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

“Did she have anything around her neck?”

“I couldn’t see. I mean, I forced myself to check her pulse and then I phoned for the police and ambulance. But I couldn’t bear to look at her closely.”

“Villages are getting like the city,” said John. “Nobody notices things the way they would have done in the old days, when everyone minded everyone else’s business. There’s a high hedge on either side of her garden, as I remember, that effectively screens the door from the neighbours on either side.”

“Let’s see,” said Agatha. “She lived in a terraced cottage on Dover Rise up behind the general stores. It’s a cul-de-sac. Surely someone must have seen someone walking along.”

“If you remember, there are only four cottages in that row. Mr. and Mrs. Witherspoon were away in Evesham visiting their daughter. That’s the first cottage you come to. Then there’s Mr. and Mrs. Partington. They were in their back parlour away from the road for a good part of the evening watching a couple of rented videos and eating TV dinners. Then comes Miss Jellop, and at the end of the row, Miss Debenham, who was with her sister in Cheltenham and stayed there the night.”

“How come you’re so well-informed?” asked Agatha.

“I’ve had police in the vicarage half the night and they often talk as if I’m not there.”

“So we come back to Miss Jellop,” said John. “Did you overhear the police say anything about Tristan’s bank account?”

“Yes, I did, as a matter of fact. He paid several sums into his account over the past few weeks, but all in cash. Before this murder, they interviewed several of the women they think he might have preyed on, but they all swear they gave him nothing. They say they had been thinking about it. They even checked old Mrs. Feathers’s bank account, but the only large sum – large sum to her – she had drawn out recently was to supply you with dinner, Mrs. Raisin. She evidently said he had promised to invest money for her, but women like Mrs. Feathers are frightened of old age and harvest every penny. The fact that Tristan even got her to pay for his meals says a lot for his charm.”

“So did you hear how much he had in his account?” asked Agatha.

Mrs. Bloxby shook her head. Her usually mild grey eyes were full of worry and pain. “I am so worried about poor Alf. Did you find out anything?”

“We don’t want the police to know,” cautioned Agatha, “because they would give us a rocket for interfering.” She told Mrs. Bloxby about the visit to New Cross and to Binser.

“If only it would turn out to be someone from London,” sighed the vicar’s wife. “The atmosphere in the village is poisonous, all these silly women telling the police that Alf was jealous of Mr. Delon.”

Pale sunlight shining in through the kitchen window sparkled on the ring on Agatha’s finger.

“That’s a new ring,” exclaimed Mrs. Bloxby.

“John got rattled and told Bill Wong we were engaged to cover up what we were doing in London,” said Agatha.

“Perhaps you should have told him the truth,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Anything to get the investigation away from poor Alf.”

“I really don’t think Mr. Bloxby has anything to worry about,” said John soothingly. “In order to suspect him of the first murder, they would need to think you were lying to protect him and no one could believe that.”

Agatha was about to point out waspishly that John had suggested to her Mrs. Bloxby might be lying, but with rare tact refrained from saying anything.

“I’d better get back,” said Mrs. Bloxby, rising to her feet. “Alf might be back any time and I wouldn’t want him to find the vicarage empty.”

“Do you want us to come with you? Aren’t the press pestering you?”

“They’ve gone, apart from a few local reporters.”

Agatha saw Mrs. Bloxby out and returned to John. “Let’s switch on television and look at the news,” he said. “Something big must have happened to send them running off.”

“Wait until the top of the hour,” said Agatha. “It’s twenty to three. It’ll be sport on every channel.”

She lit a cigarette. “That’s a filthy habit,” remarked John.

“I know,” she sighed, “but one I love a lot.”

“We’ll just need to wait. Things’ll be easier if the press have gone. We could leave it until tomorrow and then try to see what we can get out of this Peggy Slither. She’s in Ancombe and the police won’t be hanging around there. Did Mrs. Bloxby say where she lived?”

“I can’t remember. Wait and I’ll get the phone-book.” Agatha went out and came back with the telephone directory.

As Agatha turned the pages, John said, “I remember. Shangri-la. That was the name of her place.”

“That’s right. Gnomes in the garden. I remember. Here it is. Doesn’t give a street, just the name of the bloody house, as if the snobby cow lived in a manor. Well, Ancombe’s a small place. Should be easy to find.”

They turned over various bits and pieces of what they knew until Agatha noticed it was almost three o’clock. “Let’s look at the television news now.”

They went into Agatha’s sitting-room and she switched on the television set and selected the BBC 24-Hour News programme.

The announcer said, “The Liberal Democrats, the Scottish Nationalists, and the Unionists have combined to table a motion of no confidence in the government following the revelations that the defence minister, Joseph Demerall, had been accepting large sums of money from Colonel Gadaffi.”

“So that’s it,” said Agatha. “The press won’t be interested in a village murder, or murders. At least we should get some peace.”

“I think I’ll go and get on with my writing,” said John, getting to his feet. “I’ll call for you in the morning, say around ten.”

“All right,” said Agatha, although she suddenly did not want to be left alone.

“See you.”

Agatha wondered what to do. A pile of shiny new paperbacks she had bought in Evesham lay on the coffee-table. She picked up the first one. Jerry’s Mistake , it was called. Agatha sighed as she skimmed the pages. She shouldn’t have wasted her money. It was a chic-fic book, which meant it would be about thirty-something women in London. There would be one Cinderella character who would have a gay best friend and the best friend would die from AIDS in the penultimate chapter. The hero would have muscled legs and be bad-tempered. She tossed it aside. The next was the first Harry Potter book. Agatha had bought it out of curiosity. She settled down to read and became dimly aware an hour later that the doorbell was ringing. She looked through the spy-hole and saw Bill Wong. With feelings of guilt and reluctance she opened the door. He was alone.

“I think it’s time you and I had a chat, Agatha.”

“Come in and bring the thumbscrews with you. We’ll sit in the garden. It doesn’t look too cold.”

“No, it’s nice and fresh after that storm.”

Agatha collected two mugs of coffee and carried them out into the garden. Hodge and Boswell climbed up on Bill. Hodge settled on his lap and Boswell draped himself around Bill’s neck.

“Amazing how those cats like you,” said Agatha.

“I’d like to concentrate on the matter in hand, however.” Bill gently removed both cats and put them down on the grass. “Now, Agatha, I see you already have the ring. But why do I get the impression that the pair of you were lying to me?”

“Because you’ve got a nasty, suspicious policeman’s mind. We are very much in love. No, I’ll be honest with you. We get along together very well and neither of us wants to go into old age alone. So we decided to get hitched.”