Dishing the Dirt

As she approached them, Gerald said, “See you later, Margaret,” nodded to Agatha and hurried off.

Other parishioners came up to talk to the vicar’s wife and Agatha rushed off, her mind racing. Yes, she really would be doing Mrs. Bloxby a favour if she could lure Gerald away.

She remembered Doris had baked her a lemon drizzle cake, which she had stored in her kitchen freezer. She would take that to Gerald as a welcome to the village. She took it out of the freezer. It was covered in frost and as hard as a brick. She shoved it in the microwave but forgot to turn the dial to defrost. When she took it out, it appeared to have half melted over the plate. Determined not to let this setback stop her, she firmly wrapped the hot melting mess in cling film, put it in a bag and headed up to Gerald’s villa. He answered the door and stood looking down at her. “Mrs. Raisin?”

“I told you to call me Agatha,” said Agatha with what she hoped was a winning smile. “I’ve brought you a cake.”

“Dear me. What a hospitable lot you ladies are! I have so many cakes. Are you sure you don’t want to keep it?”

“No, please take it.”

“You must excuse me. I am in the middle of an important phone call. Another time?”

He took the bag from her, went in and shut the door.

Snakes and bastards, thought Agatha furiously. I don’t believe that phone call. What if he’s got Mrs. Bloxby in there?

She moved a little away, but then burning curiosity overtook her. She walked quietly up the side of his villa, hoping to be able to peer in the French windows that overlooked the garden at the back.

She moved silently up to the windows. She could see nothing in the windows except her own reflection. Agatha pressed her face against the glass and cupped her hands.

“What on earth do you think you are doing?” came a harsh voice from behind her.

Agatha jumped nervously and turned round to find Gerald staring down at her. “I was in the potting shed and saw you snooping.”

“I was leaving and I thought I saw some stranger going up the side of your house. I thought I had better check,” said Agatha desperately.

“As you can see, I am all right. Goodbye.” He turned on his heel and strode back to the potting shed.

Agatha trailed miserably off. If only she had decided to work at the week-end. Now she was left with a long empty day to think about how silly she had been.

The phone was ringing when she let herself into her cottage. She rushed to answer it. It was Mrs. Bloxby. “Have you got time to drop up here?” she asked. “I want to consult you about something.”

“Sure,” said Agatha dismally. “Be right with you.”

What if Gerald told her about me snooping? thought Agatha. Or how will I handle it if she confesses to being in love with him?

At the vicarage, Mrs. Bloxby ushered Agatha into the drawing room. Agatha was too nervous to accept any offer of refreshment, saying, “What is it?”

“It’s the allotments.”

“Those strips of land outside the village?” said Agatha, bewildered.

“Yes. The problem is that they were owned by a trust which has lapsed and the land now belongs to Lord Bellington. He wants to sell the land to a developer and put a housing estate on it.”

“If he has the legal right to do so, then I cannot see what anyone can do about it,” said Agatha.

“But I wondered if you could engineer some publicity and start up a petition,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

Agatha half-closed her eyes as a horrible memory of being nearly buried alive in an allotment flooded back into her mind.

She stood up abruptly.

“I’m sorry, but quite frankly it will be a cold day in hell before I have anything to do with allotments again.”

Mrs. Bloxby stared in dismay as Agatha went out of the vicarage and off into the village.

Agatha Raisin was not to know how wrong she was and how those wretched village allotments would lead to murder.