Dishing the Dirt Read Free Page A

been worried ever since Agatha had told her all about Jill having paid a private detective to look into her background. The vicar’s wife felt that Mrs. Raisin should simply have asked Miss Davent why she had gone to such lengths.
    Two days after Agatha’s confrontation with the therapist was clear and quite cold. The waxy blossoms of the magnolia tree in the vicarage garden shone against the night sky where that peculiar blue moon was rising, a blue moon everyone had been told was because of forest fire in Canada.
    Mrs. Bloxby came to a sudden decision. She would visit this therapist and ask her herself.
    Mrs. Bloxby put on her old serviceable tweed coat and set out to walk through the village and up the hill to Jill’s cottage.
    She rang the bell and waited. A light was on in the consulting room. Perhaps, thought Mrs. Bloxby, a consultation was in progress and the therapist had decided not to answer the door. But having come this far, she was reluctant to leave. She banged on the door and shouted, “Anyone there!”
    Silence.
    Mrs. Bloxby walked to the window of the consulting room and peered through a gap in the curtains. She let out a startled gasp. She could see a pair of feet on the floor but the rest was masked by a desk.
    She went back to the door and tried the handle. The door was unlocked.
    Mrs. Bloxby went straight to the consulting room and walked round the desk. The ghastly distorted face of Jill Davent stared up at her. A coloured scarf had been wound tightly round her neck.
    The vicar’s wife backed slowly away, as if before royalty. Her legs felt weak and she was beginning to tremble.
    She made it outside and, fishing in her old battered leather handbag, took out her mobile phone and dialled 999.
    It seemed to take ages for the police to arrive and as she stood there the pitiless blue moon rose higher in the sky.
    Mrs. Bloxby let out a gulp of relief when she at last heard the approaching sirens.
    *   *   *
    It was only when she was back at the vicarage, having given her preliminary statement and been hugged by her worried husband, that she realised she should really phone Agatha Raisin.
    Agatha was on her road home when Mrs. Bloxby phoned. Her first reaction was, “Oh, God! I threatened to kill her!”
    “Did anyone hear you?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.
    “No. I bet it was Gwen Simple. I swear that woman’s a murderer.”
    As Agatha drove down into the village, she could see the police cars and ambulance and a little knot of villagers standing behind the police tape.
    Her friend, Detective Sergeant Bill Wong, and Inspector Wilkes could be seen waiting outside the cottage for the forensic team to do their work. Agatha parked her car up the road and walked forward to join the crowd.
    Victoria Bannister saw her approach and called out loudly, “There’s the murderer. I heard her threatening to kill her.”
    Wilkes swung round, saw the contorted accusing face of Victoria and that she was pointing at Agatha.
    “Wong,” he said to Bill, “get that Raisin woman here and whoever that woman is who’s accusing her.”
    *   *   *
    How many weary hours have I spent in this interviewing room, having questions fired at me? thought Agatha dismally. She had been taken to police headquarters and Wilkes was interrogating her.
    Over and over again, Agatha explained that she had found out that Jill had hired a private detective to ferret into her background and that had enraged her.
    “I like my unfortunate upbringing to be kept quiet,” she explained.
    “You’re a snob,” said Wilkes nastily. “My father was a porter on the railroad and my mother worked in a factory. I’m proud of them.”
    “I am sure they were sterling people,” said Agatha wearily, “but did they force you to work in a factory and then take your wages to buy booze? And did it ever cross your mind that she wanted to get me off her case? She was counselling Gwen Simple, for a start. And why did she leave Mircester?”
    “That’s