Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate

by Beaton, M. C.

  Agatha sighed. ‘This is like a marriage without the nookie.’

  ‘May I point out that no sex was your choice?’

  Agatha stared at him.

  ‘Look at the road, Agatha, for God’s sake!’

  ‘What is up with you, John? You’re usually so . . . so placid. Now you’re bitching and whining like an old grump.’

  ‘I made some reasonable suggestions to Bill Wong yesterday and all you did was sneer.’

  ‘I thought they were a bit far-fetched. I’m entitled to my opinion.’

  ‘You could have told me afterwards. Look, Agatha. We are both amateurs at this game. There is no need to go on as if I am some sort of office boy.’

  ‘I never . . . Oh, let’s drop the whole thing. I don’t want to quarrel.’

  They continued in an uneasy silence.

  After Agatha had made her statement, John said, ‘We should start off by going straight to New Cross.’

  ‘What? Right away?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Oh, all right. But I don’t like driving up to London.’

  ‘Then I’ll drive, if your insurance covers me. Unless, of course, you have to be in the driver’s seat all the time, both literally and metaphorically.’

  ‘Drive if you like,’ said Agatha huffily. ‘My insurance does cover you driving.’

  What had come over him? wondered Agatha, as they drove towards London. She was used to a rather colourless John. He had been going on as if he thought she was bossy. Like most high-powered people with a soft, shivering interior, Agatha considered herself a gentle lady, sensitive and sympathetic.

  But by the time they reached New Cross, the driving seemed to have soothed John and he appeared to have reverted to his usual equable self. Probably his bad mood was nothing to do with me, thought Agatha. I don’t upset people. Must have been someone or something else and he took it out on me.

  John stopped the car and asked directions to St Edmund’s until he found a man who actually knew where the church was.

  St Edmund’s was in a leafy backstreet. It was a Victorian building, still black from the soot of former coal-burning decades. White streaks of pigeon droppings cut through the soot up at the roof. It had four crenellated spires with weather vanes of gold pennants. Beside the church was a Victorian villa, also black with soot, which, they guessed, must be the vicarage.

  John pressed the old-fashioned brass bell-push sunk into the stone wall beside the door.

  The door was opened after a few moments by a heavy-set woman with her hair wound up in pink plastic rollers. She had a massive bosom under an overall and a large, truculent red face.

  ‘Whatissit?’

  ‘We would like to see the vicar,’ said John.

  ‘’Sinerstudy.’

  ‘Would you mind telling him we’re here?’

  Without asking them who they were, the woman shuffled off. ‘Poor man,’ murmured John. ‘What a housekeeper!’

  The vicar arrived and peered at them curiously. He had what Agatha always thought of as a Church of England face: weak eyes behind thick glasses, sparse grey hair, grey skin, a bulbous nose and a fleshy mouth with thick pale lips.

  ‘What do you want to see me about?’ he asked. His voice was beautiful, the old Oxford accent, so pleasant to listen to that it sounds like no accent at all.

  ‘I am Agatha Raisin and this is John Armitage. We both live in Carsely and are friends of the vicar there, Mr Alfred Bloxby.’

  ‘Oh, dear.’ His face creased up in distress. ‘I heard about that dreadful murder on the news this morning. Terrible, terrible. How do you do. I am Fred Lancing. Do come in.’

  He led them into the study, a shabby book-lined room. ‘I ought to take you through to the sitting-room,’ he said apologetically, ‘but I only really use this room and the others are rather damp and dusty. Would you like tea?’

  ‘Yes, please,’ said Agatha.

  He opened the door of the study and shouted, ‘Mrs Buggy!’

  ‘What yer want?’ came the answering shout.

  ‘Tea for three.’

  ‘Think I’ve got nothing better ter do?’

  ‘Just do it!’ shouted the vicar, turning pink.

  He came back and sat down behind his desk. Agatha and John sat side by side on an old black horsehair sofa. ‘It was those evening classes on feminism,’ he sighed. ‘Mrs Buggy was much taken with them. She has regarded me as a tyrant ever since. How can I help you? Poor Tristan.’

