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

“Will Farmer Brent agree to let us hold it on his land?”

“I’ll go and see him,” said Agatha. “I only know him slightly. I was introduced to him in the pub. He seems a friendly sort. Mrs. Essex, Miss Jellop’s sister, is contributing home-made wine.”

“Is she living in her sister’s house already?”

“She’s just clearing up. I think she and her husband plan to use it for weekends.”

“Must say it’s pretty insensitive of her, her sister being recently murdered and all. I think the Jellop woman was slightly off her head.”

“Did you know her?”

“Not very well. Sort of in the way I know the rest of you women from Carsely.”

“Tristan knew her well. Did he talk about her?”

“Had a giggle with me about several of the old biddies in the parish. I can’t remember him saying anything about her in particular. You detecting again?”

Agatha was suddenly sure that she was lying. She was sure that Tristan had said something about Miss Jellop.

“I’m curious,” she said. “There’s a murderer on the loose.”

“You’ve done this sort of thing before, if I remember.”

“Yes.”

“Is this how you go about it? Ask questions? Any questions?”

“Something like that,” said Agatha. “People sometimes remember things they haven’t told the police.”

“I could do that.”

“Why should you?” demanded Agatha crossly.

“Because I’d probably be better at it than you.” Peggy’s eyes gleamed with a competitive light.

God, I really do hate this woman, thought Agatha.

“I have a lot of experience in these cases,” said Agatha stiffly.

“Yes, but I knew Tristan very well.”

“Not well enough to find out anything that might relate to his murder,” said Agatha, hoping to goad her into some revelation.

“That’s what you think. If you can find out things, so can I. I remember, you even got your picture in the newspapers a couple of times.”

“I didn’t do it for fame or glory. As a matter of fact, the police took the credit in nearly every case.”

“So you say,” jeered Peggy.

Agatha had had enough. She stood up. “The police don’t like amateurs interfering in their investigation.”

“Oh, really? So what about you? You have no professional status.”

“I am discreet.”

“Agatha Raisin discreet!” Peggy gave a great horse laugh and that braying laugh followed Agatha as she marched out of the door. She gave a fishing gnome a savage kick as she passed and it tumbled into a small pool.

“I’ll show her,” muttered Agatha as she got into her car. “But how? I’m at a dead end.”

Once home again, she sat down at her computer and began to type out everything she had learned. As she typed, the engagement ring on her finger winked and flashed. She took it off and put it in the desk drawer.

The doorbell rang. She saved what she had typed and went to answer it.

Bill Wong said, “I think it’s time we had a chat, Agatha.”

“Come in,” said Agatha reluctantly. “I’ll make coffee.”

“Instant will do.”

Agatha switched on the kettle. Her cats jumped up on Bill, purring loudly. He patted them and then removed Hodge from his shoulder and Boswell from his knee and placed them gently on the floor.

Agatha made two cups of coffee and placed them on the table along with milk and sugar. “I think I’ve some cake left,” she said.

“Never mind the cake. Sit down. I want to talk to you. I see you’re not wearing your ring.”

“I was typing on the computer and it kept flashing in the light and distracting me. What do you want to talk to me about?”

“I’ve never known you before to let things lie in a murder case,” said Bill. “I feel damn sure you’ve been ferreting around. Is there anything you haven’t been telling me?”

“You know about Binser. Yes, I’ve been asking a few questions but not getting anywhere. Someone Tristan knew, like Miss Jellop, learned something about the murderer.”

“I should think that’s pretty obvious.”

“Unless it wasn’t related. Unless maybe her sister bumped her off.”

“Mrs. Essex has a cast-iron alibi. Now out with it. Who have you been talking to?”

“You may as well know. I went to see a Mrs. Peggy Slither this morning.”

“Why her?”

“That repulsive woman was friendly with Tristan. But she won’t tell me anything. The silly cow has decided to turn detective herself.”

“I’d better see her. If she’s holding anything back, she might tell me. Where does she live?”

Agatha gave him directions. Then she said, “There was Mrs. Tremp.”

“We spoke to her. Apart from the fact she was about to give Tristan money and was saved by his murder is all we know. Think, Agatha. Has anyone else in this village got enough money to have attracted Tristan’s attentions?”

“There are a good few around. I can’t bring anyone to mind. I mean, sometimes in the Cotswolds, people with a good amount put by for their retirement live in quite modest homes. People are living so long these days and they all dread the inevitable high fees of a nursing home.”

“I’ll ask Mrs. Bloxby,” said Bill. “She might be able to think of someone. Where’s John Armitage?”

“He’s up in London.” Agatha coloured faintly. Had she told Bill about Charlotte Bellinge? Better keep some bits of the investigation to herself. Pride would not let her confess to Bill that John had gone up to London to see an attractive woman.

“There’s a favour I want to ask you,” said Bill. “You know I told you about my girl-friend, Alice.”

“Oh, yes. That still on?”

“Very much so,” said Bill, beaming.

“Been to meet your parents yet?”

“No.”

Obviously not, thought Agatha, or it wouldn’t still be on. “You see,” continued Bill, “I feel I’ve made mistakes in the past by introducing my girl-friends to my parents too early on. Makes them think I’m getting too heavy. But I would like Alice to meet my friends. I’ve got the evening off. May I bring her over?”

“I’d be honoured,” said Agatha. “Bring her for dinner.”

“Maybe not. She’s a vegan.”

“Oh dear. But I think I can cope.”

“No need to do that. What if I bring her for drinks, say, for an hour about seven o’clock and then I can take her for dinner somewhere.”

“Right you are.”

When Bill had left, Agatha returned to her computer and ran over what she had already written.

If Miss Jellop had learned something from Tristan, something dangerous, then it must be about someone in Carsely or one of the other nearby villages.

And what of Mrs. Tremp? Perhaps it would be a good idea to try that lady again. She decided to walk. Too much driving everywhere meant she wasn’t getting enough exercise. But as she trudged up out of the village, she was assailed again by the old longing to just let herself go, stop chasing after men, give up the battle against age. John Armitage, whom she had almost come to think of as asexual, had fled off to London, apparently smitten by Charlotte Bellinge. There was a faint hope that he might be trying to find out something relevant to the case, but Agatha doubted it. And how could a stocky, middle-aged woman compete with a porcelain blonde? Not that I want to, thought Agatha. I mean, I’m not at all interested in John. I wonder if I should go blonde. Do blondes really have more fun? Why not try? She tugged her mobile phone out of her handbag and called her hairdresser. Yes, they had a cancellation and could fit her in at three that afternoon.

Mrs. Tremp was at home and not at all pleased to see Agatha. “If you’ve called to ask me about the murders, I don’t know anything,” she said.