Dishing the Dirt

Phil got quickly to his feet, took out a miniature camera and photographed the certificates on the wall before sinking back down to the floor and closing his eyes.

She returned and stared down at him. “With any luck, you’re dead,” she said viciously, and then left the room again. She had not even bothered to search for a pulse or even loosen his collar.

Phil got to his feet again and moved quietly into the hall. He could hear Jill’s voice in the other room, but could not make out what she was saying.

He opened the front door and walked back down the hill. He would print the photos and e-mail them to Agatha’s computer.

*

Later that evening, Agatha decided to walk up to the local pub for a drink. As she left, she saw James welcoming Jill and felt a sour stab of jealousy.

In a corner of the pub were three blond women the locals had dubbed “the trophy wives.” They were each married to rich men and were rumoured to be third or even fourth wives. They were left in the country during the week, each looking as if she were pining for London. They were remarkably alike with their trout-pout mouths, salon tans, expensive clothes and figures maintained by strict diet and personal trainers.

Do women have trophy husbands? wondered Agatha. Perhaps, she thought ruefully, that now she had no longings for James, she wanted him to be kept single so that she could bask in his handsome company, a sort of “see what I’ve got” type of thing.

The pub door opened and Sir Charles Fraith strolled in, tailored and barbered, and almost catlike with his smooth blond hair and neat features. He saw Agatha, got a drink from the bar and went to join her.

“How’s things?” he asked.

“Awful.” Agatha told him all about Jill Davent.

“So she sees you as a threat,” said Charles. “What’s she got to be scared of?”

“That’s what I’m trying to find out,” said Agatha. “I’m furious. Phil went there this evening and got some pics of her certificates. He’s sending them over.”

“I bet you’ve been playing into her hands by raging all over the place,” said Charles. “You’re an old-fashioned snob, Aggie. This is an age when people who have risen from unfortunate beginnings brag about it all over the place.”

“I am not a snob,” howled Agatha, and the trophy wives giggled.

“Oh, don’t laugh too hard,” snarled Agatha. “Your Botox is cracking.”

“You’re a walking embarrassment,” said Charles. “Let’s get back to your computer and look at those pictures.”

*

Agatha saw Charles’s travel bag parked in her hall and scowled. She often resented the way he walked in and out of her life, and sometimes, on rare occasions, in and out of her bed.

They both sat in front of the computer. “Here we are,” said Agatha. “Good old Phil. Let’s see. An MA from the University of Maliumba. Where’s that?”

“Africa. You can pay up and get a degree in anything. It was on the Internet at one time.”

“A diploma in aromatherapy from Alternative Health in Bristol. A diploma in tai chi.”

“Where’s that from?”

“Taiwan.”

“The woman’s a phony, Agatha. Forget her.”

“I can’t, Charles. She’s counselling Gwen Simple and I swear that woman helped in those murders. I’d like to see her records.”

“Oh, let’s forget the dratted woman,” said Charles, stifling a yawn. “I’m going to bed. Coming?”

“Later. And to my own bed.”

*

Agatha would not admit that she was sometimes lonely, but she felt a little pang when Charles announced breezily at breakfast that he was going home.

For the rest of the week, she and her staff were very busy and had to forget about Jill.

But by the week-end, what the locals called “blackthorn winter” arrived, bringing squally showers of rain and sleet.