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

“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.”