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

But this time there was no audience with the businessman. His formidable secretary, Miss Partle, received them instead. She said that Mr. Binser was abroad on business but that he would no longer be available to answer their questions. “He has done enough, considering you have no official status,” said Miss Partle. “But as a matter of interest, what brought you back here?” John tried delicately to put the case of the beatings and the return of the money while Agatha studied Miss Partle. She was typical of an executive secretary. Plain, middle-aged, sensibly dressed with intelligent eyes behind thick glasses. Those eyes were surveying John with increasing contempt. When he had finished, she said, “I think you should keep fiction for your books, Mr. Armitage. We are not the Mafia. We do not hire people to beat anyone who annoys us. We believe in dealing with the law. And talking about the law, do the police know that you are investigating?”

“I have helped the police in the past,” said Agatha defensively.

“Meaning that in this case, they do not know, and I think they should be told. Please do not trouble us again.”

On the road home, Agatha and John anxiously debated whether Miss Partle would actually tell the police. By the time John turned the car into Lilac Lane, they had come to the comfortable conclusion that she would not. Neither she nor Binser would want his friendship with Tristan exposed.

And then they saw the police car outside Agatha’s cottage.

They drew up and Wilkes and Bill Wong got out of the car. “Probably something else,” John reassured Agatha. But Agatha reflected uneasily that it had taken them nearly three hours to get back because of an accident on the M40 – time enough for Miss Partle to have consulted her boss and then phoned the police.

Wilkes looked grim. “I think we should talk about this inside,” he said.

Agatha opened her cottage door and led the way into the kitchen with her cats at her heels. She opened the kitchen door and let them out into the garden.

“Now,” she said with false brightness, “what can I do for you? Would you like a coffee, or maybe something stronger?”

“Sit down,” commanded Wilkes. “We have just had a certain Mr. Binser’s lawyers on the phone. Mr. Binser is making a statement which they are faxing over. As you evidently already know, he was conned out of ten thousand pounds by Delon, money which was returned. He told you this and hoped that would be the end of it because he said being tricked in such a way might bring his business judgement into disrepute. He says that as the murder took place here and had nothing to do with him, he did not feel obliged to contact us before this. He says the reason he is doing so now is that you both had the temerity to suggest to his secretary that he had hired people to beat Delon up. What all this amounts to is that you have been withholding valuable information and interfering in a police investigation. I should charge you both and arrest you. But I will admit you have been a little help to us in the past, Mrs. Raisin, so I will tell you this. You are not to conduct any more investigations into this case.”

“If we had not found out about Binser,” said Agatha crossly, “then you wouldn’t either.”

“Perhaps. But as far as I can judge, Binser has nothing to do with the case. He is a very powerful man with powerful friends in high places and I would like to keep my job until it is time for me to retire. Do not approach him again, do you understand me?”

“Yes,” said Agatha meekly.

“So what else have you found out? What else have you been keeping to yourselves?”

Agatha was about to say, “Nothing,” but John told them all about Charlotte Bellinge. “I know she’s got nothing to do with this,” he said, “but we thought if we could get a better picture of what Tristan was really like, we could maybe discover the type of person who would kill him.”

“Miss Jellop’s connections were all in Stoke,” said Bill, speaking for the first time. “I cannot see that she could have anything to do with such as Mr. Binser or Charlotte Bellinge. All you have done is to tread on the toes of the rich and powerful, Agatha, and, incidentally, lie to me about it.”

Agatha turned red.

“You will both come with us now to police headquarters,” said Wilkes, “and make full statements, and I mean full statements, and then I hope you will both get on with your respective lives and leave policing to the police.”

“And that’s that,” said Agatha, three hours later when they emerged from Mircester police headquarters. “It’s one in the morning and I’m starving.”

“There’s an all-night place on the Mircester bypass,” said John. “Let’s go there and go over what we’ve got.”

“Don’t see much point in going on,” said Agatha. “And you’d better have your ring back.”

“Not right away. I think it would be the last straw for Bill if he knew we had been lying to him about that as well.”

The all-night restaurant was a depressing place, redolent with the smell of old grease. They collected plates of sausage, egg and chips and sat down at a window, their tired faces lit by the harsh fluorescent lighting.

“It lets Binser out,” said John.

“I suppose it does,” agreed Agatha. “All we did was goad him into going to the police, and if he had anything to hide and had previously used criminal means to hide it, he wouldn’t have opened up to the law. Damn! I should have trusted my first judgment. I thought he was a nice man and honest and one that was only furious that he’d been so taken in by Tristan.”

“Which brings us straight back to the Cotswolds,” said John. “You know, that rudeness of Peggy Slither could have been to keep us away. I’ll try her tomorrow and you can see if you can get anything more out of Mrs. Tremp.”

“And what if they phone the police?” said Agatha miserably.

“Well, maybe not tomorrow. Tell you what, I’ll get on with my writing and you get on with whatever it is you usually get on with and we’ll let the police settle down.”

Agatha slept late the next day and awoke feeling still tired and still guilty about having lied to Bill. She phoned John to see if he would like to join her for dinner that evening but he said he had just checked his contract and he was going to be late delivering his latest book if he didn’t get down to it. “So I’ll need to leave real-life murder for a bit. See you around. In fact, I’ve got to go up to London to see my agent and publishers tomorrow and I may stay there for a few days. All right if I leave my keys with you? Just in case there’s a gas leak or something like that.”

“Sure,” said Agatha.

“I’ll pop them through the letter-box tomorrow.”

“I’ve got to go,” said Agatha. “Someone at the door.”

It was Mrs. Bloxby. “I heard you had the police round last night, Agatha. Anything up?”

“Come in. It’s amazing. Someone bumps off Miss Jellop and nobody sees a thing, and yet you know I had the police here last night.” Agatha told her about Binser’s complaint.

Mrs. Bloxby sighed and sat down and placed her battered handbag on the kitchen table. Look at her, thought Agatha, mangy old handbag, droopy cardigan, baggy tweed skirt, and yet she always appears the picture of a lady. “If only you could find out who did these dreadful murders,” said the vicar’s wife. “Nothing in the village will ever be the same if you don’t.”

“I’m shackled at the moment,” said Agatha. “The police will be furious if I carry on, and I think they’ll charge me next time.”

“Did you find out anything else?”

Agatha told her about Charlotte Bellinge. “Tristan must have been furious,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Beauty, titled lady, wealth, and all snatched from him.”