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

She roused herself from her meditations to realize they were approaching south Kensington and John was saying, “Look out for a free parking meter.” They cruised around until they struck it lucky. A man was just moving his car out from a parking meter two streets away from the church.

“I hope it turns out to be someone from Tristan’s past in London,” said Agatha. “I want Carsely to go back to being its old time-warp-dull sort of place.”

“I might agree with you,” said John, “had it not been for the murder of Miss Jellop. I hope we can find someone at the church. With all the thefts these days, a lot of these churches stay locked up.”

Agatha looked at her watch. “It’s getting on for lunch-time. Some of them have a lunch-time service.”

St. David’s was a small Victorian church tucked in between two blocks of flats. To Agatha’s relief, the door was standing open.

She followed John in, noticing with irritation that John as usual was leading the way. The church was dark and smelt of incense. Agatha looked at the burning candles and at the Stations of the Cross. “Isn’t this a Catholic church?” she asked.

“No, Church of England. Very High. All bells and smells.”

A man in shirt-sleeves came out of a side door and approached the altar. “Excuse me,” called John.

He approached them down the aisle. He was wearing a grey shirt and black trousers. He had a thin intelligent face.

John introduced them and explained why they were anxious to find out all they could about Tristan.

“I am Hugh Beresford,” he said. “I am the vicar here.”

“And were you here when Tristan was curate?” asked Agatha.

“Yes. I was distressed to read about his murder. So sad.”

“What was his behaviour like when he was here?”

“Exemplary, until…”

“Until what?” demanded Agatha sharply.

“I should not speak ill of the dead, although it was not entirely his fault.”

“You’d better tell us,” said John. “We’re desperate for any morsel which might help us find out what happened to him.” At that moment a woman entered the church, sat in a back pew and then knelt down in prayer. “Is there anywhere private we can talk?”

“Yes, follow me.”

He led them up the aisle and through a heavy oak door at the left of the altar, down a stone passage where surplices hung on hooks, and through another door into a small wood-panelled room furnished with a plain desk and chairs. “Please sit down,” said the vicar. “I will tell you what I know, but I really don’t think it has much bearing on the case. I feel I should really not be telling you anything I have not said to the police, but as you explained, your local vicar is in danger of being falsely accused and so I suppose I should do everything to help. Now where shall I begin?”

The room was dark and stuffy. Agatha could hear the muted roar of the traffic on the Old Brompton Road. The chair she was sitting on was hard and pinched her thighs. She was getting pins and needles in one foot and eased her bottom from side to side.

“Tristan was a very charming young man. At first, he seemed a great asset to the parish. But I suppose having such good looks could only lead to trouble. Before I go on, you must assure me that everything I tell you is in confidence.”

“Absolutely,” said Agatha and John nodded.

“Right. A very attractive lady started attending the services. She started to get friendly with Tristan. Of course, other ladies in the congregation became jealous and one told me that Tristan was having an affair with this lady. I challenged him. He said they were going to be married. Now this lady was a divorcée in her late forties. I pointed out the age difference and the difference in circumstances.”

“Such as?” asked Agatha.

“She was very wealthy and high-class. I told Tristan he would be damned as a toy-boy. But he would not listen. I thought of reporting the matter to the bishop, but I kept putting it off. He was so very much in love, you see.”

Agatha raised her eyebrows. “Tristan? In love?”

“Possibly I should not have done what I did, but I called on this lady. The minute I explained the difficulties there would be for her in marrying someone so young she burst out laughing and said Tristan was a dear boy and very amusing but she had no intention of marrying him. I said if that was the case, she should leave him alone. She was raising hopes in him that could not be fulfilled.”

He fell silent. Did Tristan really love this woman? wondered Agatha. Or was he dazzled with the thought of wealth and a sophisticated life?

The vicar took up the story again.

“In telling him that all was off and that she had no intention of marrying him, she let fall that I had been to see her. Tristan came back in a rage and accused me of ruining his life. He said he was sick of being poor.”

“So he wasn’t really in love with her,” exclaimed Agatha. “It was her money he was after.”

“Dear me,” said the vicar. “I never thought of it like that. Before it all came to an end, he was…glowing.”

“And who was this woman?” asked John.

“I really do not think I should tell you. She has moved from this parish anyway.”

“We really will be discreet,” said John. “We are neither journalists nor the police.”

Again the vicar fell silent.

At last he said, “It was Lady Charlotte Bellinge.”

“And do you know where she is now?” asked Agatha.

“I am afraid I do not.”

They thanked him and made their way out of the church. “So how do we find this Charlotte Bellinge?” asked John.

“I’ve got friends in newspapers who could look up the files, but they would want to interview us about the murders. I know – Gossip magazine. I know the social editor. We’ll try her.”

Tanya Cartwright, the social editor of Gossip , quailed when she learned that a Miss Agatha Raisin wanted to see her. Agatha had once done public relations for a businessman who wanted to break into London’s social scene. Tanya had caved in and had written him up in her column just to get rid of the terrifying Agatha Raisin. “Tell her I’m out,” she was saying to her secretary just as the door of her office opened and Agatha and John walked in.

“Some woman’s bothering me,” she said brightly. “How nice to see you, Agatha.” She dismissed her secretary with a wave of her hand. “Take a seat.”

John was amused. Tanya was a brittle, thin woman with a hard face, which her latest face-lift had done nothing to soften. Her eyes were disconcertingly huge. Gold bracelets dangled from one bony wrist. But she looked terrified of Agatha.

Agatha introduced John and Tanya relaxed a fraction. “So pleased to meet you,” she said. “We must do a profile on you sometime.”

“Delighted,” said John. “May I explain why we’re here?”

“I’ll explain,” said Agatha harshly. She outlined the tale of the murders and then asked if Tanya knew where Charlotte Bellinge could be found. Relief that Agatha was not going to badger her to put some social-climbing nobody into her column flooded Tanya’s face. She switched on her computer. “Wait a bit. I should have an address here. She gets mentioned in the social columns quite a lot.” She moved the mouse and clicked. “Let me see. Yes, here she is. Number Twenty-five Parrot Street. It’s off the King’s Road in Chelsea.”

“I know where it is,” said Agatha. “Thanks a lot, Tanya. We’d best be off.”

They had just left Tanya’s office when the social editor opened her door and cooed, “A word with you, Mr. Armitage.”

John went back in and Tanya closed the door firmly, leaving Agatha on the outside.