The Case of the Curious Curate ar-13

by M C Beaton

  In a halting voice, Agatha told him all about her plan to look at the papers on Mrs. Tremp’s desk and also to see what was in her computer.

  “Now, listen to me very carefully,” said Bill. “If I ever catch you doing anything like that again, I will not only have you arrested, our friendship will be at an end. I risked my job for you, Agatha. Of all the stupid things to do! This is one case you are going to leave strictly alone from now on. If you do hear of anything relevant to the case, then you are to tell me immediately. I am going to get some sleep with what is left of the night.”

  “Any news of the rambler?”

  “Lucky for you, there is. He walked into police headquarters around seven o’clock this evening – I mean, yesterday evening. Respectable computer nerd, member of a rambling society, said he liked night walking on his own occasionally. No record.”

  “Why lucky for me?”

  “If no one had turned up, it would have looked as if that faulty memory of yours had lost us the chance of getting the killer. Before I go. Why Mrs. Tremp? Did she say something you aren’t telling me about?”

  “John and I saw her earlier in the day. Tristan had taken her once to meet Peggy Slither. There’s something not quite right about Mrs. Tremp. When her husband had his fatal stroke, she sat watching him for a bit before calling the ambulance. She seemed to be…well…gleeful that he was dead.”

  “And that’s all you had to go on?”

  “I know it sounds silly, but I’ve had good hunches before.”

  “Agatha, for the last time, leave it alone.”

  “Okay,” said Agatha wearily. She saw him to the door. “Give my regards to Alice.”

  His tired face lit up. “Thanks. I will.”

  Agatha shut and locked the door behind him and set the burglar alarm. Then she crawled wearily up the stairs and stripped off her dirty clothes and threw them in the laundry basket before taking a shower and scrubbing off all the coal dust.

  Her last thought before she fell asleep was that she was actually relieved she could leave this messy and dreadful case alone.

  Next day Agatha went to a printer’s where she got a flyer she had run off on her computer enlarged. She collected two hundred copies and spent an afternoon posting them up in shop windows and on trees in Carsely and in the villages round about.

  When she returned home, John rang and said he’d be round in a few minutes.

  “I’ve been thinking,” he said as he walked in, “that perhaps we’ve been neglecting the London end. We never found out who beat Tristan up in New Cross.”

  “Forget it,” said Agatha. “I have been told in no uncertain terms to keep away from everything and anything to do with the case. And by the way, that rambler I saw was kosher. A respectable citizen.”

  “Why are you warned off? What’s been happening?”

  “I may as well tell you.” Agatha described the events of the night. John was hardly able to hear the rest of her story, he was laughing so hard. “You are an idiot,” he said finally. “Thank goodness you didn’t drag me into it. Not that I would have gone with you. But I haven’t been warned off.”

  “I should think the warning applies to you as well.”

  “So you’re just giving up? Have you ever given up before?”

  “No, but I’ve never been at such a dead end before. I tell you, John, I’m going to concentrate on these duck races and make it all a success for Mrs. Bloxby and then find something safe and pleasant to do with my time.”

  “Like what?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  “I think I’ll go back up to London,” said John, “and see what I can find out. Want to come with me?”

  Agatha shook her head. “I’ve given up.”

  ∨ The Case of the Curious Curate ∧

  9

  The day of the duck races was fine. Hazy sunshine gilded the countryside. Agatha was there early to supervise the arrangements. John had said he would join her later.

  Miss Simms was to sell programmes at the field gate. Six races were to be run. The entrance fee was one pound, but as Agatha had put a sign up on the main road saying free drinks, she was sure that the entrance charge would not deter the crowd. The free drinks were to be fruit punch laced with Miss Jellop’s wine. The bottles of wine could be bought for three pounds each. The ducks, for anyone wanting to take part in the race, were to be sold for two pounds each. One of Miss Simms’s ex-lovers, a bookie, had volunteered to take the racing bets. Agatha had donated small engraved silver cups to be given to the winner of each race. Agatha was glad the day was warm because the three men who had volunteered to start the duck races would have to stand in the stream in their bare feet to lift the restraining plank across the stream which held the ducks at the starting line.

