‘She might not know he was capable of murder.’
‘Rubbish.’
‘I mean, did she say anything to you about Alf being unable to account for an hour of his movements?’
‘He did account for them!’
‘But only his word. No witnesses. Let’s go and see her.’
‘All right. If it’ll make you feel any better.’
‘You’re not wearing your ring.’
‘Oh, that. I’d forgotten about it. Do you want me to put it on?’
‘May as well maintain the fiction.’
‘We don’t need to maintain it in front of Mrs Bloxby.’
‘But we do in front of other people,’ said John.
Agatha went through to her desk and fished out the ring and put it on her finger. It felt loose. Good heavens, she thought, I’m even losing weight on my fingers.
Leaves wheeled and whirled about them as they walked to the vicarage. To Agatha, the village no longer seemed a safe haven. She felt there was menace lurking around every corner. She longed for a cigarette and remembered the days when one never, ever smoked in the street. Now the street was about the only place outside one’s own home where one could smoke.
Mrs Bloxby opened the door to them. ‘Come in quietly,’ she said. ‘Alf is resting.’
They followed her into the vicarage sitting-room. Agatha and Mrs Bloxby surveyed each other. Mrs Bloxby noticed that Agatha was considerably thinner and Agatha noticed that Mrs Bloxby’s usually mild eyes held a haunted look. They had talked since the murder, but only briefly.
Agatha told her about the rambler and Mrs Bloxby clasped her hands as if in prayer. ‘If only you had remembered this earlier, Mrs Raisin.’
‘They’re putting out a bulletin, asking him to come forward,’ said John. ‘If he’s innocent, he will.’
‘I’ve been thinking about ramblers,’ said Agatha. ‘I mean, one never really notices them.’
‘Not groups of ramblers,’ commented Mrs Bloxby with a certain edge in her voice. ‘But one, on his own, at night!’
‘I know, I know,’ mourned Agatha. ‘But the horror of Peggy’s murder drove it right out of my mind until today.’
‘Bill was round this morning,’ said John. ‘He says there is a whole hour your husband can’t account for.’
‘Most of us have whole hours in our lives we can’t account for,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘It’s just unlucky for Alf his hour should have happened on the evening Peggy was murdered. All this is wearing my husband down. I could do without your suspicions being added to our worries, Mr Armitage.’
‘I didn’t –’
‘Yes, you did,’ interrupted Mrs Bloxby. She rounded on Agatha. ‘I thought you had given up investigating.’
‘I had,’ said Agatha, silently cursing John.
‘Whoever is committing these murders is highly dangerous. I suggest you both leave it to the police. Now, if you don’t mind, I have things to do.’
They both left the vicarage, Agatha furious with John. ‘I never should have gone along with you,’ she said. ‘Mrs Bloxby is my best friend.’
‘Never mind. It’s lunchtime and you look a ghost of your former self. We’ll go to the pub and have something.’
Agatha was about to say pettishly that she didn’t want to go with him, but realized she was reluctant to be on her own. ‘All right,’ she said ungraciously. ‘But I don’t want much.’
In the pub, they both ordered shepherd’s pie. Although there were quite a few regulars at the bar, there wasn’t much conversation. The murders had poisoned the atmosphere.
Agatha surprised herself by eating all the food on her plate. She decided it was time she went in for some decent home cooking instead of microwave meals.
When they had finished, she looked curiously at John. ‘You are strangely reticent about Charlotte Bellinge.’
‘If I had anything relating to the case to tell you, Agatha, I would.’
‘I don’t think you went to see her because you thought she had anything to add. I think you’re smitten with her.’
‘She is a very attractive woman, but no, I am not smitten with her.’
‘So she rejected your advances?’
‘Don’t be cheeky, Agatha. We’re only pretending to be engaged. You have no right to question me on my personal life.’
This was indeed true but for some reason Agatha did not want to be reminded of it.
‘So you told me briefly before that you’d been to see Mrs Essex and Mrs Tremp. Nothing there, I gathered.’
‘No, except the wine.’
‘What wine?’
Agatha told him about the home-made wine and the odd effect it had had on her.
