Dishing the Dirt

by M C Beaton

  Agatha could feel the euphoria induced by vodka and heavy food fading away. She tried to pull her hand away, but he held on to it.

  “Promise me,” he said. “I am sure if you go on with this investigation, something really nasty could happen to you. He’s already tried to kill you with wolfsbane.”

  Agatha jerked her hand savagely away with such force that a glass went flying. “How did you know it was wolfsbane?” she asked. “That wasn’t in the newspapers.”

  “It stands to reason. Herythe was killed with wolfsbane.”

  “But Jill was strangled and Clive Tremund was clubbed and drowned.”

  “Don’t get mad at me,” pleaded Tris. “It was an educated guess. It was—”

  “Hullo, darling. Not watching your waistline again?”

  “Oh, Charles,” said Agatha weakly. “What are you doing here?”

  “Came to find you. The police want to talk to you again, so I thought I’d come and hold your hand. Maybe I’d better drive you. Been swilling the vodka, have you?”

  Agatha made the introductions. “I’d better go,” she said to Tris.

  “When will I see you again?” he asked.

  “I’ll phone you,” said Agatha.

  * * *

  “How on earth did you find me?” asked Agatha, as they walked to Charles’s car.

  “James told me about your interviewing Tristram Davent and knowing your predilection for unsuitable men, I went to the address James gave me and his sister told me where you were. Leave your car. I’ll take you to pick it up in the morning.”

  When Agatha was seated in the passenger seat, Charles turned to her and asked curiously, “Why aren’t you livid with me for breaking up your date with fancy pants back there?”

  “Drive on. He has to pass the car park to get to his home. I don’t want to see him again.”

  “Okay.” Charles left the car park and swung round onto Port Street.

  “It’s like this,” said Agatha. She told him what had happened in the restaurant. “It wasn’t just what he said,” she explained. “I’ve been a bag of nerves since the attempt on my life and he actually scared me.”

  “Why on earth did you agree to a date with him?”

  “I’m a detective! Remember!” howled Agatha. “I thought he might come up with some more interesting information on Jill.”

  “Be honest, Aggie. He asked you for a date and you jumped at it. Raise your standards. A man with highlights in his hair.”

  “It could be natural.”

  “Rubbish.”

  A tear ran down Agatha’s cheek. “J-just take me home and b-bugger off,” she sobbed.

  Charles swung into a lay-by and switched off the engine.

  “I didn’t mean to be so rude. Don’t cry. I’ve never seen you so rattled before. Cheer up. We’ll go to your cottage, have a drink and watch something silly on television. I know you won’t give up. So what’s your next move?”

  Agatha dried her eyes and sniffed loudly. “I’m going round the Carsely gardens tomorrow. They’re open to the public. I want to see if anyone’s got wolfsbane.”

  “If they had the stuff, they’ve probably uprooted it by now. Don’t worry. I’ll come with you. Do you know how to recognise it?”

  “I’ve Googled lots of photos. It’s sometimes called monkshood and the poison is aconite.”

  “Right. We’re on for tomorrow. But I do think you should tell Bill about your dinner. I mean, the man was threatening.”

  “Maybe,” said Agatha, but feeling she could not bear another questioning as to why she had agreed to have dinner with Davent. She was only in her early fifties. But had she fallen so low, she wondered, that she would consider any man who asked her out attractive?

  * * *

  The following day, when they set out to tour the gardens, was sunny. Great fleecy clouds were tugged like galleons across a large blue Cotswold sky by a light breeze. “Not all the gardens are open to the public, surely,” said Charles.

  “We’ll pretend we don’t know. I hope this isn’t a complete waste of time. Someone Jill got on the wrong side of in America could have followed her over.”

  “Then,” said Charles, “one would think that person, having murdered her, would clear off back to the States. Okay. There’s Tremund. But whoever our murderer is, he might have thought Tremund had dug up something. But what about Herythe and the attempt on your life? That suggests someone closer to home.”

  “Let’s try Victoria Bannister first,” said Agatha. “Now, she is deranged.”

  “Is her garden open?”

  “Don’t know. We’ll pretend it is.”

