The Case of the Curious Curate ar-13

by M C Beaton

  “Look at that dreadful advertisement,” exclaimed John, driving along the M40.

  “What? Where?”

  “We passed it. It said, ‘Only ninety-one shopping days to Christmas.’ ”

  “The shops are full of Christmas crackers and wrapping already,” said Agatha. “The adults have ruined Christmas for the children with all this commercialism.”

  “Wrong. The children have ruined Christmas for the adults.”

  Agatha looked at him, puzzled. “How do you explain that?”

  “They’ve come to expect to get exactly what they want. I know all this from friends of mine with children. Something new comes out in July, say. They clamour for it. No use saying, ‘Wait till Christmas.’ They have to have it right away because it’ll be old hat by Christmas. They don’t want surprises. They want what they demand. So there are no shining faces under the Christmas tree, radiant with surprise and gratitude. Only complaints like, ‘Why did you buy me this computer game? It’s months old.’ Greedy children and disappointed parents, that’s Christmas.”

  “But surely it’s the parents’ fault. Can’t they put their foot down and say, ‘You’ll get what we give you and nothing costing more than five pounds’?”

  “And never, ever be forgiven? It’s the kids these days who have to keep up with the Joneses. They don’t want to go back to school after the holidays and be unable to compete with the others. I’m going away for Christmas.”

  “Where?”

  “Don’t know. Stick a pin in the map.”

  “I’ll probably go away somewhere myself, but only for a short time. I don’t like leaving my cats.”

  “Your cats seem to adore Doris Simpson.”

  “They’re my cats!”

  “Possessive, aren’t you? We may as well think of going somewhere together.”

  “Why?”

  “Well, why not? Unless you prefer to go places on your own.”

  “Actually, I like my own company when I’m travelling.”

  “Suit yourself. I’ll find someone else. Look at that idiot in front, veering from lane to lane like a maniac.”

  I should grow up, mourned Agatha. It would have been nice to have company. Why did I get miffed because he didn’t say anything affectionate? Why should he? Why should I want him to?

  She ruthlessly shifted her mind onto the problems of the Carsely murders. Why had John decided that Tristan was gay? Jealousy? Agatha thought back to that dinner. She had largely blotted it out of her mind because of that final rejection. No, he had not struck her as gay. She was sure he masqueraded as one to lead women on and then rebuff them. Perhaps he had lured men on and then told them he was heterosexual. It could be that he had behaved himself while at the church in South Ken. Could he have been twisted and spoilt by his exceptional looks? Hardly. There must have been something twisted in him from the beginning.

  How did those journalists that she had been so bitchy about cope with day-to-day rejections and dead ends? Perhaps she should have been nicer to them during her career as a public relations officer. Perhaps, had she done so, she might have been even more successful.

  Agatha hardly ever questioned her own behaviour, but this rare introspection was caused by a longing to forget about the whole case. She felt obscurely that it was because John kept taking over. He didn’t have to suffer from the same setbacks as she did. People mostly recognized his name and were prepared to speak to him. And because he was a man, she thought sourly. Men investigated. Women were regarded as interfering. Had women’s lib all been a myth? All that seemed to have been achieved was that women were expected to work as well as raise families. Respect for women had gone.

  She roused herself from her meditations to realize they were approaching south Kensington and John was saying, “Look out for a free parking meter.” They cruised around until they struck it lucky. A man was just moving his car out from a parking meter two streets away from the church.

  “I hope it turns out to be someone from Tristan’s past in London,” said Agatha. “I want Carsely to go back to being its old time-warp-dull sort of place.”

  “I might agree with you,” said John, “had it not been for the murder of Miss Jellop. I hope we can find someone at the church. With all the thefts these days, a lot of these churches stay locked up.”

  Agatha looked at her watch. “It’s getting on for lunch-time. Some of them have a lunch-time service.”

  St. David’s was a small Victorian church tucked in between two blocks of flats. To Agatha’s relief, the door was standing open.

  She followed John in, noticing with irritation that John as usual was leading the way. The church was dark and smelt of incense. Agatha looked at the burning candles and at the Stations of the Cross. “Isn’t this a Catholic church?” she asked.

  “No, Church of England. Very High. All bells and smells.”

  A man in shirt-sleeves came out of a side door and approached the altar. “Excuse me,” called John.

  He approached them down the aisle. He was wearing a grey shirt and black trousers. He had a thin intelligent face.

  John introduced them and explained why they were anxious to find out all they could about Tristan.

  “I am Hugh Beresford,” he said. “I am the vicar here.”

  “And were you here when Tristan was curate?” asked Agatha.

  “Yes. I was distressed to read about his murder. So sad.”

  “What was his behaviour like when he was here?”

  “Exemplary, until…”

  “Until what?” demanded Agatha sharply.

  “I should not speak ill of the dead, although it was not entirely his fault.”

  “You’d better tell us,” said John. “We’re desperate for any morsel which might help us find out what happened to him.” At that moment a woman entered the church, sat in a back pew and then knelt down in prayer. “Is there anywhere private we can talk?”

  “Yes, follow me.”