‘That’s interesting,’ said John. ‘You mean, Miss Jellop may have given Tristan some and he might have told her things he wouldn’t otherwise have said?’
‘Could be.’
John sighed. ‘And now she’s dead, we’ll never know. What about Mrs Tremp? There was something cold-blooded about the way she talked about her husband’s death. If a woman can sit looking at her husband who’s just had a stroke without immediately calling an ambulance, then she must be really pretty tough.’
‘I don’t know. I kept the discussion to the duck races. She seemed pretty friendly and normal.’
‘Did she know Peggy Slither?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Let’s go and ask her.’
‘I somehow don’t want anyone to know we’re still investigating,’ said Agatha.
‘You told me she was going to bake cakes for the big event. We’ll ask her how she’s getting on.’
‘I suppose we could do that.’
After they had returned to Lilac Lane and had driven off in John’s car, Agatha felt the black edges of depression hovering around her. For years she had been ruled by her obsession for James Lacey, getting James Lacey, and marrying James Lacey. Then she had been divorced by him. After that, she lived in dreams that one day he would return to her. Cold reality was telling her he would never return. Carsely had become a sinister place. She was going to interview a woman who probably did not know anything at all relevant to the case with a man she was pretending to be engaged to. Bill Wong, who had been a sort of soulmate in that he was always being rejected by the loves of his life, had at last found one who evidently could stand up to his parents.
‘What’s up?’ asked John.
‘Nothing. Why?’
‘This car’s filling up with gloom and it’s coming from you.’
‘I’ve got a bit of a headache, that’s all.’
‘Want to go back home and take some aspirin?’
‘No, I’ll be all right. Here we are. She’s probably at home. I don’t think she goes out much.’
They parked and got out of the car. The door was standing open. Agatha rang the bell beside the door. The bell shrilled somewhere inside the house.
‘That’s odd,’ said John. ‘She must be in. Try again.’
Agatha rang the bell and waited.
‘I think we’d better take a look inside,’ said John uneasily.
Agatha walked in first. ‘Mrs Tremp!’ she called. No reply. Outside, the rooks cawed from their tree and the wind rushed around the converted barn.
Followed by John, she walked into the kitchen and let out a scream. Mrs Tremp was lying stretched out on the floor, her eyes closed and her hands folded on her breast.
‘See if she’s alive,’ said John, tugging a mobile phone out of his pocket. ‘I’ll call the police.’
Mrs Tremp opened her eyes at that moment and struggled to her feet. ‘It is my meditation hour,’ she said crossly. ‘I do not like to be disturbed. I hoped you would go away.’ She smoothed down her tweed skirt with her hands. ‘What do you want?’
Agatha sank down on to a kitchen chair. ‘I just wanted to ask if you could cope with all the cake baking for the duck race.’
‘Of course,’ said Mrs Tremp. ‘I would have told you if I could not.
How are the arrangements going?’
‘I’m on my way to see Farmer Brent,’ said Agatha.
‘You mean you haven’t got permission from him yet? You’d better hurry up. It’s only three weeks to the races.’
‘Isn’t it terrible about Peggy Slither?’ said John.
‘Oh, her.’ Mrs Tremp gave a disdainful sniff. ‘Probably her ex-husband. He was furious at having to pay out so much after the divorce proceedings.’
‘Did you know her?’ asked Agatha.
‘Tristan took me over to meet her once. Disgusting, vulgar woman.’
‘I gather Tristan was friendly with her.’
‘She was so rude to me that Tristan assured me he would have nothing more to do with her.’
‘And you haven’t heard from her since?’
‘Why should I? Such as Mrs Slither and such as myself have absolutely nothing in common. Now I do have things to do. I suggest you get Mr Brent’s permission as soon as possible.’
‘We couldn’t really stay to get more out of her,’ said John as they drove on to Brent’s farm at the top of the hill.
‘She’s got a study off the hall,’ said Agatha. ‘The door was open and I looked in as we went out. There’s a desk there with letters and correspondence. I’d love to have a look at them. I think she’s hiding something. I wonder if Tristan ever wrote to her.’
