Dishing the Dirt

*

At the end of another week, Agatha had decided to take the whole week-end off. She also wondered where Charles was, but put off trying to phone him. She wondered if he had fired Gustav.

Gustav was the main reason that Charles had not contacted Agatha. The trouble was, he thought, that no one had a staff of servants anymore and Gustav did so much. Gustav swore blind that he had called the police and had even written down the name of the policeman he had spoken to. When he finally questioned Bill Wong, Charles found to his relief that Gustav had phoned, but to Mircester headquarters instead of dialling 999, and the new copper who had taken the call had mistaken Gustav’s Swiss accent for that of an East European babbling about tape recorders and so had not bothered to report it.

He called at Agatha’s cottage, and finding her not at home, decided to visit Mrs. Bloxby instead.

He found Agatha, Mrs. Bloxby and a tall man who was introduced as Gerald Devere sitting in the vicarage garden. Agatha, he noticed, was wearing full war paint and was surrounded by a cloud of heavy French perfume. Oh, dear, thought Charles. Here comes obsession number 102.

Then his curious eyes fastened on the vicar’s wife. He had never seen her wear her hair down before and she also had pink lipstick on. Surely not!

“Agatha!” said Charles sharply. “I hate to break up the party but I must talk to you in private.”

“We’re all friends here,” said Agatha, flashing a coquettish look from under heavily mascaraed eyelashes at Gerald.

“It’s private and very urgent,” said Charles.

Agatha sulkily agreed to leave with him.

“We’ll go to the pub,” said Charles. “I need a stiff drink.”

“Let’s just hope you’ve got your wallet,” said Agatha sourly.

Once they were seated in the pub, Charles said, “Back off from Gerald, Aggie.”

“Why on earth…?”

“Mrs. Bloxby’s got a crush on him.”

“Never! She wouldn’t. She’s a saint!”

“She’s human and leads a dreary life. She won’t do anything about it, Aggie, but let her have one little dream and stop jumping all over it with your stilettos.”

Agatha opened her mouth to make a sharp retort and then closed it again. She remembered that pink lipstick and the hair brushed down on the shoulders. Also, the vicar’s wife had been wearing a smart green wool dress Agatha had not seen before.

But Gerald was so, well, marriageable. And Mrs. Bloxby was married. Therefore, surely if Agatha lured Gerald away she would be saving her friend from disaster, pain and a possible broken marriage.

Charles studied the emotions flitting across Agatha’s face. “You like me as a friend, don’t you, Agatha?”

“Of course,” she said. “You’ve saved my life.”

“I don’t want your gratitude,” snapped Charles. “I just don’t want you to do anything to ruin our friendship. And competing with Mrs. Bloxby is just not on.”

“Oh, all right,” said Agatha. “If you say so.”

It was evening before Charles took himself off. Church in the morning, thought Agatha happily. Gerald’s bound to be in church.

*

The real autumn had come at last when Agatha set off for the church, more soberly dressed and made-up than usual, just in case Charles should take it into his head to check up on her to see if she was following orders. Throughout the service, Agatha spent the time arguing with the God she only believed in in times of stress about her smoking habit and how it was only a little sin. She could not spot Mrs. Bloxby but she did recognise Gerald’s tall figure.

Agatha stood outside and waited for him to emerge. He came out at last and beside him was a new Mrs. Bloxby with her hair tinted rich brown and worn in a coronet on top of her head. And she was wearing a glamorous white fun fur. Her gentle face was delicately made up.