  He led them up the aisle and through a heavy oak door at the left of the altar, down a stone passage where surplices hung on hooks, and through another door into a small wood-panelled room furnished with a plain desk and chairs. “Please sit down,” said the vicar. “I will tell you what I know, but I really don’t think it has much bearing on the case. I feel I should really not be telling you anything I have not said to the police, but as you explained, your local vicar is in danger of being falsely accused and so I suppose I should do everything to help. Now where shall I begin?”

  The room was dark and stuffy. Agatha could hear the muted roar of the traffic on the Old Brompton Road. The chair she was sitting on was hard and pinched her thighs. She was getting pins and needles in one foot and eased her bottom from side to side.

  “Tristan was a very charming young man. At first, he seemed a great asset to the parish. But I suppose having such good looks could only lead to trouble. Before I go on, you must assure me that everything I tell you is in confidence.”

  “Absolutely,” said Agatha and John nodded.

  “Right. A very attractive lady started attending the services. She started to get friendly with Tristan. Of course, other ladies in the congregation became jealous and one told me that Tristan was having an affair with this lady. I challenged him. He said they were going to be married. Now this lady was a divorcée in her late forties. I pointed out the age difference and the difference in circumstances.”

  “Such as?” asked Agatha.

  “She was very wealthy and high-class. I told Tristan he would be damned as a toy-boy. But he would not listen. I thought of reporting the matter to the bishop, but I kept putting it off. He was so very much in love, you see.”

  Agatha raised her eyebrows. “Tristan? In love?”

  “Possibly I should not have done what I did, but I called on this lady. The minute I explained the difficulties there would be for her in marrying someone so young she burst out laughing and said Tristan was a dear boy and very amusing but she had no intention o
f marrying him. I said if that was the case, she should leave him alone. She was raising hopes in him that could not be fulfilled.”

  He fell silent. Did Tristan really love this woman? wondered Agatha. Or was he dazzled with the thought of wealth and a sophisticated life?

  The vicar took up the story again.

  “In telling him that all was off and that she had no intention of marrying him, she let fall that I had been to see her. Tristan came back in a rage and accused me of ruining his life. He said he was sick of being poor.”

  “So he wasn’t really in love with her,” exclaimed Agatha. “It was her money he was after.”

  “Dear me,” said the vicar. “I never thought of it like that. Before it all came to an end, he was…glowing.”

  “And who was this woman?” asked John.

  “I really do not think I should tell you. She has moved from this parish anyway.”

  “We really will be discreet,” said John. “We are neither journalists nor the police.”

  Again the vicar fell silent.

  At last he said, “It was Lady Charlotte Bellinge.”

  “And do you know where she is now?” asked Agatha.

  “I am afraid I do not.”

  They thanked him and made their way out of the church. “So how do we find this Charlotte Bellinge?” asked John.

  “I’ve got friends in newspapers who could look up the files, but they would want to interview us about the murders. I know – Gossip magazine. I know the social editor. We’ll try her.”

  Tanya Cartwright, the social editor of Gossip, quailed when she learned that a Miss Agatha Raisin wanted to see her. Agatha had once done public relations for a businessman who wanted to break into London’s social scene. Tanya had caved in and had written him up in her column just to get rid of the terrifying Agatha Raisin. “Tell her I’m out,” she was saying to her secretary just as the door of her office opened and Agatha and John walked in.

  “Some woman’s bothering me,” she said brightly. “How nice to see you, Agatha.” She dismissed her secretary with a wave of her hand. “Take a seat.”

  John was amused. Tanya was a brittle, thin woman with a hard face, which her latest face-lift had done nothing to soften. Her eyes were disconcertingly huge. Gold bracelets dangled from one bony wrist. But she looked terrified of Agatha.

  Agatha introduced John and Tanya relaxed a fraction. “So pleased to meet you,” she said. “We must do a profile on you sometime.”

  “Delighted,” said John. “May I explain why we’re here?”

  “I’ll explain,” said Agatha harshly. She outlined the tale of the murders and then asked if Tanya knew where Charlotte Bellinge could be found. Relief that Agatha was not going to badger her to put some social-climbing nobody into her column flooded Tanya’s face. She switched on her computer. “Wait a bit. I should have an address here. She gets mentioned in the social columns quite a lot.” She moved the mouse and clicked. “Let me see. Yes, here she is. Number Twenty-five Parrot Street. It’s off the King’s Road in Chelsea.”

  “I know where it is,” said Agatha. “Thanks a lot, Tanya. We’d best be off.”

  They had just left Tanya’s office when the social editor opened her door and cooed, “A word with you, Mr. Armitage.”

  John went back in and Tanya closed the door firmly, leaving Agatha on the outside.

  John emerged after only a few moments. “What was that about?” demanded Agatha.

  “She just wanted to meet me for lunch sometime.”

  “Oh,” grunted Agatha. “She might have asked me.”

  “She’s not attracted to you,” said John with a certain air of smugness.

  They had left the car in an underground car-park. “Better leave it where it is,” said John. “I don’t want to have to drive around Chelsea looking for a parking place. We’ll take the tube to Sloane Square and walk along.”