‘Why should he?’ asked John. ‘I mean, he was in the same village.’
‘Still, I wouldn’t mind having a look. Maybe she wrote to someone about him.’
‘Then the someone will have the letter. Not Mrs Tremp.’
‘There was a computer on the desk. Maybe she’s got letters stored on it. The days when it was considered bad manners to type a letter to a friend have long gone.’
‘I don’t know how you’re ever going to have a chance to look at them.’
‘Maybe. I wonder if she locks her door at night.’
‘Meaning,’ said John, ‘you plan to creep in one night and have a look? Don’t be silly. There’d be all hell to pay if you were caught. Is that the entrance to Brent’s farm on the left?’
‘Yes, let’s hope he’s at home. I don’t feel like trekking over muddy fields looking for him.’
To her relief, Mark Brent opened the door to them himself.
‘I was just about to have a cup of tea,’ he said. He was a tall, thin man with long arms and stooped shoulders. His thick hair was grey and his long face burnt red by working outdoors. ‘The wife’s off visiting her sister,’ he said. He prepared a pot of tea and put mugs and milk and sugar on the table. ‘Sit down,’ he said. ‘Isn’t it awful about these murders? Is that why you’re here, Mrs Raisin?’
‘No,’ said Agatha. ‘It’s about these duck races. I remember you had an event for the boy scouts in one of your fields with a pretty stream running through it.’ She told him all about the duck races.
‘It’s all yours,’ said Brent. ‘There’s cattle in that field but I’ll move them for the day. When is it to be held?’
‘October twenty-third.’
‘Fine. I like to do my bit. Help yourselves. I’m glad I’m outside the village. It’s as if that there damned curate and his poncy ways brought something evil in with him.’
‘You knew Tristan?’ asked Agatha.
‘My wife, Gladys, was friendly with him. I’d come in from the fields and there they’d be, laughing and joking, and Gladys looking like a dog’s dinner, all tarted up in her Sunday best although it was a weekday. Then she tells me she wants a cheque for this Tristan. She says he could invest money for us and make a killing. I said the only killing was going to be Tristan himself. There was something slimy about him. So I got him one day in the village and told him if he came near my wife again I’d set the dogs on him. Poor Gladys cried and cried when I told her and called me a monster.
‘“I put up with it,” I says, “until he tried to get money out of you.” Fact is, she thought he fancied her. Now don’t get me wrong. My Gladys is a fine-looking woman but she’s in her fifties.’ He looked at Agatha. ‘Didn’t have you fooled as well, did he, Mrs Raisin? I heard how you had dinner with him the night he was murdered.’
‘No,’ said Agatha. ‘He did suggest investing money for me but I refused.’
‘And I hear you two are engaged?’
‘That’s right,’ said Agatha. ‘How did you hear that?’
‘All over the village, it is. Good on you. I wish you both well. You’ll be getting married in the church. Nothing like a good old-fashioned village wedding.’
‘You didn’t threaten to kill Tristan?’ asked John.
‘Meaning, did I stick a knife in him? No, that’s not my way. A telling-off was enough.’
‘I didn’t mean . . .’
‘I know what you meant,’ said the farmer with unimpaired good humour. ‘Our Mrs Raisin here has made a name for herself as a detective. Seems as if you’re well suited.’
‘I found Peggy Slither,’ said Agatha. ‘On the road to Ancombe, I noticed this rambler. I’ve only just remembered and told the police. You didn’t at any time see anyone strange about the village?’
‘Not on the days of the murders. We’re not a tourist place like Broadway. We get these chaps selling kitchen stuff round the doors. Then there are women from the Red Cross and the Lifeboat people come round collecting. Ramblers, of course. Few outsiders at the bed-and-breakfast places, but I gather the police have checked them all out. I think all of us have had the police round asking questions three or four times. But I tell you this, Mrs Raisin.’ His voice became hard. ‘Whoever is doing these here murders is a dangerous man. I think you should sit this one out and leave it to the police. Don’t want you getting hurt.’
‘Sounds like a threat,’ said John.
‘Just a bit of sensible advice. Now I’d best get out there. There’s fencing to be repaired.’
