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

“I just came to welcome you back,” he said.

“Thanks,” retorted Agatha. “Oh, well, you may as well come in and have a drink.”

She was always surprised, every time she saw him, at how good-looking he was with his lightly tanned face, fair hair and green eyes. Although he was about the same age as she was herself, his face was smooth and he looked younger, a fact that annoyed her almost as much as the fact that he had propositioned her because he had thought she would be an easy lay. He was a successful detective story writer.

They carried their drinks out into the garden. “The chairs are a bit dusty,” said Agatha. “Everything in the garden’s dusty. So what’s been going on?”

“Writing and walking. Oh, and tired to death of all the women in the village babbling about how wonderful the new curate is.”

“And is he wonderful?”

“Smarmy bastard.”

“You’re just cross because you’re no longer flavour of the month.”

“Could be. Haven’t you seen him?”

“I haven’t had time. I’m going to church on Sunday to have a look.”

“Let me know what you think. There’s something wrong there.”

“Like what?”

“Can’t put my finger on it. He doesn’t seem quite real.”

“Neither do you,” commented Agatha rudely.

“In what way?”

“You’re…what? Fifty-three? And yet your skin is smooth and tanned and there’s something robotic about you.”

“I did apologize for having made a pass at you. You haven’t forgiven me, obviously.”

“Yes, I have,” said Agatha quickly, although she had not. “It’s just…you never betray any emotions. You don’t have much small talk.”

“I can’t think of anything smaller than speculation about a new village vicar. Have you ever tried just accepting people as they are instead of as something you want them to be?”

“You mean what I see is what I get?”

“Exactly.”

What Agatha really wanted was a substitute for her ex-husband and was often irritated that there was nothing romantic about John, but as she hardly ever thought things through, she crossly dismissed him as a bore.

“So is it possible we could be friends?” asked John. “I mean, I only made that one gaffe.”

“Yes, all right,” said Agatha. She was about to add ungraciously that she had plenty of friends, but remembered in time that before she had moved to the Cotswolds from London, she hadn’t had any friends at all.

“In that case, have lunch with me after church on Sunday.”

“Right,” said Agatha. “Thanks.”

She and John arrived at the church on Sunday exactly five minutes before the service was due to begin and found there were no seats left in the pews and they had to stand at the back.

The tenor bell in the steeple above their heads fell silent. There was a rustle of anticipation in the church. Then Tristan Delon walked up to the altar and turned around. Agatha peered round the large hat of the woman in front of her and let out a gasp of amazement.

The curate was beautiful. He stood there, at the altar, with a shaft of sunlight lighting up the gold curls of his hair, his pale white skin, his large blue eyes, and his perfect mouth. Agatha stood there in a daze. Mechanically, she sang the opening hymn and listened to the readings from the Bible. Then the curate mounted the pulpit and began a sermon about loving thy neighbour. He had a well-modulated voice. Agatha listened to every word of a sermon she would normally have damned as mawkish and boring.

At the end of the service, it took ages to get out of the church. So many wanted to chat to the curate, now stationed on the porch. At last, it was Agatha’s turn. Tristan gazed into her eyes and held her hand firmly.

“Beautiful sermon,” gushed Agatha.

He smiled warmly at her. “I am glad you could come to church,” he said. “Do you live far away or are you from the village?”

“I live here. In Lilac Lane,” gabbled Agatha. “Last cottage.”

John coughed impatiently behind her and Agatha reluctantly moved on.

“Isn’t he incredible?” exclaimed Agatha as they walked to the local pub, the Red Lion, where they had agreed earlier to have lunch.

“Humph,” was John’s only reply.

So when they were seated in the pub over lunch, Agatha went on, “I don’t think I have ever seen such a beautiful man. And he’s tall, too! About six feet, would you say?”

“There’s something not quite right about him,” said John. “It wasn’t a sparkling sermon, either.”

“Oh, you’re just jealous.”

“Believe it or not, Agatha, I am not in the slightest jealous. I would have thought that you, of all people, would not fall for a young man simply because of his looks like all those other silly women.”

“Oh, let’s talk about something else,” said Agatha sulkily. “How’s the new book going?”

John began to talk and Agatha let his words drift in and out of her brain while she plotted about ways and means to see the curate alone. Could she ask for spiritual guidance? No, he might tell Mrs. Bloxby and Mrs. Bloxby would see through that ruse. Maybe dinner? But she was sure he would be entertained and feted by every woman in not only Carsely, but in the villages around.

“Don’t you think so?” she realized John was asking.

“Think what?”

“Agatha, you haven’t been listening to a word I’ve said. I think I’ll write a book and call it Death of a Curate .’”

“I’ve got a headache,” lied Agatha. “That’s why I wasn’t concentrating on what you were saying.”

After lunch, Agatha was glad to get rid of John so that she could wrap herself in brightly coloured dreams of the curate. She longed to call on Mrs. Bloxby, but Sundays were busy days for the vicar’s wife and so she had to bide her time with impatience until Monday morning. She hurried along to the vicarage, but only Alf, the vicar, was there and he told her curtly that his wife was out on her rounds.

“I went to church on Sunday,” said Agatha. “I’ve never seen such a large congregation.”

“Oh, really,” he said coldly. “Let’s hope it is still large when I resume my duties next Sunday. Now if you will excuse me…

He gently closed the door.

Agatha stood there seething with frustration. Across the road from the church stood the house where Tristan had a room. But she could not possibly call on him. She had no excuse.

She was just walking away when she saw Mrs. Bloxby coming towards her. Agatha hailed her with delight. “Want to see me?” asked Mrs. Bloxby. “Come inside and I’ll put the kettle on.”

Mrs. Bloxby opened the vicarage door. The vicar’s voice sounded from his study with dreadful clarity. “Is that you, dear? That awful woman’s just called.”

“Excuse me,” said Mrs. Bloxby and darted into the study and shut the door behind her.

She emerged a few moments later, rather pink in the face.

“Poor Alf, some gypsy woman’s been round pestering him to buy white heather. He’s rather tetchy with the heat. I’ll make tea.”

“Coffee, please.” Agatha followed her into the kitchen.

“We’ll go into the garden and you can have a cigarette.”

“You forget. I’ve given up smoking. That trip to the hypnotist worked. Cigarettes still taste like burning rubber, the way he said they would.”

Mrs. Bloxby made coffee, put two mugs of it on a tray and carried the tray out into the garden. “This dreadful heat,” she said, putting the tray down on the garden table. “It does make everyone so crotchety.”

“I was at church on Sunday,” began Agatha.

“So many people. Did you enjoy it?”

“Very much. Very impressed with the curate.”