  Agatha was glad she had trusted the weather report and had cancelled the marquee. The day set fair without a breath of wind. The sun sparkled on the rushing stream and shone on the red and yellow leaves of the trees bordering the field.

  Some of the local farmers, along with Farmer Brent, had set up tables to sell meat and local vegetables. Mrs. Tremp had two tables, one with home-made jam and the other with cakes.

  Agatha mixed fruit juice and two bottles of Miss Jellop’s wine into a giant punch-bowl, ready to be ladled into small plastic cups. The event was to start at ten. A small trickle of people began to enter the field. Agatha noticed old Mrs. Feathers. Why didn’t I think to question her about Tristan? she wondered. But deep down she knew it was because Mrs. Feathers was old and frail and Agatha was ashamed when she remembered the trouble the old woman had gone to producing that expensive dinner. More people arrived and Agatha was suddenly very busy ladling out punch and selling wine. John appeared and she appealed to him for help because a large crowd of people were demanding punch.

  Although Agatha had vowed to have nothing more to do with the case, she could not help turning over what she knew in her mind. There were noisy cheers from the stream where the races were taking place. The bookie was doing well, taking bets. After the first hour, Mrs. Tremp had sold practically everything. More and more people were arriving, drawn by the offer of free drink. Agatha began to feel marginalized. After all, she had paid for the cups. She should be the one to present them. But it was Mrs. Bloxby who was making the presentations.

  Agatha tried to console herself with the thought that the day had turned out to be a roaring success. But the press were there in force and she was getting none of the glory.

  John tugged out his mobile phone. “Won’t be moment,” he said. “Just phoning home to see if there are any messages.”

  “All right. But hurry up,” said Agatha sulkily. Then she thought about mobile phones. What had people ever done without them? A thin woman a little away from her was shouting into one. Doesn’t need a phone, thought Agatha. Her voice is loud enough to carry miles.

  And then she stood with her mouth a little open, the ladle in her hand while a customer looked at her impatiently.

  Had Tristan had a mobile phone? If he had, could someone have phoned him the night he died and threatened him? But the police would have found it and checked the numbers.

  “Are you going to give me any of that punch or not?” demanded a man in front of her.

  “Sure.” Agatha ladled some into a cup. She realized she had served the same man about five times before. The crowd was getting noisy and boisterous. Agatha, seeing the punchbowl was nearly empty, added a bottle of wine and fruit juice to fill it up again. Perhaps two bottles of the stuff had been too strong. A team of Morris dancers had just arrived in their flowered hats and jingling bells and started buying bottles of wine. “I don’t have a spare corkscrew,” said Agatha uneasily. She had not imagined that anyone would drink that lethal stuff until they got home. “Got one here,” said a red-faced Morris dancer and his friends all cheered.

  Over the Tannoy came an announcement that there would be a break for lunch. Agatha picked a placard off the ground at her feet
which said closed for lunch and placed it on the table. “Do you think anyone will pinch anything?” asked John.

  “We’ll put the bottles back in the boxes for now and tape them over.”

  The members of the ladies’ societies had set up a buffet at the far corner of the field and had laid out tables and chairs.

  Mrs. Bloxby came up to Agatha, her eyes shining. “Such a success,” she said. “We were going to confine it to six races, but we’ve decided to hold more in the afternoon and finish with the Morris dancers.”

  “What about prizes?” asked Agatha. “Surely all the cups have gone.”

  “I thought we might present each winner with two bottles of wine.”

  “Good idea,” said Agatha in a flat voice because she still thought that she should have been the one to present the prizes.

  “And seeing as the organization has been largely done by you, Mrs. Raisin, I thought it would be nice if you could address the crowd at the end.”

  Agatha brightened visibly.

  When Mrs. Bloxby had left, John said, “What now? Do we go over there and fight for something to eat?”

  “I wonder if you could get me a plate of something, John. I want to speak to Mrs. Feathers.”

