The Case of the Curious Curate ar-13

by M C Beaton

  “We could try that vicar, Lancing, again. I mean, he didn’t tell us at first about Binser, so he may be holding back other information.”

  “Okay,” said Agatha, “back to New Cross.”

  “I really don’t think you should keep coming round here,” said Mr. Lancing an hour later, when they were once more seated in his study. “I have told you all I know.”

  “The thing that puzzles us,” said Agatha, “is this business about the attack on Tristan. Was it reported to the police?”

  “No, it was not. Tristan became almost hysterical. He had to go to hospital and he told them there that he had suffered a bad fall. He kept saying over and over again that he wanted to get away. He seemed truly repentant about that business with Binser.”

  “Did you know he had returned the money?” pursued Agatha.

  “Yes, because he assured me he had.”

  Agatha gave a click of annoyance. “You didn’t tell us that. You let us assume he had not.”

  “I am afraid that after he had left, and on calmer reflection, I came to the conclusion that he had not. Now you tell me he did return the money, which relieves my conscience. He must indeed have been truly repentant.”

  “I doubt it,” said John. “I don’t think repentance was in his nature. I’m beginning to think the return of the money and the beating were connected. I think we should have another word with Mr. Binser.”

  But this time there was no audience with the businessman. His formidable secretary, Miss Partle, received them instead. She said that Mr. Binser was abroad on business but that he would no longer be available to answer their questions. “He has done enough, considering you have no official status,” said Miss Partle. “But as a matter of interest, what brought you back here?” John tried delicately to put the case of the beatings and the return of the money while Agatha studied Miss Partle. She was typical of an executive secretary. Plain, middle-aged, sensibly dressed with intelligent eyes behind thick glasses. Those eyes were surveying John with increasing contempt. When he had finished, she said, “I think you should keep fiction for your books, Mr. Armitage. We are not the Mafia. We do not hire people to beat anyone who annoys us. We believe in dealing with the law. And talking about the law, do the police know that you are investigating?”

  “I have helped the police in the past,” said Agatha defensively.

  “Meaning that in this case, they do not know, and I think they should be told. Please do not trouble us again.”

  On the road home, Agatha and John anxiously debated whether Miss Partle would actually tell the police. By the time John turned the car into Lilac Lane, they had come to the comfortable conclusion that she would not. Neither she nor Binser would want his friendship with Tristan exposed.

  And then they saw the police car outside Agatha’s cottage.

  They drew up and Wilkes and Bill Wong got out of the car. “Probably something else,” John reassured Agatha. But Agatha reflected uneasily that it had taken them nearly three hours to get back because of an accident on the M40 – time enough for Miss Partle to have consulted her boss and then phoned the police.

  Wilkes looked grim. “I think we should talk about this inside,” he said.

  Agatha opened her cottage door and led the way into the kitchen with her cats at her heels. She opened the kitchen door and let them out into the garden.

  “Now,” she said with false brightness, “what can I do for you? Would you like a coffee, or maybe something stronger?”

  “Sit down,” commanded Wilkes. “We have just had a certain Mr. Binser’s lawyers on the phone. Mr. Binser is making a statement which they are faxing over. As you evidently already know, he was conned out of ten thousand pounds by Delon, money which was returned. He told you this and hoped that would be the end of it because he said being tricked in such a way might bring his business judgement into disrepute. He says that as the murder took place here and had nothing to do with him, he did not feel obliged to contact us before this. He says the reason he is doing so now is that you both had the temerity to suggest to his secretary that he had hired people to beat Delon up. What all this amounts to is that you have been withholding valuable information and interfering in a police investigation. I should charge you both and arrest you. But I will admit you have been a little help to us in the past, Mrs. Raisin, so I will tell you this. You are not to conduct any more investigations into this case.”

  “If we had not found out about Binser,” said Agatha crossly, “then you wouldn’t either.”

