Dishing the Dirt

Agatha gave him a succinct report without her usual exaggerations.

When she had finished, he said, “So we have a therapist with dicey credentials, who, nonetheless, must have had a strong personality to draw in quite a few clients. Can you think of anyone in the village amongst the people who consulted her who might be a murderer?”

“It can’t be my cleaner, Mrs. Simpson. Too decent and honourable. I would like it to be Victoria Bannister because she’s a malicious old cow. Mrs. Tweedy, I don’t know, but she is elderly. But my money’s on Gwen Simple. Remember her? Son put people in meat pies?”

The first course arrived and they both concentrated on eating it, Agatha finding that she was very hungry.

Then he surprised her by saying, “I could be of help to you. I have seen so many criminals. I have not yet finished my holiday. If you like, I could visit the four clients that you know of and see what conclusions I come to.”

Agatha hesitated. “I would not charge you a fee,” he said. “It would be a sort of busman’s holiday.”

Looking at him with new eyes, Agatha realised he was an attractive man. Was he married?

When the main course arrived, he turned all his attention to the food and wine, leaving Agatha to eat her dinner automatically and dream of being married to him. And wouldn’t that put Charles’s nose out of joint!

By the end of the meal, he had taken a note of the names and addresses of the three women who had consulted Jill. He had a good contact in the police in Oxford and felt sure he could find out a lot about Clive Tremund.

More than that, he paid the bill!

He escorted Agatha back to her car in the square and said he would call on her in her office on the following afternoon.

*

When she arrived home, Agatha patted her cats, fed them, and then rushed to her computer to look up Sir David Herythe. He had been married to a glamorous model but the marriage had ended in an amicable divorce.

Rats, thought Agatha, dismally looking at a photograph of the ex-wife. She was blond and beautiful. If his taste ran to arm candy, there wasn’t much hope for one middle-aged detective.

Mind you, there weren’t any children and that—

“How’s it going?” asked Charles from behind her. Agatha leapt up in alarm. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Heard about Tremund’s murder and came to hold your hand. Why are you looking up Sir David Herythe?”

“I employed him,” said Agatha, “to get me out of the clutches of Wilkes, who seems to think I go around murdering people.”

“He’s wickedly expensive,” said Charles.

Agatha switched off her computer and moved to the drinks table.

“If you’re having a nightcap,” said Charles, “get me a brandy.”

Agatha poured two goblets of brandy and handed one to Charles. She sat down beside him on the sofa.

“Listen to this, my miserly friend,” she said. “He not only paid for a very expensive dinner at the George, but he has a week’s holiday left and is going to detect for me. For nothing!”

“Oh, do be careful, Aggie. He tears people apart.”

“That’s his job. He prosecutes people.”

“I’m not talking about his behaviour in court. I’ve met him before at several parties. He befriends someone, usually a woman, and when his interest dies, he mocks her in public.”

Agatha felt a qualm of unease. Then she rallied. “Look, I need all the help I can get.”

*

The next morning, Agatha, who had gone up to bed telling Charles to lock up on his way out, was irritated to find him sitting at the breakfast table. What if David should drop by?

“I thought you had left,” she said grumpily.

“I’m bored,” said Charles, lifting Hodge off his knee. “I thought I’d join you in a bit of detecting.”