The Case of the Curious Curate ar-13

by M C Beaton

  “The psychiatrist said he was probably a somatic narcissist and that this type of narcissist could charm people by exuding that warm, fuzzy emotional feeling of well-being you get on a good day. He said this type could be prone to violence.

  “Anyway, that was Tristan’s charm. He made me feel good about myself. I was sure, however, that I would hear from him again, but not a word. When I received your note, I thought he had left some journal about our friendship and that you had come to blackmail me. But that’s all there was to it. I pride myself on being a good judge of character and yet Tristan had me completely fooled.”

  “I don’t think the police need to know about this,” said John, “unless the vicar tells them. We certainly won’t. Will we, Agatha?”

  Again those jabs of conscience. But Agatha said reluctantly, “No.”

  “I liked him,” said John, as they joined the stream of traffic heading for south London.

  “Binser? I suppose.”

  “You don’t seem too sure.”

  “I had it in my mind that whoever beat him up or had him beaten up had something to do with his murder. A powerful man like Binser could have had him beaten up.”

  “You’ve been watching too many left-wing dramas on the box about sinister company executives, Agatha.”

  “It could have happened that way,” said Agatha stubbornly.

  A glaring, watery sunlight was bathing London. Agatha glanced sideways at John and noticed for the first time the loosening of the skin under his chin and the network of wrinkles at the side of his eyes. This for some reason made her feel cheerful and she began to whistle tunelessly until John told her to stop.

  Back at New Cross, they drove round to Jeves Place and parked in front of the villa. The front door was standing a few inches open. “Someone’s at home,” said Agatha.

  “Good,” said John. “Let’s go.”

  A thin voice was singing a hymn somewhere in the interior of the house. John rang the bell. A very small woman with greying hair and a sallow skin came to the door carrying a feather duster.

  “Mrs. Hill?” asked Agatha, pushing in front of John who, she obscurely felt, was taking over too much of this investigation.

  “Yes. I am Mrs. Hill.”

  Agatha introduced both of them and launched into their reasons for wanting to speak to her.

  Mrs. Hill stepped out on the doorstep and looked nervously up and down the street. “You’d better come in,” she whispered, although the street was empty.

  She led them into a large dark room full of heavy old furniture. “I was shocked about poor Tristan’s death,” she said. “Such a good young man.”

  “May we sit down?” asked Agatha.

  “Oh, please do.”

  John and Agatha sat in hard high-backed chairs and Mrs. Hill sank down on the edge of an armchair and looked at them with all the fascination of a bird confronted with a snake.

  “He wasn’t very good at all, as it turns out,” said Agatha bluntly. “He conned a respectable businessman out of money to set up a boys’ club, and of course he kept the money. No boys’ club.”

  John glared at Agatha and mouthed, “Shut up!” The business about Binser should surely be kept private.

  But tears welled up in little Mrs. Hill’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks. “I’m so glad I wasn’t the only one,” she choked out. “I’ve felt such a fool.”

  John passed her a large clean handkerchief and she dried her eyes and blew her nose. “Tell us about him,” said Agatha gently.

  “I felt so silly, so betrayed. You see, I adored him. I saw later what must have happened. All the houses in this street are split up into flats except mine. I have the reputation of being wealthy. I am referred to as the rich Mrs. Hill. But to go back to the beginning. Tristan flattered me. He made me feel good, made me feel worthwhile. I was quite dazed by the impact he had on me. We occasionally went out together, but somewhere where no one would recognize us. He said he didn’t want me making the other women of the parish jealous. He said he cared for me. He said that he thought age difference was no barrier when two people respected each other.” She wiped away a tear. “I lived and breathed for him. Then he asked me for a donation for this boys’ club he said he was setting up. I confided in him that I had no money to spare. I lived on very little. I said I hoped my savings would last until I died. He asked me a lot of questions about how much I was worth, seemingly sympathetically. And then he stopped calling. I thought he loved me,” she wailed. “He said he loved me. And I…I would have died for him.”

  She gave a great gulp and then went on. “I waited outside the vicarage one day until I saw him coming out and I asked him why he had been avoiding me. I reminded him he’d said he loved me. He laughed in my face. He said he was gay. He said a lot of things I don’t want to repeat. I could have killed him. But I didn’t.”

  “Do you think he did get money out of anyone else?” asked John quietly.

  “I don’t know. It was, before he came, a tiny congregation. When he preached instead of the vicar, a lot of people came but mostly silly young girls. Please, you won’t tell anyone what I’ve told you. I couldn’t bear it.”

  “We won’t unless we have to,” said Agatha. “You’ve got a lot of rooms here, haven’t you?”

  “Too many,” she said in a hollow voice.

  “You should let a few rooms out,” said Agatha bracingly. “Give you an income.”

  “But I might get, well, bad people.”