‘I think that was a threat,’ said Agatha as they drove off.
‘I don’t know. Seems a straightforward enough man to me.’
Agatha sighed. ‘Well, I’d better throw myself into the publicity for these duck races. I’ll be round at Mrs Bloxby’s if you want me.’
‘Right. I’ll get on with some more writing.’
Agatha spent the afternoon discussing arrangements such as the hiring of a marquee with Mrs Bloxby and phoning up local papers, arranging advertisements for the duck races to go in and also for free publicity. But once a public relations officer, always a public relations officer. She also sent press handouts to all the nationals and TV stations to the effect that the murder village was returning to normal. Might get a few of them down from London.
It was only that evening that her thoughts turned to Mrs Tremp’s desk. No one in the village would leave their doors open at night after three murders. But country people often left a spare key in the gutter or under the doormat or in a flowerpot. Had Agatha not felt the black edges of depression returning, she would never have decided to try to break into Mrs Tremp’s home. But action and thoughts of action kept the depression at bay. She set her alarm for two in the morning but she was so restless that she only fell asleep at twelve-thirty and woke at the alarm’s shrill sound feeling groggy.
She dressed in dark clothes and decided to walk. Thank goodness Mrs Tremp doesn’t keep a dog, she thought, as she finally reached the converted barn. The guttering was too high up for anyone to reach and there was no doormat or flowerpot. Frustrated and not wanting to turn back now she had come so far, she walked round the side of the house. That must be the study window, she thought. Easy to break a pane of glass and release the catch, but that would mean Mrs Tremp might hear the noise. Shining the light of a pencil torch at the ground to make sure she did not trip over anything, she made her way round to the back of the house. At the back there was a trapdoor in the ground with coal dust around it. She eased back the bolt and lifted the trapdoor and looked down. Coal had been delivered recently and glittered with reptilian blackness in the faint b
eam of her torch. She eased herself down on to the top of the pile. The coal began to slide under her feet. She reached upwards trying to catch the top of the trapdoor but she was descending too fast, crashing down among rumbling lumps of coal to finally land at the bottom of the cellar. She lay there, her heart thumping. She had lost her torch but there was faint light from the open trapdoor. She crawled to her feet, feeling bruised. She could dimly make out a stone staircase.
Agatha was just creeping towards it when she heard from above someone running down the stairs and then a key being turned in the cellar door. Then she heard the front door of the house opening and footsteps hurrying round the side of the house. Agatha scrambled away from the coal and into a corner piled with old suitcases and boxes. Mrs Tremp’s voice said triumphantly, ‘Got you. You can wait in there until the police come.’ She slammed down the trapdoor and Agatha could hear her shooting the bolt across.
Agatha felt her way across the floor on her hands and knees with the mad idea of trying to climb up the coal stack and force the trapdoor. Her hand touched her lost torch and she grabbed it eagerly. No, she could not force the trapdoor. She must hide somewhere, somewhere the police would not find her. The beam of the torch lit on a rusty suit of armour covered in coal dust. In a mad panic, Agatha hauled the suit upright. It was unusually light. Probably a replica. She lifted off the helmet and headpiece. Standing on one of the old suitcases, and putting the legs of the suit at an angle, she eased herself into them. She put on the breastplate and fastened it with the leather straps at the back. Then she put on the gauntlets and lifted the headpiece over her head and with a trembling hand forced the rusty visor down, shuffled off into the corner and stood there.
It was then she realized that because of the murders it wouldn’t be one local policeman from Moreton-in-Marsh who would arrive but probably the whole squad from Mircester.
She stood there, trembling with cold and fright until she heard the wail of police sirens drawing closer and closer. Then Mrs Tremp’s voice shrill with excitement. ‘I’ve got him locked in the cellar. He can’t get out.’
The cellar door opened, the light was switched on. There was a light switch at the top of the stairs, thought Agatha. But Mrs Tremp had sounded the alarm before I could have reached it. Bill Wong was there with Wilkes. Four policemen were systematically going through the cellar, turning over boxes, raking over the coal. Coal dust rose in the air. Agatha prayed she would not sneeze.
Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate Page 13