  Agatha outlined what had happened and said they were afraid that the police suspected Mr Bloxby and she and John wanted to help to clear his name.

  ‘The police called on me yesterday evening,’ said the vicar mildly. ‘But I really couldn’t tell them anything much.’

  ‘Did Tristan really get beaten up by a gang and have a nervous breakdown?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘I gather that is what he said.’

  At that moment, the door crashed open and Mrs Buggy entered with three cups of milky tea on a tray, which she crashed down on the vicar’s desk.

  ‘No biscuits,’ she snarled on her way out.

  ‘I do hate bossy women,’ murmured the vicar.

  ‘I do so agree with you,’ said John, flashing a look at Agatha.

  ‘I did not know the vicar of Carsely – Mr Bloxby, did you say? – was under suspicion.’

  ‘I’m afraid so,’ said Agatha. ‘Please tell us the truth about Tristan Delon. It could help. Someone murdered him and it could be someone from his past.’

  The vicar stood up and handed each of them a cup of tea before retreating behind his desk.

  ‘I am wondering what to tell you,’ he said. ‘You see, if I tell you more than I have told the police, they will be very angry.’

  ‘I am a private detective,’ said Agatha. ‘I will not tell the police anything you say. I promise.’

  ‘I, I, I,’ murmured John, and Agatha threw him a fulminating look.

  ‘De mortuis . . .’ said the vicar. ‘I always think it is cruel to speak ill of the dead.’

  ‘But surely it is necessary if it can help bring justice to the living. I gather Tristan was gay,’ said John. Agatha stared at him in amazement.

  ‘I believe so,’ said Mr Lancing. ‘There are so many temptations in town for a young man.’

  ‘What temptations?’ demanded Agatha sharply.

  ‘He bragged about having a rich businessman as a friend and showed off a gold Rolex. But his homosexuality was not the problem. He should really have gone on the stage. He was very flamboyant in the pulpit. He charmed the parishioners – at first.’

  ‘And then what happened?’ asked John.

  ‘He seemed to become bored after he had been with me for a few weeks. It was then he developed a, well, nasty streak. He would find out some parishioner’s vulnerable point and lean on it, if you know what I mean.’

  ‘Blackmail?’ demanded Agatha eagerly.

  ‘No, no. Just . . . well, to put it in one word . . . spite.’

  ‘Do you know the name of this businessman?’ asked John.

  There was a long silence, and then the vicar said, ‘No, although he bragged, he was very secretive about the details.’

  He does know who it is, thought John.

  Agatha sat forward on the sofa, her bearlike eyes glistening. ‘So he didn’t have a nervous breakdown. He didn’t get beaten up.’

  ‘He did get beaten up.’

  ‘Because of his boys’ club?’

  ‘He didn’t have a boys’ club. He appeared very frightened, however. He said he had to get away. He seemed to become quite demented. He was also very penitent and said he wanted to make a new start. I made inquiries and hit on the idea of removing him to a quiet country village. He had done nothing criminal, you see. And he did seem determined to become a better person.’

  ‘Did he have any particular friend in the parish?’

  ‘He did have one, Sol MacGuire, a builder. He lives over the shops on Briory Road. Number sixteen. It�
�s just around the corner if you turn left when you leave the vicarage.’

  Agatha rounded on John as soon as they had left the vicarage. ‘How did you know he was gay?’

  ‘I didn’t. It was just a wild guess.’

  ‘Humph!’

  ‘And I’ll bet he knows the name of that businessman.’

  ‘He wouldn’t lie.’

  ‘Because he’s a vicar? Come on, Agatha. You can be surprisingly naïve at times.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Agatha furiously.

  They walked in silence round the corner to Briory Road. It was a shabbier street with smaller houses. Number sixteen had an excuse for a front garden: a sagging privet hedge, a broken bicycle, rank grass and weeds.

  No one answered their knock. They tried the neighbours and were told he was probably out working but that he usually came home around six in the evening.

  ‘Four hours to kill,’ said John, looking at his watch. ‘But we haven’t eaten anything. Let’s find a pub.’