  The King’s Road in Chelsea always reminded Agatha of her youth, when she was struggling to claw her way up the business ladder. That had been during the days when a good address mattered and she had paid an expensive rent for a flat in Draycott Gardens and had very little money left over for anything else. In the evenings, the restaurants had been crammed with trendy young people, laughing and drinking, and Agatha, on the outside looking in, would feel intensely lonely, with only her ambition to keep her warm.

  She shrugged off her memories as they turned the corner of Parrot Street. Charlotte Bellinge lived in a thin white-stuccoed house. “At least someone’s at home,” she remarked. “One of the downstairs windows is open.”

  John rang the bell and they waited. The door swung open and a young girl stood there. She had a pale spotty face, a stud in her nose and five little silver earrings in each ear. She was wearing a short tube-top exposing a pierced belly-button.

  “What?” she asked.

  “Is Lady Bellinge at home?” asked Agatha.

  “Who wants her?”

  “Here’s my card,” said John, stepping in front of Agatha. The girl disappeared, only to reappear a few moments later to say, “Come in.”

  She opened the door to a sitting-room on the ground floor and Charlotte Bellinge came forward to meet them. She was exquisite: small, dainty, perfectly groomed. Her face was unlined and her large eyes were of an intense blue. Her hair was tinted a pale shade of gold. She was wearing a loose white silk shirt and tight black trousers.

  “Now, why is a famous detective writer calling on me?” she asked.

  Agatha and John sat down and John explained the reason for their visit while Agatha felt sulkily that she was been pushed to the sidelines, again.

  “But how fascinating!” drawled Charlotte when John had finished. “Quite like one of your detective stories. I don’t see how I can help you. Tristan was a gorgeous boy and yes, he did have a crush on me.”

  “Did you have an affair?” demanded Agatha, not liking the way John was staring at Charlotte with a dazed smile on his face.

  “No, I did not. But he amused me and he was so very beautiful. He did, however, become demanding. I am not made of money.”

  “He asked you for money?” Agatha leaned forward.

  “Not in so many words. But when I took him out to some smart restaurant, he would complain his clothes were too shabby, so I paid to have him tailored and all that.” She waved one perfectly manicured little hand. “But then he began to ask for things as if he had some sort of right. So I got bored and said he ought to be going around with people of his own age and to leave me alone. He made some feeble attempt to blackmail me, threatening to tell the social columns that I had been having an affair with a curate. I told him if he did, I would sue him. I wanted to move to Chelsea anyway, so I moved and was glad to get away from him. He had become…quite frightening. I think he lived in fantasies. I think he believed I would actually marry him and he would live in the lap of luxury. He did crave the good life. I remember once when we were in a shop, he was looking at a cashmere sweater and he kept stroking it like a lover. He begged me to buy it for him and became so shrill that I did, to avoid a scene.”

  “Were you surprised when you learned he was murdered?” asked Agatha.

  “Yes, very surprised. If I had learned that Tristan had murdered someone, I would not have been nearly so surprised. So boring, all this raking over the past.” She turned a dazzling smile on John. “Do tell me about your books.”

  And so John did and at great length, while Agatha shifted restlessly. When he had finally finished, Charlotte looked curiously at Agatha. “Are you two an item?”

  Agatha opened her mouth to say they were engaged, but John said quickly, “We’re only pretending to be. You see, we didn’t want the police to know we had been up in London finding out things, so I invented the lie we were engaged to divert their suspicions.”

  Charlotte gave a tinkling laugh. “How funny! You are very amusing, John.” She picked up her handbag, opened it and extracted a card. “My mobile-phone number and e–m
ail address are there. We should meet up for dinner one evening.”

  “That would be wonderful,” said John.

  “Excuse me,” snapped Agatha. “If we could get back to the matter in hand: Did Tristan court any other women in the parish that you knew of?”

  “No.” The beautiful eyes drifted back to John. “He seemed totally wrapped up in me.”

  “Hardly surprising,” commented John. They gazed at each other and Agatha could have slapped them both.

  She stood up, stocky and militant. “We’d best be going, dear.”

  “What? Oh, yes, of course.”

  “Sophie will show you out.”

  “Your daughter?” asked Agatha.

  Charlotte let out a trill of laughter. “No, my maid. They don’t wear caps and aprons like they did in your day, Mrs. Raisin.”

  Agatha led the way. John hung back. She heard him saying, “I’ll phone you soon,” and then the amused murmur of Charlotte’s voice, “Next time leave your dragon behind.”

  “She could have done it, mark my words,” said a truculent Agatha as she stomped her way along the King’s Road.

  “Nonsense, Agatha. She wouldn’t hurt a fly. But we know one thing. Tristan was just the same sort of person in London as he was in New Cross.”

  “I suppose so,” conceded Agatha, suddenly not wanting to appear jealous. “Where do we go from here?”

  “Back to Carsely. I feel we let Peggy Slither’s nastiness put us off. Perhaps if I saw her on her own…?”

  “By all means, try,” said Agatha, thinking that John in Carsely was at least not John entertaining Charlotte Bellinge in London. “But there’s one thing we’ve been forgetting. Who attacked Tristan in New Cross? Were the police called in? I wish we could ask them.”