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

“Exciting?” Agatha looked at her in surprise. “I thought you were very fond of Tristan.”

“Oh, we all were, dear. Such a gorgeous young man.”

“When’s the funeral?” asked John. “I forgot to ask.”

“Some cousin’s having the body taken to London for cremation.”

“I would like to attend that funeral,” said Agatha. “Do you know when it’s going to be?”

“I don’t think anyone will know until the body is released by the police. Of course, you had a thing with him, didn’t you?”

“If you mean an affair,” said Agatha stiffly, “I most certainly did not.”

“But Mrs. Feathers is telling everyone she peered round the kitchen door and saw him kissing you good night.”

“It was a social peck, that’s all,” said Agatha, becoming angry. “I thought you were close to him.”

“Not close. He amused me. And women of our decaying ages, Agatha, do like to be seen around with beautiful young men.”

“I do not need beautiful young men. I am engaged to John, here.”

“Really?” Peggy surveyed John from top to bottom before turning back to Agatha. “How did you manage that?”

John said quickly, “Did you give Tristan any money?”

“Not a penny. Not that the poor lamb didn’t try. Cost him a good few dinners before he gave up on me.”

I hate you, thought Agatha.

“Where were you on the night he died?” asked John.

“Silly man. You’re not the police, so I’m not even bothering to answer you. I thought it would be funny to see how you two snoops went about your business, but I’m beginning to find the whole thing rather boring.”

Agatha stood up. Rage was making her intuitive faculties work overtime. “It’s a good act you’re putting on, Peggy, dear . But you were in love with him and somehow he suckered you and I’m going to find out how. Oh, by the way, did you know he was gay? Come along, John.”

Peggy sat staring after them as they made their exit.

“That last remark of yours hit the old bag hard,” said John when they were back in the car. “How did you guess all that casual jeering was a front?”

“Tristan, it turns out, was a complete rat and a blackmailer,” said Agatha. “But he was glorious and charming. He made me feel fascinating and desirable. That was why he was so dangerous. People who have been conned by him – and to be honest, I could have been – will pretend he had no effect on them. But I can’t imagine any woman being unaffected by Tristan.”

“Except Mrs. Bloxby,” said John. “Let’s go and see Mrs. Tremp.”

∨ The Case of the Curious Curate ∧

5

Mrs. Tremp lived in a converted barn outside the village. Agatha remembered seeing her at various village events. She was a small, mousy woman, and when the colonel was alive, the locals reported that he bullied her.

They bumped down the pot-holed drive leading to her home. As they got out of the car, Agatha slammed the door, and rooks, roosting in a nearby lightning-blasted tree, swirled up to the heavens, cawing in alarm. The harvest was in, and the large field beside the house was full of pheasant pecking among the golden stubble.

The converted barn looked large and solid. Agatha rang the bell and they waited. The rooks came swirling back to their tree and stared down at Agatha and John with beady eyes. Agatha shivered. “I don’t like rooks. Birds of ill omen.”

“You mean ravens,” said John.

The door opened and Mrs. Tremp stood there, blinking myopically up at them in the sunlight.

“It’s Mrs. Raisin and Mr. Armitage, is it not?”

“Yes,” said Agatha. “May we come in? We want to talk about Tristan Delon.”

“Oh dear. I was just making jam…and…I suppose you’d better.” She turned and walked indoors and they followed her into a huge sitting-room with long French windows. The furnishings were a comfortable mixture of old and new. The air was redolent with the smell of plum jam.

“Do sit down,” said Mrs. Tremp. “I hope you don’t mind, I keep the windows closed when I am making jam or I get plagued by wasps. What do you want to know about Mr. Delon?”

“We heard you were friendly with him,” said Agatha.

“Yes, I was, and I was most distressed to hear of his death. And now this other terrible murder. There was never anything like this before you arrived in our village, Mrs. Raisin.”

“Nothing to do with me. I don’t go around murdering people. But I’d like to know who is for Mr. Bloxby’s sake.”

“He has only himself to blame for being a suspect,” said Mrs. Tremp. “He was so jealous of Mr. Delon.”

“I suppose Tristan told you that.”

“He did let slip that he was having a difficult time with the vicar, yes.”

“Did you know that he was gay?” asked John. “And that he tried to get women to give him money?”

She raised a gnarled and veined hand up to her suddenly trembling mouth. “I don’t believe it. That’s a wicked thing to say.”

“I’m afraid it’s true,” said Agatha. “Did he try to get you to give him money?”

“He did tell me he had this project to start a club for the youth of the village. He said he would need help. I did offer to support him. In fact, I had a cheque ready for him. But he was killed, so he could not collect it. But I am sure he really did want to start this club. You must be mistaken. He was a real Christian.”

“Mrs. Tremp,” said Agatha firmly, “you are very lucky that he never collected that cheque. He would have pocketed the money. How much was the cheque for?”

“Five thousand pounds.”

“That’s a lot of money.”

“I can afford it. My dear George left me very comfortably off. He did not like me spending money. I made all our jam and cakes and bread. He insisted on it. And he would go over my housekeeping books every week, and goodness me, he would get so angry if he thought I had spent a penny too much. We lived in that poky little cottage on the Ancombe road for years. So full of junk I could hardly move! He never threw anything away. I craved space and light. The cottage was so dark. When he died, I rented a skip and threw everything out and then I bought this place.”

She gave a little smile. “Nice, isn’t it?”

“How did your husband die?” asked John.

“In a fit of temper. I was always saying, do watch your blood pressure. I’m afraid it was the cigarettes that did it.”

“He smoked too much?” Agatha thought guiltily of the packet of cigarettes in her handbag.

“No. What happened was I suddenly craved cigarettes. He wouldn’t let me smoke. There was a new cut-price grocery shop in Evesham. I realized if I shopped there instead of the village shop, I could enter the village-shop prices in the housekeeping book, but save enough for a packet of cigarettes. He had said he was going for a round of golf. I had just lit one up when he came crashing in. He had forgotten something. He started to rant and rave about my smoking and then he made some strange gargling sounds and dropped dead.”

She gave another little smile. “I sat down and watched him for quite a while before I phoned the ambulance. He was quiet for the first time.”

“To get back to Tristan,” said Agatha, “how did he first get in touch with you?”

“He called on me. He said he was doing the rounds for the vicar. He was so charming. He loved this house. He said he could live here forever. He said Alf Bloxby was a bully. I said I knew all about bullying and told him about my life with George.”

“Alf Bloxby is not a bully,” said Agatha firmly. “You have known him a long time. Can you see Mrs. Bloxby putting up with a bully?”

“Mr. Delon said she was very long-suffering. I think you have been listening to malicious gossip, Mrs. Raisin. Even if he were gay, where’s the shame in that?”