  “What about?” he demanded sharply. “I thought you had given up.”

  “Just one question. I’ll tell you later.”

  Agatha began to search. Mrs. Feathers was not with the lunch crowd nor among the people still crowding in front of the farmers’ stalls, Agatha being the only one who had packed up for lunch. And then she saw her grey head bobbing along in the direction of the gate. She ran after her, shouting, “Mrs. Feathers!”

  The old lady turned around slowly, blinking in the sunlight. “Oh, it’s you, Mrs. Raisin. Lovely day.”

  “Yes, it is. We’re very lucky. Mrs. Feathers, did Tristan have a mobile phone?”

  “I was sure he had. But I must have been mistaken. He always used mine.”

  “What makes you think he had one?”

  “I went into his flat one day when I thought he was out, to change the bed linen. But he was in and he was using a mobile phone. He put it away quickly when he saw me. Later when he came down to use the phone, I asked him why he didn’t use his own phone and he said it had been a friend’s and he had returned it. It was a terrible business, that murder. It really shook me up.”

  “And Tristan never at any time said anything that you might think would give the police a clue to his murder?”

  “Oh, no, they’ve asked me and asked me. Dear Tristan. He said I was like a mother to him.”

  “I’m sure you were,” said Agatha. “When’s the funeral?”

  “That took place some time ago. A cousin arranged it.”

  Drat, thought Agatha, I’d forgotten all about the funeral. But what good would that have done me?

  “Do you have a name and address for this cousin?”

  “Reckon as how you’ll need to ask the police, m’dear. They took away all his stuff and then I think they sent it on to the cousin.”

  Agatha thanked her and was about to turn away when she saw Bill and Alice just paying their entrance fees.

  “Bill,” said Agatha, approaching him. “Could I have a word?”

  “What about?” demanded Alice.

  Agatha looked at Bill pleadingly. “It’s a police matter.”

  “All right. Alice, go and see if there’s anything at the stall that Mother would like.”

  Alice shot Agatha a venomous look and trudged off.

  Agatha told Bill about the mobile phone. “Good work,” he said. “I’ll get them on to it. They can check all the mobile phone companies and see which one he was registered with. But I thought I told you to stop investigating.”

  “It just came up in conversation with Mrs. Feathers,” said Agatha. “Oh, here’s your beloved back again.”

  “I want a drink,” said Alice, “but that stall is closed.”

  God forgive me for what I am about to do, thought Agatha. “I’ll get you a drink, Alice.” She went to her stall and drew the cork on a bottle of home-made wine while Bill had pulled out his mobile and was phoning headquarters. She picked up one of the large tumblers she had kept for people who only wanted fruit juice and filled it up. “I’d tell Bill that’s just punch,” said Agatha. “It’s pretty strong stuff.”

  “I can drink any man under the table,” sneered Alice. She went back to join Bill.

  John came back with a plate of ham and salad, which he handed to Agatha. “Thanks,” she said.

  “What’s going on?” asked John. “When I was queuing up, I saw you talking to Bill and he looked very serious.”

  Agatha told him about the mobile phone. “That might be something,” said John. “Say he had his phone beside the bed. Someone phones him after you left and frightens him. He decides to make a run for it, but first of all, he thinks he’ll take that money out of the church box. Whoever threatened him is watching the house, follows him to the vicar’s study and stabs him.”

  “Could be. Oh, they’re starting up again and I haven’t had time to eat.”

  “You go ahead. I’ll cope with the first lot and then you take over so that I can eat something.”

  Agatha walked over towards the duck races carrying her plate. People were cheering on the ducks, bets were being laid. The little yellow plastic ducks were bobbing down the stream, occasionally swirling round in the eddies. Agatha found it too difficult to eat with just one plastic fork, so she headed for the lunch tables and found a chair. A little way away from her the Morris men were downing glasses of Miss Jellop’s wine, their faces flushed and their voices loud.

  “Mrs. Raisin? It is Agatha Raisin, isn’t it?”

  Agatha looked up. A pretty young woman was standing over her holding a child by the hand. With a wrench of memory, Agatha said, “Bunty! How are you?”