  * * *

  They made their way along the cobbled streets of the village, up past the vicarage to where Victoria lived. “Not many people about,” commented Charles. “Is it always this quiet when it is open gardens day?”

  “Probably,” said Agatha. “Mrs. Bloxby once said that they are so jealous in the village that at the beginning of the day they often don’t want to visit anyone else’s garden. Then they all turn out.”

  “Aren’t you worried that Victoria will start screaming insults at you?” asked Charles.

  “No, she got a shock when I threatened to sue her for libel.”

  “She hasn’t got a ‘Garden’s Open’ sign up on her gate,” Charles pointed out.

  “So what?” demanded Agatha, pushing the gate open.

  The little front garden of the thatched cottage was crammed with flowers. Tall hollyhocks raised their blossoms to the summer sky. White rambling roses tumbled round the low front door.

  Agatha stopped suddenly on the path and Charles bumped into her. “Look!” whispered Agatha. “Wolfsbane!”

  “You need to study those photos,” said Charles. “That’s a delphinium.”

  “Rats! I should have known it would be too easy.”

  Agatha rang the bell. “She must be out,” she said, after they had waited a few minutes. “I know, let’s go round to the garden at the back. If she comes home and catches us, we can lie and say we thought hers was one of the open gardens.”

  But when they arrived in the back garden, it showed that the flower display was all at the front. There was a shaggy lawn dominated by a clothesline. At the end of the garden was a shed. Along the back fence were two crab apple trees.

  “Let’s have a look in the shed,” said Agatha.

  “She might catch us.”

  “Don’t be a wimp. Come on.”

  “No,” said Charles firmly. “You see that garden chair up by the house? I’m going to sit on that until you are finished. If I hear her coming, I’m running away.”

  “Boneless creep!” Agatha made her way down the garden. Three large crows that had been pecking at something flew up at her approach.

  Outside the shed, what at first looked like a bundle of clothes lay on the ground. Curious, Agatha moved forward. Then she let out a high-pitched scream that brought Charles running to her side.

  The dead eyeless face of Victoria Bannister stared up at them. “The crows,” babbled Agatha. “They’ve pecked her eyes out!”

  Charles put an arm round her. “Come away. We’ll call the police. Come on, Aggie. Back away carefully or we’ll be charged with mucking up the crime scene.”

  * * *

  The police arrived. Agatha and Charles were taken outside the house to wait in a police car while the pathologist and Scenes of Crimes Operatives got to work.

  Wilkes turned up and rapped on the window of the car in which Agatha and Charles were sitting. “We’ll move down to your cottage, Mrs. Raisin,” he said, “and take your statements there.”

  Why is it so sunny? wondered Agatha bleakly. It ought to be dark and gloomy. The village looks so normal. Unaware yet of the drama, some villagers had started to trot in and out of the gardens.

  At her cottage, Agatha insisted they move into the garden, where she could smoke. Wilkes was accompanied by Bill Wong, Alice Peterson and a policewoman.

&nb
sp; “I’m amazed you are still indulging in that filthy habit,” commented Wilkes.

  “A woman has been found dead with her eyes pecked out by crows and all you can do is bitch about my smoking,” said Agatha. “Get on with it.”

  They crowded round Agatha’s garden table and the questioning began. When the grilling came to an end, Agatha told them about her dinner with Tris Davent, saying, “He scared me. I’ll bet he did it.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Wilkes. “I’ve got to make a phone call.”

  He moved off into the kitchen. “Are you all right, Agatha?” asked Bill. “You look quite white.”

  “I’m shaky,” said Agatha. “It was really nasty.”

  Wilkes came back. “The first estimate of the time of death from the liver temperature is yesterday evening, maybe between seven and midnight. The coroner will have a better idea when he checks the content of her stomach. It can’t be Davent. You’re his alibi, Mrs. Raisin.”

  “Not necessarily,” said Agatha stubbornly. “I left the restaurant at nine-thirty. He would have time to get to Carsely and bump her off.”

  “Highly unlikely,” said Wilkes sourly. “Now, you, Sir Charles Fraith. We’ll now have your version of events.”

