M.C. Beaton: The Case of the Curious Curate

“We are not here to blackmail you,” said John. “We are investigating the death of Tristan Delon.”

“And you are?”

“John Armitage and Agatha Raisin.”

“John Armitage. The writer?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve read all your books.” The tycoon visibly thawed.

John explained that they both lived in Carsely and were friends of the vicar and anxious to clear his name; that they had learned that Binser had given Tristan presents.

Binser switched off the tape recorder and passed a hand over his forehead. “I thought you were his relatives.”

“Was Tristan trying to blackmail you?”

“Oh, yes, but he didn’t get anywhere. I may as well tell you what happened. I suppose the police will find out about me eventually. Where shall I begin? I give a lot of money to charities, but my employees sift through the applications, type up a report and I decide how much each should get. Therefore I was a bit taken aback when my senior secretary, Miss Partle, insisted that I should see Tristan in person. It seemed he wanted to raise funds to start a boys’ club in New Cross. I was amused that my usually stern secretary appeared to have been bowled over by this Tristan and so I agreed to see him. He was so beautiful and so charming that I began at times to doubt my own sexuality. He flattered me very cleverly. I do not have a son and it amused me to see the way Tristan’s eyes lit up when I gave him a present. Then I cut off the friendship.”

“Why?” asked Agatha.

“I went down to the church in New Cross one day to find out how the boys’ club was getting along. I had given Tristan a cheque for ten thousand pounds to rent a hall and buy equipment. He had asked for more money, but being first and last a businessman, I wanted to see how he had used the money he already had. He was out when I called, but the vicar was there. He said he’d never heard of a boys’ club. Tristan came in at that point and waffled and protested that he had meant it to be a surprise but it became clear to me that he had done nothing. I did not want anyone to know how I had been suckered and so I left the vicar to deal with him. Then Tristan wrote to me, threatening to tell my wife that we’d had an affair – which we most certainly had not – and saying he would show her the presents I had given him. I told him if he approached me again I would go straight to the police and that I’d taped his call. All my calls are taped. I never heard from him again. But I was puzzled at being so easily taken in. I consulted a psychiatrist friend and outlined what I knew of Tristan’s character. He asked me if Tristan was fascinated by mirrors. It seemed an odd question, but I remembered that on the few occasions I had taken Tristan out for dinner to a restaurant with a lot of mirrors that he would sit gazing fascinated at his own reflection.

“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.”