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

“If you say so. No word of James?”

“I may as well tell you. That lying bastard never returned to that monastery.”

“He’ll turn up again. With your luck, probably on your wedding day.”

“Forget about him. Any ideas why Miss Jellop was murdered?”

“I think she might have found out something. I think that was why she phoned Mrs. Bloxby. And yet Mrs. Bloxby said Miss Jellop was always summoning her to make some complaint or another.”

“Was she rich?”

“Very comfortably off.”

“Anyone inherit?”

“She hadn’t left a will. Her nearest relative was a sister who lives in Stoke-on-Trent.”

“Tell me, Bill – anything funny in Tristan’s bank account?”

“Large sums of money, not great – five hundred here, six hundred there, all deposited in cash. Total around fifteen thousand. Seems he invented that family trust. He was born Terence Biles. Father was a post-office worker, mother a housewife. Both dead. Tristan changed his name by deed poll when he was seventeen. His parents were dead then. Nothing in his past. Good exam results at school. Studied divinity. Had the curacy of a church in Kensington for a few years. Nothing sinister there. Vicar said Tristan had declared he wanted to work in a rougher area. He seemed genuinely sorry to let him go.”

“So, Agatha, you haven’t been poking your nose in where you shouldn’t?”

“No. I really have gone off the idea of detecting. I want to live a long and quiet life.”

Bill stood up. “If you hadn’t said that, I might actually have begun to believe you really were getting married. But you wanting a quiet life? Never! Just make sure if you do find anything that you tell me.”

After he had gone, Agatha sat on in the garden, deep in thought. What had happened to that ten thousand? The police would not have asked the bank about it because they didn’t know about it. Perhaps Tristan had asked for it in bits and pieces so as not to alert the income tax.

Agatha phoned Binser’s office and asked to speak to him. She finally got through to his personal secretary, Miss Partle. “I really do wish you would leave him alone,” said the secretary sharply. “He is very busy.”

Agatha drew a deep breath. “Look, lady, just get off your bum and tell him that Agatha Raisin wishes to speak to him.”

“Well, really .”

Agatha waited and then Binser’s voice came on the line. “What now?” he said. “I’ve told you all I know.”

“It’s just about that ten thousand pounds. How did you pay it?”

“Cash.”

“Cash!” echoed Agatha. “That’s odd.”

“I know it’s odd, but I think Tristan twisted my mind. He said he was setting up a special account with a bank in New Cross. He could get started right away if he didn’t have to wait to get the cheque to clear.”

“I know you didn’t want anyone to know you had been conned. Still, I would have thought a man like you would have sued him to get the money back.”

“He sent it back.”

“What! You didn’t say anything about that. When?”

“About a month after I had confronted him. The money was delivered downstairs in a large envelope, addressed to me.”

“Was there any letter with the money? Perhaps he was hoping to resume the friendship.”

“No, there was no letter. I heard from him a week after that when he threatened to blackmail me. And as I told you, I said I would report him to the police if he did, and heard no more from him. Now, if you don’t mind, Mrs. Raisin, as far as I am concerned the matter is closed. I have heard on the news about the other murder in your village. Obviously the murderer is in your neck of the woods. Goodbye.”

Agatha replaced the receiver and stood thinking hard. What would have made Tristan return that money? Mr. Lancing, his vicar? No, it would have been more like Tristan to fake penitence and claim to have returned the money while keeping it.

She reached out to the phone again, meaning to call John and discuss this with him, but changed her mind. Tomorrow morning would be time enough. She didn’t want to fall into the trap of needing John’s company.

But when she lay awake in bed that night, she felt frightened at the thought that there was some unknown murderer out there. And a thatched cottage was the last place you wanted to try to get to sleep in when you were scared. Things rustled in the thatch overhead and the beams creaked. She decided, just before she fell asleep, that she would forget about the whole thing, see the police in the morning and ask permission to go abroad. She would stay in some foreign country, far away from danger.

In the morning, however, after two cups of black coffee and three cigarettes for breakfast, Agatha felt strong again. The fears of the night had gone. At ten o’clock, she heard the beep of John’s car horn outside, locked up the cottage and went to join him.

As they drove to Ancombe, she told him about the visit from Bill and her phone call to Binser and the surprising news of the return of the money.

“There’s something that man isn’t telling us,” said John. “Tristan wouldn’t return the money like that. He must have threatened him.”

“I dunno. There’s something very straightforward about him.”

“If he’s all that straightforward, then why did he give us the impression that Tristan kept the money?”

“He didn’t lie about it.”

“Only by omission. Here’s Ancombe. Look for a twee cottage.”

“Nothing in the main street that I can see. Stop at the post office there and I’ll ask.”

John waited until Agatha returned with the news that Peggy Slither lived at the far end of the village in Sheep Street.

“There must be hundreds of Sheep Streets in the Cotswolds,” said John, letting in the clutch and moving off.

At the end of the village, he turned right into Sheep Street.

“Only a few houses here. Oh, that must be it up ahead on the right.”

Shangri-la was a modern bungalow. The front garden was bright with flowers and plaster gnomes. They parked outside and then made their way up a crazy-paving path to the front door. The doormat bore the legend GO AWAY . No doubt Peggy found it humorous. John pressed the bell and they waited while it rang out the chimes of Big Ben. “Is she Mrs. or Miss?” asked John.

“Don’t know.”

The door was opened by a dark-haired middle-aged woman. She had a sallow skin and the sort of twinkling humorous eyes of people who do not have much of a sense of humour at all.

Agatha introduced herself and John.

“Oh, the snoops of Carsely,” she said in a husky voice. “I was just about to make a cup of tea. Come in.”

The living-room was full of knick-knacks and plants. Beside the window, a palm tree grew out of an old toilet. One wall was covered in those tin advertising signs that antique dealers love to fake. On the other side of the window from the palm tree was a copy of the boy of Bruges, peeing into a stone basin. The three–piece suite was upholstered in slippery green silk and decorated with gold fringe.

“I’ll get the tea,” said Peggy.

John looked at the stone boy of Bruges. “I wonder how the water circulates?” he said.

“Awful thing to have in your living room,” said Agatha. “Makes me want to pee myself.”

“Do you think she is really trying to be funny with all this kitsch?” whispered John.

“No, I have a feeling she really likes it. Shhh! Here she comes.”

Peggy entered carrying a tray. The teapot was in the shape of a squat fat man. The spout was his penis. Agatha suddenly decided she did not want tea. When Peggy handed her a cup, she placed it on a side-table.

“All this murder is quite exciting,” said Peggy.