  Agatha envied the calm way Charles talked. He looked just as if finding a gruesome murdered body was a normal event. She had nearly gone to his bed the night before, stopping herself just in time, reminding herself that casual sex was out. But she had longed to be held and comforted. Neither James nor Charles were exactly affectionate, she thought. James was more of the “wham, bam, thank you, ma’am” type of lover. Charles was expert and yet when it was all over, he remained as much of an enigma as ever, never betraying what he really thought of her. She closed her eyes against the glare of the sun and went off into a dream of a steady, dependable man. He would have a rugged face and wear tweeds. He would potter about the garden and in the winter’s evenings, they would sit by the fire. He would be passionate and loving in bed. He—

  “You’ve gone quite red, Aggie,” said Charles.

  “It’s the sun,” said Agatha, opening her eyes and looking at the beautifully dressed and barbered figure that was Charles.

  The doorbell rang. “I’ll get it,” said Alice.

  She returned, followed by Toni, Simon and James.

  “James phoned us,” said Toni. “How awful, Agatha. Are you all right?”

  “Surviving,” said Agatha. “We’d better move indoors. There isn’t enough room here.”

  “We’re off,” said Wilkes. “Report to headquarters later today and sign your statements. And don’t speak to the press!”

  * * *

  James, Simon and Toni settled themselves in the garden chairs vacated by the police and demanded to know what on earth had been happening. James said the news of Victoria’s death had gone round the village, thanks to a policeman on duty who had been found gossiping.

  Agatha wearily went over the whole thing again, including her dinner with Davent. She had just finished when there came a furious ringing at the doorbell.

  “I’ll go,” said Toni.

  “Look through the spy hole and if it’s the press, don’t open the door.”

  When Toni came back, she said ruefully, “If you wonder why the ringing has stopped, Agatha, your friend Roy Silver is on your doorstep, holding forth.”

  Agatha groaned. “James, be a darling and go and open the door and jerk him inside.”

  Roy Silver had once worked for Agatha when she had run her public relations business.

  James returned with a sheepish-looking Roy. To Agatha’s horror, the young man seemed to be covered in tattoos. “What a mess you’ve made of yourself,” she said. “Do you know that when that fad dies, you’ll be left with a large bill for cosmetic surgery to get all that removed?”

  They all stared at the spider decorating his neck and the swirling multicoloured tattoos of snakes up his arms. “It washes off,” said Roy sulkily. “It’s the thing. I’m doing PR for this boy band, Hell on Earth. They’re going to be big.”

  “What did you say to the press?” demanded Agatha. “I’ve been warned not to talk to them.”

  “I simply told them the truth,” said Roy moodily. “I said I had helped you with cases before and I was helping you with this one.”

  “How did you know about this one?” asked Toni.

  “I didn’t. But the reporters told me there had been a murder in the village, so I winged it.”

  Agatha looked sourly at his weak face and gelled hair, and at his jeans carefully torn at the knees, and said, “You look as if you’ve crawled out of a young offenders’ institute. Go upstairs and wash that muck off, or you’re not staying!”

  “That’s the trouble with you burying yourself in Peasantville,” said Roy. “You’re no longer trendy. Oh, I’m going.”

  “I think,” said Toni, “that now we are here, Simon and I should do a tour of the gardens and see if we can find that wretched flower anywhere. We can split up and—”

  “Go together,” said Agatha. “I don’t want either of you getting killed.”

  Chapter Six

  “Are you sure we shouldn’t split up?” asked Toni uneasily. Simon had been relentlessly pursuing her for a long time.

  Simon’s jester’s face crinkled up in a smile. “Relax. I’m spoken for.”

  “Who? What’s happened?”

  “I’m engaged,” said Simon triumphantly.

  “Who is she?”

  “Detective Sergeant Ruby Carson.”

  “The one from Oxford?”

  “That’s her. I can’t believe my luck. I finally got her out on a date last night. I said, joking, you know, ‘Marry me!’ And she said, ‘Yes.’”

  “Was she serious?”

  “Yes. I’m going to meet her children tonight.”