  “Use an estate agent to handle the renting for you. You couldn’t charge all that much because they wouldn’t have private kitchens or bathrooms, not unless you spent a lot of money on renovation. I saw an estate agent’s out in the main road that handles rentals. They could vet the people for you. Means you wouldn’t be alone in this house either. I mean, no children, no pets; just collect the money.”

  “I couldn’t…”

  “Oh, yes, you could. Look, get your coat and we’ll go with you to that estate agent and see what they say.”

  John Armitage wanted to question the vicar again. The vicar had deliberately lied to them about Richard Binser. He knew Binser because Binser had said he called on him. The vicar had also said that Tristan had done nothing criminal and yet he had. He had pocketed ten thousand pounds. But John had to fret with impatience while Agatha plunged happily into room rentals with Mrs. Hill, who was looking happier by the minute. A representative from the estate agent’s then had to come back to the house with them and inspect the rooms. He said for a modest sum she could have wash-basins installed in the bedrooms and allow tenants the use of the kitchen. He seemed as bossy and managing as Agatha Raisin, and Mrs. Hill was delighted to be ordered what to do. When Agatha finally decided she had done enough, a grateful and tearful Mrs. Hill hugged her and said she had given her a new start in life. Agatha said gruffly it was her pleasure, but looked every bit as bored as she was beginning to feel.

  “Well, now that waste of space is over,” said John crossly, “I want to see that vicar again.”

  “I had to do something for the poor soul,” snapped Agatha.

  “That poor soul, as you call her, could have stabbed Tristan. We never asked her what she was doing on the night he was murdered. If you are going to be so trusting about every suspect, we may as well pack it in.”

  “I’m beginning to think I don’t really know you,” said Agatha. “You’re quite nasty.”

  “You don’t even know yourself, Agatha Raisin.”

  “Are we going to stand here all day bickering?”

  “I want to talk to that vicar again.”

  “So let’s get on with it, for God’s sake!”

  “I’m tired and we haven’t eaten.”

  “We’ll get something after we grill the vicar. But not that pub again.”

  The vicar of St. Edmund’s looked distinctly unhappy to see them again. There was no sign of his ferocious housekeeper.

  “I am rather busy writing my sermon,” he began.


  “We will only take a few minutes of your time, Mr. Lancing,” said Agatha. “We want to know why you lied to us.”

  “Dear me. You’d better come in.”

  When they were once more seated in his study, Agatha began. “You told us that Tristan had done nothing criminal. Yet he had conned Mr. Binser out of ten thousand pounds. You also told us that you did not know Mr. Binser and yet he said he called on you.”

  “He did call on me but he urged me not to tell anyone how he had been fooled by Tristan. He said it would be bad for his business image. And Tristan was so truly penitent. He assured me he would pay back every penny.”

  “Well, we gather he didn’t.”

  “I am sorry I lied to you, but I did give Mr. Binser my solemn word that I would not say anything.”

  “Is there anything else you have not told us?”

  “Not that I can think of.” Mr. Lancing gave them a strained look. “Surely what I have told you is enough.” His voice became angry. “You are not the police. I should never have spoken to you in the first place. You have no authority.”

  “We are merely trying to help our local vicar, Mr. Bloxby,” said John gently. “Surely you can see that. The police will not hear of anything you have told us unless it is really necessary.”

  “Then would you mind leaving? You have upset me very much.”

  “And that’s that,” said Agatha wearily. “Let’s get something to eat.”

  They stopped at a service station on the A40 for a greasy all-day breakfast of egg, sausage and chips.

  “I keep having a feeling we’re wasting our time up in London,” said John. “The murder was committed in Carsely and I’m sure our murderer lives in the village or round about.”

  “No, I think the clues lie in London,” said Agatha, more out of a desire to contradict John than because she really believed it.

  They took to the road again and Agatha fell asleep and did not wake until they were going through Woodstock. “Goodness, have I been asleep all that time?” she said, sitting upright.

  “Yes,” said John, “and you snored terribly.”

  “I’ve had enough of you for one day,” snarled Agatha. “You’re always nit-picking about something.”

  “I was merely stating a fact,” he said stiffly.

  Agatha stifled a yawn and thought longingly of the comfort and peace of her cottage.

  When John finally drove into the village, it was to see the narrow main street almost blocked by two television vans.

  “I thought the press would have given up by now,” said John.

  He turned into Lilac Lane. A police car was standing outside Agatha’s cottage. “Listen,” said John fiercely, “I don’t know what’s going on, but tell them we simply went up to London for the day to look at the shops and have a meal. No, wait, they’ll check restaurants. We can tell them about the service station and then just say we had taken a picnic lunch and ate it in Green Park.”

  When they parked, Bill Wong and a detective constable and a policewoman got out of the waiting car.

  Bill looked grim. “Where were you, Mrs. Raisin?” he demanded. Agatha’s heart sank at the formal use of her second name.

  “In London, going around the shops,” she said. “Why?”

  “We’d better go inside,” said Bill. “You come along as well, Mr. Armitage.”

