Dishing the Dirt

“Ah, the dignity and grace of old age,” said Charles as they walked through the village. “Let’s visit Mrs. Bloxby and see if she’s picked up some gossip. Also, you should let Bill know about that ‘darling’ phone call. Pity we haven’t the means to trace it. I mean, if she carried the phone out it must have been on her mobile and that’ll be in the evidence locker.”


“Not necessarily,” said Agatha. “It could be one of those hands-free phones and it might still be there. If only we could break in and have a look. You can find out recent phone calls. I wonder who inherits? Wait a moment and I’ll phone Patrick and see if he’s found out anything.”

Charles wandered up to the road. People were coming and going from the village shop. It all looked like a rural idyll. In the old days, he thought, Agatha would be blamed for attracting murder and burnt at the stake.

“That’s interesting,” said Agatha, coming to join him. “Her brother inherits. He’s called Adrian Sommerville and he lives in Mircester. He’s an interior decorator and I’ve got the address.”

“Oh, well, bang goes tea and sympathy at the vicarage,” said Charles. “We’ll take your car.”

“Meaning, you’ll take my petrol, cheapskate.”

*

“You’re slipping, Aggie,” commented Charles as they approached Mircester. “You should have looked up Sommerville in the phone book.”

“Don’t tell me how to do my job,” said Agatha huffily. “I’ve got the address. I don’t need to phone. Let’s see. He’s got a business address in The Loans. That’s the lane by the abbey. We’ll park in the main square and walk.”

*

There was a brass plaque outside the door with the legend SOMERVILLE INTERIORS. A small sign said, PRESS BELL AND ENTER.

Inside, a blonde was sitting behind a reception desk. She put down a copy of House & Garden, smiled at them and asked how she could be of assistance.

Agatha performed the introductions, wishing not for the first time that she was in the police force and could just flash a warrant card.

The secretary disappeared into an interior office. They waited.

Agatha was just saying, “Do you think he’s escaped out the back?” when the blonde returned.

“Mr. Sommerville can spare you a few moments,” she said grandly, radiating disapproval from every thread of her tailored power suit.

Adrian Sommerville came as a surprise. Agatha was expecting some sort of willowy stereotype, but the man who rose to shake hands with them was dark and squat, wearing a sober grey suit, silk shirt and tie. He had a thick thatch of black hair, thick lips and designer stubble. He was seated behind an antique desk. Agatha and Charles sat down on chairs facing him. The walls of the office were decorated with photos of expensive-looking rooms.

His first question surprised Agatha. “Who is paying you?”

“No one,” said Agatha. “The murder took place in my village and I want to know who did it.”

“I hear the police suspect you.”

“Well, I didn’t murder anyone,” retorted Agatha crossly. “I wouldn’t be wasting my time otherwise.”

“Unless to throw them off the scent.”

Agatha half rose to her feet but Charles pulled her down.

“Stop being so aggressive,” he said. “Don’t you want to find out who murdered your Jill?”

“Of course I do. But it’s better to leave it to the police.”

“We’re sorry for your loss,” said Charles. “But it’s a loss you don’t seem to be grieving over. What do you plan to do with her house?”

“Sell it. Why?”

“I might like to buy it,” said Charles. “I collect properties. Hobby of mine. How much?”

“Five hundred thousand or so.”

“Rubbish,” said Charles. “A nasty little cottage where a murder has taken place? Three hundred thousand?”

“It’s not on the market yet.” Adrian’s eyes held a mercenary gleam.

“I might like to have a look at it,” said Charles.

“You own that big place in Warwickshire, don’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Give me your card. I’ll phone you when the police have finished with it. Don’t want to bother with bloodsucking estate agents, now do we?”

“Of course not.”

“So, goodbye.”

Charles could feel the volcano that was Agatha simmering beside him.

He handed Adrian his card and heaved Agatha out of her chair. “Let’s go, darling.”