Dishing the Dirt Read Online Free PDF

cats, fed them, and then rushed to her computer to look up Sir David Herythe. He had been married to a glamorous model but the marriage had ended in an amicable divorce.
    Rats, thought Agatha, dismally looking at a photograph of the ex-wife. She was blond and beautiful. If his taste ran to arm candy, there wasn’t much hope for one middle-aged detective.
    Mind you, there weren’t any children and that—
    “How’s it going?” asked Charles from behind her. Agatha leapt up in alarm. “What are you doing here?” she demanded.
    “Heard about Tremund’s murder and came to hold your hand. Why are you looking up Sir David Herythe?”
    “I employed him,” said Agatha, “to get me out of the clutches of Wilkes, who seems to think I go around murdering people.”
    “He’s wickedly expensive,” said Charles.
    Agatha switched off her computer and moved to the drinks table.
    “If you’re having a nightcap,” said Charles, “get me a brandy.”
    Agatha poured two goblets of brandy and handed one to Charles. She sat down beside him on the sofa.
    “Listen to this, my miserly friend,” she said. “He not only paid for a very expensive dinner at the George, but he has a week’s holiday left and is going to detect for me. For nothing!”
    “Oh, do be careful, Aggie. He tears people apart.”
    “That’s his job. He prosecutes people.”
    “I’m not talking about his behaviour in court. I’ve met him before at several parties. He befriends someone, usually a woman, and when his interest dies, he mocks her in public.”
    Agatha felt a qualm of unease. Then she rallied. “Look, I need all the help I can get.”
    *   *   *
    The next morning, Agatha, who had gone up to bed telling Charles to lock up on his way out, was irritated to find him sitting at the breakfast table. What if David should drop by?
    “I thought you had left,” she said grumpily.
    “I’m bored,” said Charles, lifting Hodge off his knee. “I thought I’d join you in a bit of detecting.”
    Agatha hesitated. Then she remembered the magic of Charles’s title had been the means before of gaining good interviews. “But buy your own cigarettes,” she added as she tried to move her packet of Bensons out of his reach. She wasn’t quick enough and he extracted one and lit it.
    Producing an electronic cigarette from her handbag, Agatha fiercely inhaled.
    “Oh, have a real one,” urged Charles. “You may not get cancer but you’ll give yourself a hernia trying to get a hit from one of those.”
    “I must give up,” fretted Agatha. “It’s so yesterday to smoke. Not to mention the smell.”
    Charles blew a smoke ring and smiled lazily at her. He rose to his feet and let the cats out into the garden. “No need for the pets to suffer.”
    “I thought of trying Mrs. Tweedy first. She’s reported to be very old but she may be able to tell us something about Jill. I’ll have a coffee and then we’ll take a walk up there.”
    *   *   *
    Mrs. Tweedy lived in a cul-de-sac at the back of the vicarage in a row of Georgian cottages. There was no bell. Agatha seized a brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head and hammered with it.
    The door opened and an elderly woman surveyed her. Agatha introduced herself and Charles and they were invited in. Mrs. Tweedy led them through a small dining area to her living room. The room was very dark because of the ivy which covered the windows. Flickering sunlight, shining through the ivy leaves, danced about the room, which was sparsely furnished with a three-piece suite covered in chintz and a small television set. Mrs. Tweedy was a thickset woman with grey hair and a pugnacious face. She was wearing a dress with a chintz pattern, like the furniture. Her long, gnarled fingers were covered in diamond rings. Her thick black-stockinged legs ended in a pair of tartan slippers. Her eyes were small and shrewd.
    “We want to ask you for your impression of Jill Davent,” Agatha began.
    “People are