The Case of the Curious Curate ar-13

by M C Beaton

  Alf Bloxby tried to separate the warring dancers but was thrust aside with cries of “Get away, you murderer.”

  The vicar, his face flaming, looked around for help, shouting to the crowd to stop laughing and do something.

  “Police!” shouted Bill Wong. Alf switched off the music. The dancers stopped hitting each other and stood there sheepishly.

  Bill shouted to the crowd. “All of you, go home. Show’s over.”

  The crowd began to stream off towards the gate. “My speech,” wailed Agatha.

  “Too late,” said John. “We’d better get back and start loading up the rest of the wine and stuff.” John had borrowed a trailer which was hitched to his car, parked at the edge of the field.

  John stared at the ground behind the table. “Agatha, the wine’s gone. Someone’s nicked the rest of it.”

  “I don’t care,” said Agatha. “I hope it poisons them.”

  “But we’d better tell Bill!”

  “Bill’s got his hands full. You didn’t leave the money behind?”

  “No, I’ve got it here in a bag. We’ll count it out at home and then take it along to the vicarage. Are you sure you don’t want to report the missing wine?”

  “I’m sure. Just let’s hope it wasn’t a married couple who took it. A few slugs of that wine and they’ll be in the divorce courts in no time at all. I don’t like Alice, but I should have never let her drink that wine.”

  “Better Bill finds out what she’s really like now instead of later,” said John. “Hurry up and help me, Agatha. It’s getting cold.”

  The sun had turned red and was low on the horizon. They loaded up the trailer with the remainder of the plastic cups, the glasses, the punch-bowl, and then the table itself. As they drove out of the field, Agatha said, “I should have told Bill as well about Brent and his wife.”

  “I really don’t think they had anything to do with it, Agatha.”

  “Someone had. Someone somewhere. Someone who could have been at this very fete.”

  They drove to the church hall first and carried the table in. There was still plenty of wine, stacked in boxes. “Just as well we didn’t take the whole lot along,” said John. “Where did you get the punch-bowl from?”

  “I bought it.”

  “No one could call you mean, Agatha Raisin. It must have cost you a lot, what with the silver cups and all.”

  “Just doing my bit,” said Agatha wearily.

  “Will Bill book the Morris dancers?”

  “No, I think he’ll give them a warning and tell them not to dare drive until they’ve sobered up.”

  “That’s all right. They’d hired a minibus. As long as the bus driver didn’t have any of the wine, they’ll be all right.”

  “We’ll leave the cups and glasses here,” said Agatha. “They can be used another time. I was too upset to notice. I hope the press had all gone by the time the dancers started fighting.”

  “Sorry. There was at least one television camera in action and I saw two press photographers.”

  “Damn.”

  “Let’s go to my place and have a drink.”

  “No, mine,” said Agatha. “I want to let my cats out.”

  After they had finished their drinks, they counted out the money on the kitchen table. “Nearly one hundred and fifty pounds, and that for the wine alone,” said John. “Not bad. There must have been about only two boxes of wine left for them to steal.”

  “Miss Jellop must have brought most of the wine down here with her when she moved. It must have taken years to make a cellar-full of the stuff,” said Agatha. “Let’s take this money along to Mrs. Bloxby. She could raise a lot of money for the church with the wine that’s left. But I think someone in the village who knows about home-made wine should figure out how to weaken it before any more is sold. At least that should be the end of Alice. I never could figure out what Bill saw in her.”

  “Maybe she’s good in bed.”

  Agatha shuddered. For some reason she did not want to imagine Bill Wong in bed with anyone, least of all Alice.

  Mrs. Bloxby welcomed them at the vicarage and took the bag of money from John. “I’ll give this to Alf. He’s in his study counting out the takings. From the initial look of things, we’ve done very well. It is all thanks to you, Agatha, and Alf is going to say so in his sermon next Sunday. I saw you talking to old Mrs. Feathers. Did she have anything interesting to say?”

