.”

“He what?”

“He likes to dress as a woman.”

“Why didn’t I hear about this?” demanded Agatha. “A transvestite. It’s a wonder he hasn’t been driven away.”

“As a matter of fact, he is popular. Even Alf has warmed to him because he brought armfuls of flowers to decorate the church. He contributes to all sorts of charities.”

“Where does he live?”

“Badgers Loan. That Victorian villa, on Glebe Street at the back of the village store. It was owned by old Mrs. Dell, who died last year. She was ninety-four, very agile for her years. But her brain had begun to wander and she drove her motorised wheelchair right into the pond. She died of shock, they think. I’m surprised you didn’t hear about it.”

“I must have been away,” said Agatha. “I think I’ll call on this Bob Dell.”

“You won’t make remarks about his dress,” cautioned Mrs. Bloxby.

“I,” said Agatha Raisin, “am the soul of tact.”