  “Children? Is she divorced?”

  “Yes, she’s got two kids, Pearl, who’s five, and Jonathan, nine.”

  Toni looked at him uneasily. “How old is she?”

  “Early forties.”

  “You’re early twenties, Simon. Oh, please don’t rush into things.”

  “I’m in love,” said Simon stubbornly. “If you’re going to be nasty about it, I don’t want to talk about it anymore. Let’s look for this damned plant.”

  “You know,” said Toni slowly, “before we start here, what about running over to Ancombe and having a look at Gwen Simple’s garden? I think, because Agatha can’t ever get anywhere with her, she’s forgotten that she should really be our prime suspect.”

  As Toni drove the short distance to Ancombe, she worried about Simon. Agatha was bad enough, falling into obsession with one man or another, but surely Simon was just as bad. He had claimed to love her more than anyone in the world before he joined the army and left for Afghanistan, only to return engaged to a female sergeant, whom he then ditched at the altar, and then had begun to pursue her again. Like Agatha, there was something not quite emotionally grown up about Simon.

  She could not imagine Simon as a stepfather. She remembered Ruby Carson to be, yes, beautiful, but highly efficient and, Toni was sure, highly ambitious.

  * * *

  At that very moment, Chief Superintendent Alistair White was admiring Ruby’s naked curves as she climbed out of bed. “I’d better collect the children from Mum,” she said. “Oh, I won’t be seeing you for a while.”

  “Why? Nobody knows about us.”

  “I know. But I’m engaged.”

  “You’re what! Who to?”

  “A young fellow called Simon Black who works for Agatha Raisin.”

  “Why on earth…?”

  Ruby came back and sat on the edge of the bed. “He works for that Raisin agency and that bloody woman has solved more cases than I’ve had hot dinners. Young Simon will keep me in the loop as to what she’s found out. Then goodbye. But in the meantime, we’ll cool it. Anyway, God forbid your missus should find out.”

  “You’re a hard woman,
Sergeant.”

  Ruby grinned. “Now, inspector sounds so much nicer, doesn’t it?”

  * * *

  Gwen Simple lived in a bungalow in the shadow of the church in Ancombe.

  “Oh, good,” said Toni, as they got out of the car. “She’s got a ‘Gardens Open’ sticker on her gate. They must be having an open day as well.”

  “She’ll think we’re still chasing her,” said Simon.

  “Too bad,” said Toni. “There are a good few people in her garden. Can’t see her. Come along.” Toni gave him a coloured photograph of wolfsbane.

  “Is it wolfsbane or monkshood?” asked Simon.

  “Two names for the same plant,” said Toni. “I prefer wolfsbane. Sounds more murderous.” Her phone rang. She pulled it out of the pocket of her shorts. Simon heard her say, “Hullo, Agatha. What? Are you sure? Do you believe that?”

  When she had rung off, she said, “It seems as if Victoria Bannister is the murderer, or so the police believe.”

  “Why on earth do they think that?”

  “When they pried open her dead hands, she was clutching wolfsbane. And she left a note, saying the death had been on her conscience. They found two plants in her shed with a lot of the leaves torn off.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Simon. “It’s a nasty death.”

  “Agatha says she confessed to killing her neighbour’s dog. What if someone knew about that?” said Toni. “A village lady such as Victoria would not be able to face the shame. And she said ‘murder,’ not ‘murders.’ Can you imagine Victoria even killing Tremund and dumping him in the river? It’s ridiculous. But, believe me, the police have been under a lot of pressure from the media. They won’t want any other solution. Oh, there’s Gwen in the doorway. Let’s look at her garden anyway.”

  Gwen still looked as if she had stepped down from a mediaeval painting from her dead-white face, long nose and thick eyelids shielding brown eyes. She was wearing a long silk summer gown in a swirling pattern of green and gold.

  She stood very still, watching them as they entered the garden and made their way from plant to plant to bush to flower.

  “Gwen gives me the creeps,” whispered Simon, “but she wouldn’t have the strength, say, to murder Tremund.”

  “That one could charm a man into doing it for her,” said Toni.