  “I should have spoken to her before,” said Agatha. “She said she was sure Tristan had a mobile phone.”

  “And how does that help?”

  “Because Mrs. Feathers said he had no calls the night after I left. But if, say, he had a mobile in his bedroom, someone could have rung him up and threatened him. He could have decided to flee and decided at the same time to take the church takings with him. He was too mean, I think, to let Mrs. Feathers know he had a phone of his own. He preferred to run up bills on hers.”

  “Did you tell Bill?”

  “Yes, for once, I did. He’s getting the police to check it.”

  “If only, oh, if only these murders could be solved.”

  “If they ever are,” said Agatha, “I’ll never complain of being bored again. But Bill has definitely warned me off for the last time, so I’ll need to leave it to the police.”

  “He didn’t warn me off,” John pointed out.

  But Agatha didn’t like the idea of John playing detective when she herself was not allowed to.

  “Mind you,” she said, “there would be no harm in continuing to ask around the village. Look at the news I got from Mrs. Feathers. Might do no harm to go and talk to Mr. Crinsted, the man Tristan used to play chess with.”

  “I’ll come with you,” said John. “We’ll try him in the morning.”

  “What do you know of Mark Brent?” Agatha asked Mrs. Bloxby.

  “Nothing bad. Nice man. Always willing to help out. Why?”

  “He was upset with Tristan. Seems his wife, Gladys, got a crush on Tristan and Brent warned him off.”

  “I cannot imagine for a moment that such as Mr. Brent or his wife would resort to violence of any kind,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

  “Well, we’ll try Mr. Crinsted. Oh, and the mobile library is due round during the week. I’ll have a word with Mrs. Brown.”

  “Do you think it will do any good?” asked the vicar’s wife wearily.

  Agatha could feel a resurgence of her old energy for investigation which had so recently deserted her. “I’ve blundered around asking questions before. Something’s got to break.”

  Agatha and John drove to the council estate on Monday morning. “Do you think he’ll be at home?” asked John.

  “He’s very old,” replied Agatha. “Bound to be.” Mr. Crinsted answered the door to them. He was stooped and frail with a thin, lined face and mild eyes behind thick glasses. “Do come in,” he said. “Dear me, how nice to have some company. The only company I usually have is the television set.”

  His living-room was neat and clean. Agatha looked at photographs on the mantelpiece of couples with children. “How many children do you have?” she asked.

  “A son and daughter and six grandchildren.”

  “Must be nice for you when they come on a visit.”

  “I’m afraid I only see them at Christmas. I think they find visits to me rather boring. The children are dreadfully spoilt.” How awful, thought Agatha, to be trapped here, never seeing anyone. Her mind worked busily. She would suggest to Mrs. Bloxby that they start an old folks’ club. Her stocks and shares had been doing very well. Maybe she could see about getting the church hall renovated, turn it into an old folks’ club.

  “The reason we called,” said John, “is to ask you for your opinion of Tristan Delon.”

  “Oh dear. Do sit down. I’ll make some tea.” Agatha glanced at her watch. “Don’t worry. It’s nearly lunch-time. Tell you what, we’ll chat for a bit and then we’ll go down to Moreton for some lunch. My treat.”

  Jo
hn stared at Agatha in surprise, but Mr. Crinsted was obviously delighted. “Goodness me, it does seem an age since I’ve been out of the village. So what can I tell you about our late curate? Well, he called round one day when I was working out some chess moves and offered to play. I was so delighted to have a partner that I let him win on a couple of occasions. He was such good company. I thought he really liked me and that was very flattering to an old man like me. Then the last time, I became absorbed in the game and forgot to let him win. I have never in my life before seen anyone change personality so completely. He accused me of cheating. I patiently began to explain to him the moves I had made and he said, ‘You’re lying, you silly old fool,’ and he upset the chessboard and sent the pieces flying and stalked out of the house. I was very disappointed. You see, I did think we might be friends.”

  “Before he became upset with you,” said John, “did he let fall anything about his private life?”