  “Perhaps. But as far as I can judge, Binser has nothing to do with the case. He is a very powerful man with powerful friends in high places and I would like to keep my job until it is time for me to retire. Do not approach him again, do you understand me?”

  “Yes,” said Agatha meekly.

  “So what else have you found out? What else have you been keeping to yourselves?”

  Agatha was about to say, “Nothing,” but John told them all about Charlotte Bellinge. “I know she’s got nothing to do with this,” he said, “but we thought if we could get a better picture of what Tristan was really like, we could maybe discover the type of person who would kill him.”

  “Miss Jellop’s connections were all in Stoke,” said Bill, speaking for the first time. “I cannot see that she could have anything to do with such as Mr. Binser or Charlotte Bellinge. All you have done is to tread on the toes of the rich and powerful, Agatha, and, incidentally, lie to me about it.”

  Agatha turned red.

  “You will both come with us now to police headquarters,” said Wilkes, “and make full statements, and I mean full statements, and then I hope you will both get on with your respective lives and leave policing to the police.”

  “And that’s that,” said Agatha, three hours later when they emerged from Mircester police headquarters. “It’s one in the morning and I’m starving.”

  “There’s an all-night place on the Mircester bypass,” said John. “Let’s go there and go over what we’ve got.”

  “Don’t see much point in going on,” said Agatha. “And you’d better have your ring back.”

  “Not right away. I think it would be the last straw for Bill if he knew we had been lying to him about that as well.”

  The all-night restaurant was a depressing place, redolent with the smell of old grease. They collected plates of sausage, egg and chips and sat down at a window, their tired faces lit by the harsh fluorescent lighting.

  “It lets Binser out,” said John.

  “I suppose it does,” agreed Agatha. “All we did was goad him into going to the police, and if he had anything to hide and had previously used criminal means to hide it, he wouldn’t have opened up to the law. Damn! I should have trusted my first judgment. I thought he was a nice man and honest and one that was only furious that he’d been so taken in by Tristan.”

  “Which brings us straight back to the Cotswolds,” said John. “You know, that rudeness of Peggy Slither could have been to keep us away. I’ll try her tomorrow and you can see if you can get anything more out of Mrs. Tremp.”

  “And what if they phone the police?” said Agatha miserably.

  “Well, maybe not tomorrow. Tell you what, I’ll get on with my writing and you get on with whatever it is you usually get on with and we’ll let the police settle down.”

  Agatha slept late the next day and awoke feeling still tired and still guilty about having lied to Bill. She phoned John to see if he would like to join her for dinner that evening but he said he had just checked his contract and he was going to be late delivering his latest book if he didn’t get down to it. “So I’ll need to leave real-life murder for a bit. See you around. In fact, I’ve got to go up to London to see my agent and publishers tomorrow and I may stay there for a few days. All right if I leave my keys with you? Just in case there’s a gas leak or something like that.”

  “Sure,” said Agatha.

  “I’ll pop them through the letter-box tomorrow.”
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  “I’ve got to go,” said Agatha. “Someone at the door.”

  It was Mrs. Bloxby. “I heard you had the police round last night, Agatha. Anything up?”

  “Come in. It’s amazing. Someone bumps off Miss Jellop and nobody sees a thing, and yet you know I had the police here last night.” Agatha told her about Binser’s complaint.

  Mrs. Bloxby sighed and sat down and placed her battered handbag on the kitchen table. Look at her, thought Agatha, mangy old handbag, droopy cardigan, baggy tweed skirt, and yet she always appears the picture of a lady. “If only you could find out who did these dreadful murders,” said the vicar’s wife. “Nothing in the village will ever be the same if you don’t.”

  “I’m shackled at the moment,” said Agatha. “The police will be furious if I carry on, and I think they’ll charge me next time.”

  “Did you find out anything else?”

  Agatha told her about Charlotte Bellinge. “Tristan must have been furious,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Beauty, titled lady, wealth, and all snatched from him.”

  “He thought he was using her and all the while she was just using him,” said Agatha.