  The woman seated next to Agatha moved away and Bunty sat down and put the child on her knee.

  Bunty had been Agatha’s last secretary before she retired. “Is that yours?” asked Agatha, pointing with her fork to the little girl Bunty was holding.

  “Yes, this is Philippa.”

  “Who did you marry?”

  “Philip Jervsey.”

  “Of Jervsey Advertising?”

  “That’s the one. After you packed up and retired, I took a job as his secretary.”

  Agatha frowned. “I thought he was married.”

  “Yes, he was…then.”

  “Did he get a divorce to marry you?” asked Agatha, ever curious.

  “Yes. I feel guilty about it. But I was mad about him. Still am. I took my time about saying yes. You know how it is, Agatha, secretaries and bosses. It gets like a marriage. You get to know them better than their wives.”

  “Was it a bitter divorce?”

  “Not too bad. Cost him a lot, though. But there were no children. We’ve got a place over in Cirencester we use for weekends. Give Philippa here some country air. And what about you? I see your name from time to time in the newspapers. Death does seem to follow you around.” She looked at the ring sparkling on Agatha’s finger. “Are you married?”

  “I was. I’m divorced. I still wear my rings.” Agatha did not want to talk about John.

  Bunty looked around. “It all looks so peaceful here. You wouldn’t think there had been any murders in such a quiet rural spot. Have the police any idea who did it?”

  Agatha shook her head. Philippa squirmed on her mother’s knee. “I want to see the ducks,” she wailed.

  “I’d better take her or I’ll get no peace.” Bunty rose to her feet. “Nice to see you again.”

  Agatha saw Alice sitting a little way away on her own, drinking wine. She must have bought a whole bottle from John. There was no sign of Bill. He was probably off somewhere phoning to see if there was any news about that mobile phone. She finished her food and went back to where John was ladling out punch. “We’d better stop selling that wine,” he said when he saw
her. “The Morris men won’t be able to dance if they have any more.”

  “Are we selling much?”

  “Yes, quite a lot. But people are mostly taking it home.”

  “We’ll put the bottles on the table in the boxes and if the Morris men come back, tell them we’re sold out and we’ll keep on selling it when they go away.”

  The afternoon wore on and a chill crept into the air. Mrs. Bloxby came up. “The Morris men are getting ready to perform and then it’s your speech, Agatha. You may as well close up here. You’ve done splendidly.”

  Agatha thankfully put a closed sign on the table and she and John put the remaining plastic cups in a box.

  They walked to where the crowd was gathering to watch the Morris men. Bill and Alice were standing just behind the crowd and Alice was red-faced and shouting at him. “You’re nothing but a mother’s boy.”

  “Let’s go round the other side. I don’t want to listen to this,” said Agatha. She felt guilty. She should have warned Alice about the effects of the wine.

  They found a space where they could watch the Morris men. Alf Bloxby’s voice sounded over the crowd. “We will now see a performance of the stick dance by the Mircester Morris Men. Morris dancing is one of the characteristic folk dances of England. We do not know its origins, although we know it was derived from agrarian traditions of fertility rites and celebrations at sowing and at harvest time.”

  A Morris man fell over and lay on the grass.

  “Though well-known during Shakespeare’s time,” continued the vicar, “it almost died away during the Industrial Revolution, but has now thankfully been revived. You will enjoy the colourful sight of the dancers with their bells and waving hankies dancing to tunes played on the fiddle, pipe and tabor and melodeon. Over to you, boys.”

  The Morris man who had fallen over was dragged to his feet and he stood there, blinking in the fading sunlight. A tape was put into a player and the jingly, jaunty tune of Morris music sounded out. The dancers with flowers in their hats and silver bells at their knees clutched their sticks and faced each other. They were supposed to bang their crossed sticks as they met in the dance but two of them missed and hit their opposite number a thwack. “You did that o’ purpose, Fred,” yelled one, and seizing his stick brought it down on the unfortunate Fred’s head. Soon the dance had degenerated into a rumble.