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

“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 Mrs. 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.

Then she rose stiffly and went up to bed. She carefully removed her make-up and peered at her face in the magnifying mirror in the bathroom. The lines around her mouth seemed to have got deeper. She undressed, took a quick shower, pulled on a night-dress and crawled into bed and lay staring up at the beams in the ceiling. At last the shrilling of the doorbell fell silent and she sank into an uneasy sleep.

It was early afternoon the next day when she remembered the phone was still unplugged and reconnected it. She dialled John’s number. “What are you doing?” she asked.

“Writing. But I’ve got something for you. I’ll be right over.”

“Knock the door, then, don’t ring and I’ll know it’s you.”

Agatha was wearing an old blue linen dress and flat sandals. She wondered whether to change into something more fashionable, but then reminded herself – it was only John.

When the knock came at the door, she answered it. John followed her through to the kitchen and put a small jeweller’s box on the table. “I think you’d better start wearing that to keep up the fiction.”

Agatha opened the box and found herself looking down at an engagement ring, a large sapphire surrounded by diamond chips.

“When did you get this?” she asked.

“Years ago. It’s my ex-wife’s. She flung it in my face just before we broke up. Try it on.”

Agatha slid it on over the wedding band she still wore. It was a perfect fit.

A tear rolled down her face and plopped on the kitchen table.

“What’s up?” said John.

Agatha gave a shaky laugh. “I still have the engagement ring James gave me. I couldn’t bear to wear it although I still wear his wedding ring.”

John gave her a brief hug. “Best you wear a different one. Unless I’m mistaken, Bill Wong will be back soon. I’ll make us some coffee. Those cats of yours are prancing all over the kitchen table. Do you allow that?”

“I’m afraid I let them do what they like. The table’s scrubbed regularly. Still, you’re right.” She lifted both cats off the table, opened the door to the garden and shooed them out.

John was spooning coffee into the percolator when the doorbell rang.

“I wonder if that’s the press again.” Agatha went to the front door and peered through the spy-hole. “It’s Mrs. Bloxby,” she called.

She swung open the door. “Come in. Poor you. What a nightmare. Where is your husband?”

“Helping the police with their inquiries.”

Mrs. Bloxby sat down at the kitchen table. “Coffee?” asked John. “It’ll be ready in a moment.”

“Yes, please,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Milk and no sugar.”

“Why Miss Jellop?”

“I just don’t know,” said Mrs. Bloxby. She accepted a cup of coffee from John. “Such a silly, harmless woman.”

“Where did she come from? Everyone in Cotswold villages these days seems to come from outside. No wonder the locals complain about the villages losing their character.”

“Miss Jellop moved here from somewhere in Staffordshire. I believe she was comfortably off. Her family were in jam. Jellop’s Jams and Jellies. Not much known around here but very popular in the north.”

“Does Alf have an alibi?”

“They don’t know the exact time of death, sometime in the evening. Alf was working in his study and I remembered that Miss Jellop had phoned in the morning. She wanted me to call round because she said she wanted to talk to me about something. She was always complaining about happenings in the parish and she wanted the church livened up, as she put it. Wanted to hire a steel band from Birmingham to perform at the services, that sort of thing. I phoned back late afternoon and said I would be around about nine in the evening. The door of her house was slightly open. There was no answer when I rang the doorbell and I went in, worried that she might have met with an accident.” Mrs. Bloxby raised a trembling hand to her mouth. “And there she was.”