  “So he was probably not gay although it is so hard to tell, with all of us being such a mixture of masculine and feminine.”

  “Anyway, it appears the London end is closed.”

  “I don’t think that matters. Surely it is something to do with someone here.”

  “Tell me about Peggy Slither,” said Agatha. “Is there a Mr. Slither?”

  “She’s divorced. Her husband, Harry, was a wealthy businessman. He was having an affair. She hired a private detective and when she’d gathered enough evidence, she sued him for divorce. She already had money of her own, but she took a lot from him, including the house. He had evidently once jeered at her over what he called her vulgar taste and the minute the house was hers, she redecorated – I think – in a way that would infuriate him.”

  “I think John is going to try her again on his own. Do you know her very well?”

  “Only through charity work or when the Ancombe Ladies’ Society and our own get together. She is not popular.”

  “She evidently was with Tristan.”

  “I don’t think he really cared what women were like as long as they had money.”

  Ouch, thought Agatha, so much for my charms.

  “But,” continued the vicar’s wife, “the parish work must go on. We need some event which will raise a good sum for Save the Children. We seem to have done everything in the past – jumble sales, whist drives, fêtes, country and western dances – there must be something else.”

  “People like to gamble,” said Agatha.

  “I thought of a fishing competition.” Mrs. Bloxby opened her handbag and drew out a small yellow plastic duck with a hook in its head. “The scouts use these for fishing contests – you know, fishing lines and tanks of water and a prize for the person who hooks the most ducks.”

  “No money in it,” said Agatha. She took the duck from Mrs. Bloxby and examined it. “I’ve got an idea,” she said. “If you took the hook off and weighted the duck underneath for balance and put a cocktail stick with a flag on the head instead of the hook, you could have duck races.”

  “Duck races?”

  “Yes, you see, that would bring in the gambling element. We could ask Farmer Brent if we could use the stream on his land. We run, say, six races and get people to sponsor each race and get their name on it. John Fletcher at the Red Lion could sponsor a John Fletcher race, and so on. Have a refreshment tent. Have a gate with entrance fees. Planks laid across the stream for starting and finishing points. I’ll be bookie and get them to place bets on the ducks. Small prizes for the winners. Take the ducks back at the end of each race, dry them out and sell them again for the next one.”

  “It could work,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “We’d be awfully dependent on the weather.”

  “The long-range forecast says October is going to be a good month. Put posters up in all the villages.”

  “I’ll get to work on it,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “It will take my mind off things. You are a great loss to public relations, Mrs. Raisin.”

  “I’ll talk to Farmer Brent and get his permission, I’ll arrange the posters and publicity.”

  “Do you know what you mean to do next?” asked Mrs. Bloxby. “I mean, in finding out who committed these murders?”

  “I’ll keep digging around,” said Agatha.

  The next morning, Agatha found John’s keys lying inside her front door. She picked them up and put them in the pocket of her slacks. Perhaps, she thought, Mrs. Essex might have discovered or remembered something. I might get more out of her on my own. After a breakfast of two cigarettes and two cups of black coffee, she fed her cats and then set out for Dover Rise.

  As she was passing John’s door, she noticed a package sticking out of his letter-box. Better pop it inside, thought Agatha. Like that, it’s an invitation to thieves.

  She fished out his keys, extracted the package, picked up letters from the floor and placed them all on his desk. The phone began to ring. She stood listening to it, wondering whether to answer it when it clicked over onto the answering machine. A voice said, “John, dear, this is Charlotte Bellinge. Looking forward to seeing you for dinner tonight. Would you be a dear and bring me a signed copy of one of your books? ’Bye.”

  Agatha sat down by the desk and twisted the bright engagement ring round and round on her finger. Of course John must be investigating further, she tried to tell herself. But then she thought of the beautiful and exquisite Charlotte and shook her head dismally. It was obvious John couldn’t wait to see Charlotte again. And he hadn’t told her.