  Agatha unlocked her cottage door. “Come into the kitchen,” she said, nearly tripping over her cats, which were winding themselves around her ankles.

  When they were all seated around the kitchen table, Agatha said, “What’s this about? I’ve made a statement.”

  “There has been a further development,” said Bill, his eyes hard. Then he winced as Hodge dug his nails into his trouser leg.

  “Miss Jellop has been murdered.”

  ∨ The Case of the Curious Curate ∧

  4

  How? When?” asked Agatha.

  “We cannot ascertain the exact time of death at the moment, but sometime early this evening. She was strangled. She lives alone and might not have been found for some time except Mrs. Bloxby went to call on her and found the door open and then found Miss Jellop.”

  “Poor Mrs. Bloxby!” Agatha half-rose. “I’d better go to her.”

  “Sit down! Detective Inspector Wilkes is with her. Let’s go through your movements.”

  “But we’re not suspects, surely?”

  “You stir things up and I would like to know just what you’ve been stirring.”

  John took over. “We decided to get out of the village. We took a picnic and had that in the Green Park. We went round the shops, window-gazing. Then we stopped at that service station on the A40 and had an all-day breakfast.”

  “When?”

  “About an hour and a half ago.”

  “You weren’t up in New Cross trying to play detective?”

  “No,” said John, praying that the vicar would keep silent.

  “So you went off together for the day. Why?”

  “We wanted to look at the shops. That’s all.” John desperately improvised. “As a matter of fact, we took a walk around Kensington as well to see if there was a location that might suit us.”

  “What location? Why?”

  John took a deep breath. He was tired and the news of this second murder had rattled him. “Because we’re thinking of getting married.”

  Cursing him inside, Agatha forced a cheesy smile onto her face and said, “I didn’t tell you before. I wanted it to be a surprise.”

  “And when is this wedding to take place?”

  “We haven’t fixed the date yet,” said Agatha. “But when the time comes, Bill, I hope you’ll give me away.”

  Bill’s almond-shaped eyes fixed on both their faces. “I don’t believe this,” he said flatly. “But we will check out your alibi.”

  The questions continued. Had anyone talked to them in the shops, in Green Park, at Kensington? They were both tired and began to find it easy to lie, both sticking to their stories until Agatha almost began to believe they really were going to get married.

  When the questions had finished, Agatha asked, “So does that mean Mr. Bloxby is in the clear?”

  “No one is in the clear,” said Bill. “Don’t take any more trips in the next few days.”

  When they had gone, John could see that Agatha was about to round on him about their supposed forthcoming marriage.

  “Save it,” he snapped. “We’ve got to get on the phone to that vicar and to Mrs. Hill and tell them to keep quiet.”

  “You do it, O future husband of mine,” said Agatha. “I’m going to get a drink.”

  “Get a large whisky for me at the same time. Before you do that, give me Mrs. Hill’s number. I saw you taking a note of it.”

  Agatha gave him the number. She went into the sitting-room and poured a large gin and tonic for herself and a whisky for John and then sat down, hearing his voice talking on the phone, but unable to make out the words because she had closed the sitting-room door. They should have told Bill the truth, she thought wearily. It looked as if John had been right and that the murderer was down here in the Cotswolds.

  The doorbell rang. She peered through the curtains and saw several members of the press outside.

  She let the doorbell ring and sat sipping her drink until John joined her.

  “That the press outside?” he asked.

  “Yes, lots of them. Why on earth did you say we were getting married?”

  “On impulse. This second murder rattled me. We can go along with it for the moment and then say we broke up.”

  “Bill didn’t believe us.”

  “He will. All we have to do is look a bit lover-like when he calls again – which he will. Feel up to it?”

  “I don’t feel up to anything at the moment,” said Agatha. “Why was Miss Jellop murdered?”

  “She obviously knew something. I think the best thing for us to do is lie low and let things quieten down. We can go and see Mr
s. Bloxby when the coast is clear. She’ll know all about Miss Jellop. Who were the two others Mrs. Bloxby talked about?”

  “Peggy Slither over at Ancombe and Colonel Tremp’s widow.”

  “We can’t very well talk to them with police and press swarming all over the place. Do you want me to stay the night?”

  “No,” said Agatha. “I thought we had sorted all that out.”

  “I only meant for protection. Someone might want to shut you up as well.”

  Agatha gave a shudder but said, “I’ll be all right.”

  The phone rang. “You get it,” said Agatha.

  John went out to the phone in the hall and then returned a few moments later. “Press,” he said. “I thought your number was ex-directory.”

  “It is, but the press have ways of finding out ex-directory numbers. Unplug it from the wall as you go.”

  “Meaning you want to be alone?”

  “Exactly.”

  John took a gulp of the whisky in his glass, placed the glass carefully on the table and made for the door.

  “Scream if you want me,” he called.

  Agatha sat nursing her drink after he had left. From time to time the doorbell shrilled. The press were persistent. They must have seen the police car outside her cottage earlier.