Dishing the Dirt

“But you were interested in them,” said Agatha.

“Since I retired from Oxford University, I found I liked studying people and speculating about them. I suppose that’s how I got my reputation as a gossip. What is your interest in the Tweedys? Is it anything to do with all these murders?”

“Mrs. Tweedy was a client of that therapist who was murdered,” said Agatha. “I’m just checking up on everyone.”

Said Barney, “Lavender Tweedy consult a therapist? I find that very hard to believe unless she has changed considerably.”

“What if she had some awful secret and she just had to tell someone?” said Agatha. “And what if that someone was a blackmailing therapist?”

“From what I remember of Lavender, she wouldn’t have confided in anyone,” said Barney.

“And the fire was really an accident?” asked Agatha.

“Yes, of course. Faulty wiring. It was an old house. A developer bought the ruin, knocked it down and built a couple of villas. There was a good bit of land, you see.”

“Can you remember the name of the insurance company?” asked Agatha.

Barney grinned. “You do have a nasty suspicious mind. Falcon Insurance in Cheltenham. I remember the name clearly because there was an investigator down here for quite a time.”

*

“This really is one of your more dramatic flights of fancy,” grumbled Charles as they got in the car and Agatha announced they were going to Cheltenham.

“I’ve got to follow this up,” said Agatha. “I’ve got nothing else.”

*

Cheltenham Spa in Gloucestershire has some fine Regency buildings. It has recently changed from a genteel town, famous for retired colonels and their ladies and has become a rougher place. But it still has the pump room and beautiful gardens and those magnificent terraces of white houses. Although inland, it has the air of a seaside town and one almost expects to turn a corner and see a pier.

Falcon Insurance was situated in one of these mansions. They were passed from secretary to secretary until they were told that a Mr. Brian Dempsey would see them.

Brian Dempsey was a tired-looking grey man: grey suit, grey face, grey hair.

“I investigated the Tweedy fire,” he said. “I was very thorough. Of course, all those canisters of butane gas had helped to burn everything to a crisp. The body of Anthony Tweedy was just a scorched mess.”

Charles said, “I heard it is quite easy to fake an electric fault. Shred a bit of wire and put a lit book of matches next to it and clear off.”

“How much was the house insured for?” asked Agatha.

“Eight hundred thousand.”

They were sitting in easy chairs in a well-appointed office. Agatha suddenly sat up straight, her eyes dilated. Charles thought she ought to have a lightbulb above her head.

“The body was that of Anthony Tweedy was it?” she asked.

“Who else could it be?” Brian said. “Lavender identified what was left by the remains of his watch and one of his handmade shoes had escaped most of the burning.”

“So no dental records? No DNA?”

Brian said testily, “I am very good at my job. I spent a lot of time making sure the fire was accidental. What the hell are you getting at?”

“The brother and sister hated each other,” said Agatha. “Get a load of this. What if—just what if—the body was that of Lavender, not Anthony?”

Brian laughed. “You must realise, I interviewed Lavender. One very distressed old lady. I’m not a fool, you know. Also, she was the spitting image of a photograph she showed me.”

“But they were identical twins,” protested Agatha.

Brian rose to his feet as a signal that the interview was over. “It’s been very interesting to meet you, Mrs. Raisin,” he said. “Ever thought of writing detective fiction?”

“Don’t be rude,” said Agatha. “Come along, Charles.”

*