  Feeling very much on her own, she locked up and left and went to her own cottage. What of her former Watsons – Charles Fraith and Roy Silver? She would get one of them on the case with her and show John Armitage that she did not need him.

  But when she phoned Roy’s office, it was to be told he was working out of the New York office, and Charles Fraith’s aunt informed her that Charles was in Paris.

  Agatha stood up and squared her shoulders and set her mouth in a grim line. She would solve this case herself.

  ∨ The Case of the Curious Curate ∧

  7

  Agatha had decided that Mrs. Essex would have probably returned to the north before she arrived at the cottage, but Mrs. Essex herself answered the door.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said. “Come in. Maybe you can tell me what I should do with this lot. They’re down in the cellar,” she said, leading the way to a door under the stairs.

  As Agatha bent her head to follow her through the low door and down shallow stone steps, she wondered if Mrs. Essex had found something gruesome.

  “There they are,” said Mrs. Essex.

  The small cellar was full of metal wine racks stacked with dusty bottles.

  “I wouldn’t have thought your sister would be a wine collector,” said Agatha.

  “If you mean fine wines, forget it. This lot is all homemade. See!” She took a bottle out of the nearest rack. A faded white label with the inscription “Jellop’s Brew” had been stuck on the greenish glass.

  “Is it any good?” asked Agatha.

  “I never touch alcohol, so I wouldn’t know.”

  Agatha thought of the duck races. Nothing like a bit of alcohol to get the punters going. And home-made wine would not be considered sinful.

  “If it tastes all right, I could maybe take the lot off you for a church fete.”

  “What! All of it?”

  “Yes, how much would you want?”

  “If it’s for the church, you can have it. I could turn this cellar into a big kitchen. The one upstairs is like a cupboard. But you’d better try some first. We’ll take this bottle upstairs and I’ll find you a glass.”

  Agatha reflected it was a bit early in the day for alcohol. On the other hand, it was probably pretty mild.

  She led the way upstairs and M
rs. Essex followed her carrying the bottle. The living-room smelt damp and musty. “Ruby was too mean to get central heating in,” said Mrs. Essex, as if reading her thoughts. “Have a seat and I’ll get a glass.”

  At least she’s being friendly, thought Agatha. I might just find out something.

  Mrs. Essex returned with a corkscrew and a glass. She drew the cork and poured Agatha a glass of golden liquid. Agatha sniffed it cautiously. Then she took a sip. It was sweet and she normally didn’t like sweet wine, but it slid pleasantly down her throat and sent a warm glow coursing through her veins.

  “So have you found out anything relevant to my sister’s murder?” asked Mrs. Essex.

  “No, nothing. All I can think of is that Tristan told her something about somebody and that somebody found out she knew and decided to silence her. Would she keep such information to herself without telling the police?”

  Agatha took another large gulp of the wine.

  “If she did know something, she might not realize how important it was. She liked secrets and she liked power. Ruby wasn’t a nice person. I know she’s dead. But the fact is that she tormented the life out of me when we were growing up. I remember once…”

  Her voice went on, describing the iniquities of Ruby while Agatha refilled her glass, enjoying the effect of the wine. It was as if all the golden warmth of summer were surging through her body.

  She realized Mrs. Essex was asking her a question. “I beg your pardon,” said Agatha dreamily.

  “I was asking how you pass your time in this village. It seems so cut off.”

  “Oh, there’s the ladies’ society. We’re always arranging events to raise money for charity.”

  “Forgive me, but you don’t look the type to enjoy that sort of thing. Are you married?”

  “I was.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “I don’t know,” said Agatha. A dark tide of misery flooded her. She told Mrs. Essex all about James, all about how he had pretended to be taking holy orders while fat tears coursed down her cheeks. She went on to tell the bemused lady about her past, about her struggles, about her life, until she realized that somewhere in this sad tale, Mrs. Essex had gone into the kitchen, taking the remains of the bottle of wine and had replaced it with a steaming mug of coffee.