Dishing the Dirt Read Free

saw Agatha looking at him, he gave a half smile and raised a hand in greeting.
    Agatha finished her meal, and, on her road out, stopped at his table. “Do I know you?” she asked.
    “No, but we’re in the same profession,” he said. “I’m Clive Tremund. I’d like to compare notes. Would you like to get out of here and go for a drink? What about the Randolph? I could do with a bit of posh.”
    Along Cornmarket, he talked about how he had recently moved to Oxford from Bristol to set up his agency.
    In the bar of the Randolph, Agatha, who had taken note of his cheap suit, said, “I’ll get the drinks.”
    “I’ll be able to get you on my expenses,” he said.
    Agatha waited until the waiter had taken their order and come back with their drinks, and asked him what he had meant. “Never tell me I am one of your cases!”
    “The only reason I am breaking the confidentiality of a client,” said Clive, “is because the bitch hasn’t paid anything so far and it looks as if she isn’t going to.”
    “Would that bitch be a therapist called Jill Davent?”
    “The same. I was supposed to ferret out everything I could about you. Got your birth certificate and took it from there.”
    “I’ll kill her! Did she give a reason?”
    “She said she was about to be married to a James Lacey, your ex. Said if you had got him to marry you, she might learn something by knowing all about you.”
    “I think it’s because she’s hiding something and wants to keep me away,” said Agatha.
    “Don’t tell her I told you,” said Clive. “She may yet pay me, although I’ll probably have to take her to the Small Claims Court. She was one of my first clients.”
    “Why did you leave Bristol?”
    “Got a divorce. Didn’t want to see her with her new bloke. It hurts. Then I had to get my private detective’s licence.”
    “I’ve just got one of those,” said Agatha. “How’s business?”
    “Picking up. Missing students, students on drugs, anxious parents, that sort of thing.”
    “What did you make of the Davent woman?”
    “She seemed pretty straightforward, until I gave her the report on you, and then she was sort of gleeful in a spiteful way. I asked for my fee and she demanded more. She told me your first husband had been murdered and maybe the police had got it wrong and you did it yourself. I haven’t done anything about it. I sent her an e-mail, saying until she paid something, I couldn’t go on. She had an office in Mircester before she moved to Carsely.”
    “I’ll pay you instead,” said Agatha. “Send me a written statement about the reasons she gave for employing you.” Agatha took out her cheque book. “I will pay you now.” She scribbled a cheque and handed it over.
    “This is generous,” said Clive. “I’ll be glad not to see her again, except maybe in court. She gave me the creeps.”
    *   *   *
    As Agatha drove back to Carsely, she could feel her anger mounting. As she turned down into the road leading to the village and to Jill’s cottage, an elderly Ford was driving in the middle of the road. She honked her horn furiously, but the car in front continued on in the middle of the road at twenty miles an hour.
    Victoria Bannister was the driver. She finally saw Agatha pull up outside Jill’s cottage, and stopped as well a little way down the road. Her long nose twitching with curiosity, Victoria decided to see if she could hear what Agatha was up to.
    The window of Jill’s consulting room was open and Agatha’s voice sounded out, loud and clear.
    “How dare you hire a detective to probe into my life. Leave me alone or I’ll kill you. But before I murder you, you useless piece of garbage, I am going to sue you for intrusion of privacy.”
    Said Jill, “And that will be a joke coming from a woman who earns her money doing just that.”
    Agatha stormed out as Victoria scampered down the road to her car and this time, drove off at sixty miles an hour.

 
    Chapter Two
    Mrs. Bloxby had