  They found one out in the main road where traffic shimmered in the heat. John pushed open the door and they walked into the gloom. It was fairly empty. It was an old-fashioned London pub which had not yet been ‘bistro-fied’ like many others. Sunlight shone dimly through the dusty windows. Fruit machines winked and blinked. But at least there was no piped Muzak. The landlord, a thin, sour man, said lunches were over but that he could make them some sandwiches. They ordered ham sandwiches and beer and when their order arrived, retreated to a corner table.

  ‘At least we’re a bit ahead of the police,’ said Agatha.

  ‘Only a bit ahead. They’ll be back again sometime to ask the vicar more questions, and having told us, he’ll probably now tell them.’

  ‘Do you really think so? He might not want to tell them now and let them know he was withholding information in the first place.’

  ‘Maybe. These sandwiches are awful. I haven’t had pub sandwiches like these in years. The ham is slimy and the bread’s dry.’

  ‘Keeping up the good old English pub traditions,’ said Agatha gloomily.

  ‘This news about the rich man is interesting, though,’ said John. ‘I mean, if he’s really someone important, he might have wanted to get rid of Tristan. Maybe Tristan was blackmailing him.’

  ‘We forgot to ask how long it was between Tristan leaving New Cross and Tristan arriving in Carsely.’

  ‘How would that help?’

  ‘If it was a long period, he might not have that much left in his bank account. You see, he wasn’t in Carsely long enough to fleece anyone to any significant degree. I think he liked to spend money on himself. Whatever he had got, he might have dissipated so his bank account won’t give much of a clue.’

  ‘It will,’ said John, ‘if it shows cheques from any of the villagers, or from this businessman, whoever he is.’

  They debated the mystery and then left the pub and wandered around the streets of New Cross, past Indian shops and Turkish restaurants until John looked at his watch and said, ‘Time to go back to see if Sol MacGuire is at home.’

  Chapter Three

  Sol MacGuire was another Adonis, but a black-haired, blue-eyed one. He looked shocked when they told him they were investigating the murder of Tristan Delon.

  ‘Sure, now, isn’t that the big shock you’ve given me,’ he said. ‘Come on in.’

  They followed him into a small living-room which seemed to be full of old beer cans and old copies of newspapers and magazines.

  ‘Find a space and sit yourselves down,’ said Sol. ‘How was he murdered? I haven’t kept up with the news.’

  John told him and then asked what he knew about Tristan. ‘Not that much,’ said Sol. ‘He saw me working on a local building site and kept coming round to chat. I told him flat-out I wasn’t gay and he just laughed and said he wasn’t gay either.

  ‘I couldn’t be bothered much with him at first, but he kept coming round. He was funny in a malicious way, know what I mean?’

  ‘Give us an example?’ asked Agatha.

  ‘He was adored by the women in the parish, but he seemed to despise them.’

  ‘Anyone in particular?’

  ‘He’d talk about a Mrs Hill. Said she used to look at him like a dog. He said he felt like snapping his fingers and tossing her a biscuit. Things like that.’

  Agatha leaned forward. ‘Did Tristan ever talk about some businessman, someone who gave him presents?’

  ‘Oh, that. Mind if I get myself a beer?’

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘Want one?’

  ‘Not for me,’ said John. ‘I’ve already had some beer and I’m driving. What about you, Agatha?’

  ‘Not for me either.’

  Sol disappeared and returned after a few moments with a can of beer which he popped open. After a hearty swig, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, ‘He showed me a gold Rolex. Said it was a present from Richard Binser.’

  Agatha’s eyes opened wide in amazement. ‘Richard Binser, the tycoon?’

  ‘That’s what he said. But then, he was a terrible liar.’

  ‘Do you know who beat him up?’

  ‘He said it was one of the gangs, but he didn’t know any gangs. Trust me. Maybe one of them women got wise to him and took a club to him. I dunno.’

  ‘Do you know where this Mrs Hill lives?’

  ‘He told me. It’s a big house round in Jeves Place. You cross the main road, take Gladstone Street, turn right on Palmerston, then first left is Jeves. Don’t know the number, but it’s a big place on its own. I’m curious, like,’ went on Sol, his accent an odd mixture of Irish and south London. ‘Why ask questions around here, and why you? You his relatives?’