  “Not really. Chess is such a silent game. He did say once that people were like chess pieces, easily moved around. I pointed out that people could be very unpredictable.”

  “Let’s continue this over lunch,” said Agatha.

  They went to a pub in Moreton and ate great helpings of steak-and-kidney pie. Agatha ordered wine. To John’s amazement, she sparkled for Mr. Crinsted’s benefit, telling him stories about her public relations jobs. Warmed by the wine and food, Mr. Crinsted talked in turn about his own life. He had been a nuclear physicist, working at Los Alamos, and then in Vienna. He had married an Austrian wife, Gerda, but she had died of breast cancer after their second child was born. “I spent a lot of money sending my son and daughter to the best schools and then university. Freda, my daughter, became a nurse and then married a doctor, and my son, Gerald, he became an accountant and married his secretary.” Mr. Crinsted sighed. “I never saved any money and I was lucky to get that council house. I have a comfortable pension and my needs are small. I am glad both my children are very comfortably off.”

  “Don’t they help you out?” asked John.

  “I never ask them. I don’t have any expensive needs. Perhaps I did too much for them and taught them to be selfish.”

  “You know the church hall?” asked Agatha.

  “I know where it is, but that’s all.”

  “I thought I might see about getting it repaired. The roof needs doing. I could start an old folks’ club – films, bingo, stuff like that. You could give chess lessons. We’d need a minibus, too, to take people to the shops in Stratford, maybe the theatre.”

  “That would be wonderful. I would love to give chess lessons.”

  Again John looked at Agatha in surprise. He had recently come to think of her as a bossy, occasionally grumpy woman. But her eyes were sparkling with enthusiasm and old Mr. Crinsted looked positively rejuvenated.

  He had to remind her after two hours of conversation that if they didn’t hurry up, they would miss the mobile library.

  After they had left Mr. Crinsted, John said, “Are you really going ahead with this old folks’ club?”

  “Yes, it’ll be fun to have something to do.”

  “You surprise me.”

  “I can believe that. You have me down as a pushy, selfish woman.”

  “I have not,” said John, reddening.

  “There’s the mobile library. Let’s see what Mrs. Brown has to say.”

  They had to wait patiently while various villagers returned books, took out more books, and discussed books. At last they were left alone with Mrs. Brown.

  “Mr. Delon?” Mrs. Brown looked at them thoughtfully over her half-moon glasses. “Now there was a young man just waiting to be murdered.”

  “Why do you say that?” asked John.

  The plump little librarian picked a book off her desk and put it back on the shelves. “I’ve often thought about the way he humiliated me, jeering at my choice of books. There was no reason for it. It was an exercise in spite. I thought after I’d heard he had been murdered that if he could be bothered to go out of his way to be nasty to a country librarian, then he had probably been extremely nasty to someone who was prepared to retaliate.”

  “And you can think of no reason why he should suddenly have sounded off at you?” asked Agatha.

  “There was one silly little thing. Mrs. Feathers likes romances, so I always choose one of the more innocent ones and keep it for her. She doesn’t like the ones with explicit sex. We got talking one day and she said that Mr. Delon wanted to invest her savings for her. I told her that she should hang on to them, Mr. Delon was not a stockbroker. Perhaps that was what made him angry. But when Mrs. Feathers thanked me for my advice, I asked her not to tell Mr. Delon it came from me and she promised me she wouldn’t tell him. That is why I thought his malice was unprompted.”

  “I think she probably did tell him,” said Agatha. “What’s the gossip about these murders?”

  “I’m afraid a lot of people still suspect the vicar. They say Mr. Delon was murdered in the vicarage and that Miss Jellop and Mrs. Slither may have known something incriminating and Mr. Bloxby might have silenced them. It’s ridiculous, I know, but frightened people do talk such rubbish and people are frightened. I see the duck races made the front page of the Daily Bugle.”

  “I haven’t seen the papers today,” said Agatha. “Have you got a copy?”

