Dishing the Dirt

*

Bob Dell answered the door to her. He was a tall man in his sixties with a large nose and small mouth. He was wearing a blond wig and make-up and his thin body was draped in a long flower-patterned dress. Agatha introduced herself and he invited her in.

He led the way into a sitting room. The room was dominated by a grand piano covered with a fringed shawl. There were many photographs in silver frames on side tables and the floor was covered in a Persian rug. A stuffed owl in a glass case was placed in the middle of the room. One wall was lined with bookshelves. The three-piece suite was covered in bright chintz. Agatha sat down on the sofa and he lowered himself into an armchair facing her. He had forgotten to smooth the skirt of his dress under him and so he exposed a pair of long hairy legs in tights ending in white court shoes like sauce boats.

“Are you new to cross-dressing?” asked that soul of tact, Agatha Raisin.

“I only started last year,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“You haven’t shaved your legs.”

“I hate doing it. That’s why I wear long dresses. Are you usually so rude?”

“Sorry. Just curious. You’ve heard about all those murders?”

“Yes, indeed.”

“Know anything about electronics?”

“Can barely use the computer. I hate machines.”

What you see is what you get, thought Agatha. This man is a gentle soul. But he needs help.

“Never economise on a wig,” said Agatha. “That blond bird’s nest you’ve got on your head screams fake. Phone up a firm called Banbury Postiche and get their catalogue. Aren’t you getting a course of female hormones?”

“No, I’m new to all this. Are you usually so blunt?”

“Just trying to help. Where did you get that dress?”

“It was one of my mother’s. She was very tall.”

“Won’t do. Wait a moment.” Agatha took her iPad out of her capacious handbag. “I’m just going to search for something. Ah, here we are. In Lower Oxford Street there’s a shop called Trannies Delight. All sorts of clothes and things for people like you. I’ll write it down.”

“You are very kind. I’ll go up to town tomorrow.”

Agatha stood up. Having decided Bob could not possibly be the murderer, she was suddenly anxious to leave.

But she turned in the doorway and said, “Why a village like this? Wouldn’t you be better off in London, where there must be lots of people like you?”

He smiled and said, “Oh, it would surprise you what you find in Cotswold villages. I am not alone.”

Agatha walked away, feeling a cold breeze starting up. Soon it would be autumn. As she was turning the corner of Glebe Street, she suddenly froze. She sensed evil. She looked wildly around. Then she shrugged and walked on. Her near escape from death had left her nervous.

As she walked past the general store now closed for the Sunday afternoon, she had a sudden memory of visiting the Cotswolds as a child while her drunken parents in the grotty caravan they had borrowed from a friend bitched about how boring it all was. The child, Agatha, had found it enchanting. That was the start of her lifelong dream of living in the Cotswolds. But now there was a serpent in this Garden of Eden.

A brisk wind had sprung up, chasing the grey clouds above away to the east. In her cottage, she petted her cats and let them out into the garden and then checked her phone for messages. There was only one and it was from Mrs. Bloxby. “I forgot to remind you about the baking competition next Saturday,” the vicar’s wife said. “I know you will be too busy to contribute anything but there is a Sale of Work stall and I cannot get anyone to run it. Can you help?”