  ‘No,’ said Agatha. ‘We are private detectives.’

  ‘Got a licence?’

  ‘Pending,’ lied Agatha.

  ‘Well, good luck to you. But if he was murdered in that village, stands to reason someone down there killed him.’

  ‘Do you know how long it was,’ asked Agatha, ‘between the attack and him leaving here?’

  ‘He came round once after the attack. Said he was going abroad. Would be about six months ago.’

  ‘That long!’

  ‘See what I mean?’ said Sol. ‘He was old history as far as New Cross was concerned.’

  When they left Sol, Agatha said, ‘Let’s go after Binser.’

  ‘It’s late. We can find his offices – I think they’re in Cheapside in the City. As we’re here, shouldn’t we try Mrs Hill?’

  ‘All right, though mark my words, she’ll just turn out to be a sad middle-aged woman, duped by Tristan.’

  ‘Like you,’ murmured John.

  Agatha glared at him and stalked on in an angry silence.

  When they found the villa in Jeves Place, it appeared there was no one at home. Far in the distance came the menacing rumble of thunder.

  ‘I think we should leave things for tonight,’ said John, ‘drive back to Carsely and try Binser tomorrow and then Mrs Hill.’

  Agatha agreed because she was tired.

  The storm burst halfway to Carsely and John had to drive very slowly through the torrents of rain. As he turned at last into the road leading down into Carsely, the storm clouds rolled away. He opened the car window and a chilly little breeze blew in.

  ‘End of summer,’ said Agatha. ‘What time do we set off in the morning?’

  ‘Early. About six-thirty. Beat the rush. Don’t groan. We’ll take my car and you can sleep on the road up to town if you’re still tired.’

  Agatha said goodnight to him when they reached Lilac Lane. Her cats came to meet her, yawning and purring. She fed them and then put a lasagne – Mama Livia’s Special – in the microwave.

  After she had eaten, she bathed and went to bed. Before she went to sleep, she fought down nagging jabs of conscience that were telling her that she should have phoned Bill Wong and brought him up to date on what they had found.

  ‘If Binser is
in his office, we’ll be lucky,’ said John as he joined the traffic heading for London on the M40 the next morning. ‘He travels a lot.’

  ‘Maybe we should have waited at home and phoned him,’ said Agatha sleepily.

  ‘Best to surprise him.’

  ‘How are we going to get past all the minions he’ll surely have to protect him?’

  ‘We’ll send in a note saying we want to see him about Tristan Delon.’

  ‘And if he doesn’t see us?’

  ‘Oh, do shut up, Agatha. We have to try.’

  ‘It will be difficult,’ pursued Agatha. ‘I remember seeing pictures of him in Celeb magazine. Wife and two children.’

  ‘Like I said, we must try.’

  Richard Binser’s offices were in an impressive modern building of steel and glass with a great tree growing up to the glass roof from the entrance hall.

  ‘Here goes,’ said Agatha, marching up to the long reception desk where four beautiful and fashionably thin young ladies were answering phones.

  ‘Mr Binser,’ said Agatha to the one she considered the least intimidating.

  ‘What time is your appointment?’

  ‘We don’t have one,’ said Agatha. She produced a sealed envelope which contained a note she had written in the car. It was marked ‘Urgent, Private & Confidential’. ‘See that he gets this right away. I am sure he will want to see us.’

  ‘Take a seat,’ said the receptionist, indicating a bank of sofas and chairs over by the entrance doors.

  They sat down and waited, and waited.

  At last the receptionist they had spoken to approached them and said, ‘I will take you up. Follow me.’

  A glass elevator bore them up and up to the top of the building. It opened into another reception area. A middle-aged secretary greeted them and asked them to wait.

  Again, they sat down. The receptionist had gone back downstairs and the secretary had retreated through a door leading off the reception. It was very quiet.

  Agatha was just beginning to wonder if everyone had forgotten about them, when the secretary came back and said, ‘Mr Binser will see you now.’

  She led them through an inner office and then opened a heavy door leading off it and ushered them into a room where a small, balding man sat behind a large Georgian desk.