  “Yes, I’ve one in my desk.” Mrs. Brown pulled open a drawer. “Here it is.”

  There was a coloured photograph of the Morris men fighting. The headline read: The peace of the English countryside. “Oh dear,” said Agatha. “Never mind. We raised quite a bit of money.”

  There was nothing more about Tristan to be got from Mrs. Brown. “Two more dead ends,” said John when he dropped Agatha off at her cottage. “Now what?”

  “I’m going back to see Mrs. Bloxby,” said Agatha. “I’m going to put forward my idea for the old folks’ club.”

  “You’re on your own, then. Maybe see you tomorrow.”

  “Yes, maybe,” said Agatha vaguely, her mind full of plans.

  “It really is too generous of you, Mrs. Raisin,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “But what about all that wine? We’ll need to find a new home for it.”

  “I’ve had an idea about that,” said Agatha. “The wine is very heavy and sweet. We could relabel it and call it Cotswold Liqueur. I could ask John Fletcher if he would buy the wine. He could sell it by the glass as a liqueur. I could get a write-up on it in the local paper, do a bit of promotion in return. Tell him the proceeds will go to the old folks’ home.”

  “That’s a brilliant idea. I don’t think all your money should go into the repairs. Now we have done so well for Save the Children, I think we should organize the next fund-raising venture to go to repairing the hall.”

  “I’ll think of something good,” said Agatha confidently.

  “I am so glad to see you looking like your old self,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

  “I think I’ve finally got fed up with suffering over James. I’m going to have fun.”

  Agatha was hungry when she got home. Once more she scrabbled in the deep-freeze, scraping frost off labels in her search for something to eat. She was so tired, she did not notice that the tray of faggots she placed in the microwave was on a foil dish. She had not read the instructions properly and so did not know that foil was deemed unsuitable for microwaves. She had only read the time by dint of screwing up her eyes. Agatha should have realized that forty-five minutes in a microwave is a long time. While the dish spun round, she went into the garden and took a deep breath of the cold night air.

  Was the murderer somewhere in the village? Was it possible to sleep easy at night after having committed three murders? As she stood there, lost in thought, she finally became aware of the frantic mewing of her cats and turned round. Black smoke was billowing out through the open kitchen door.

  She rushed in. Flames were beginning to lick around the inside of the microwave. She switched it off and unplugged it and opened the door, co
ughing and waving her arms to try to clear the smoke. The foil tray had melted under a congealed black heap of food. Agatha lifted up the microwave and put it outside the kitchen door.

  She found some slightly hard bread and cut two slices and toasted them with cheese under the grill. A film of black was lying over all the surfaces in the kitchen. When she had finished eating, she began to clean the kitchen. It was nearly midnight by the time she had finished.

  Agatha went upstairs and had a hot bath and then changed into a long cotton night-dress. She climbed into bed and settled down with a weary sigh. What a day! At least the duck races had raised a lot of money. Pity about the bad publicity. So Bunty was married. She had achieved the dream of many secretaries by marrying the boss. Agatha’s thoughts drifted back to the days when she herself had been a secretary. Her boss, an advertising manager, had been tall and blond and charming. Agatha had slavishly spent some of her small pay packet on buying special brands of coffee to please him. But he had never seemed to pay any more attention to her than if she were some sort of piece of office machinery. Mr. Crinsted’s son had married his secretary.

  She sat up, her mind racing. Miss Partle, Binser’s secretary. What if she was so in love with her boss that she would defend him every way she could?

  ∨ The Case of the Curious Curate ∧

  10

  Without even bothering to put on a dressing-gown, Agatha fled down the stairs, out into the night, straight to John’s cottage and rang the bell and then hammered on the door.

  “I’m coming,” she heard John’s cross voice shouting. He opened the door and stared at Agatha in her night-gown.

  “Why, Agatha, this is so sudden.”

  “Don’t be silly,” said Agatha. “I’ve just got to talk to you.”