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

He coloured faintly. “I thought there might be a lead there, but there was nothing further to add. I did go back to see that vicar at New Cross, but he said he was busy and slammed the door in my face.”

“Don’t you find that suspicious?”

“Not really. I think he’s guilty about having lied to us in the first place. Anyway, to get back to Peggy Slither. She thought she had found out something. And you saw nothing around her home before you found the body? No sinister men?”

“Nothing.”

“Any cars on the road?”

Agatha frowned in thought. “Two passed me going away from Ancombe but don’t ask me the colour or make. It was dark and I didn’t notice them in particular.”

Suddenly, in her mind’s eye, she was driving towards Ancombe that evening. “The rambler,” she exclaimed. “I forgot about the rambler.”

“What rambler? Did you tell the police?”

“No, I forgot about him. The shock of finding Peggy lying in all that blood drove him right out of my head.”

“What was he like?” asked John eagerly.

“I just got a glimpse. One of those dark woolly hats and a scarf over the lower part of his face. An anorak, a backpack, dark trousers.”

“A scarf over his face and you didn’t think that suspicious?”

“There was a freezing wind that night. Oh, God, I’d better tell the police. They’ll think me such a fool for forgetting.”

The doorbell rang. “You get it, John,” said Agatha. “Probably some lingering local reporter. To think of the days when I cultivated the press!”

John went to the door and came back a few moments later followed by Bill Wong.

“There you are Agatha, you want the police and here’s Bill.”

“Why do you want the police?” asked Bill, shrugging off his raincoat and placing it on a chair.

“I’ve just remembered something.” Agatha told him about the rambler.

“Agatha!” Bill sounded exasperated. “Why didn’t you remember this before? I’m off duty, but get me a piece of paper. I’ll need to take this down.”

Agatha went through to her desk and came back with a sheet of paper and then sat down and described the rambler.

“Do you know what I think?” Bill put down his pen with a sigh. “I think our murderer was very lucky. Wilkes is going to be furious when I tell him this. If you had told us right away on the night of the murder, we could have put up road-blocks, we could have scoured the countryside for him. I’d best get off. We’ll put out a police bulletin asking him to come forward.” He got to his feet and put on his coat.

“Where was Alf Bloxby on the evening of the murder?” asked John.

“According to his wife, he was out on his rounds all evening. We’ve interviewed all the people he said he’d been to see, but it still leaves an hour unaccounted for.”

“Mrs. Bloxby never told me that.” Agatha experienced a pang of unease. “What does the vicar say he was doing during that hour?”

“He says he was just walking about. He says the whole business of Tristan’s murder had upset him dreadfully and he felt like taking a good walk before bedtime to clear his head.”

“Sounds reasonable,” said Agatha. She followed him to the door. “Why did you call?”

“Social visit.”

“How’s Alice?”

“She’s fine.”

“Take her to see your parents?”

“Yes. They loved her.”

Oh dear, thought Agatha.

She saw him out and returned to the kitchen. “Why did you ask about Alf Bloxby?” she demanded.

“I’ve been thinking. Just because we love Mrs. Bloxby doesn’t mean we know anything about Alf. Do you?”

“No, I don’t know much, but I do know this. Such as Mrs. Bloxby would never, ever stay married to any man capable of murder.”

“She might not know he was capable of murder.”

“Rubbish.”

“I mean, did she say anything to you about Alf being unable to account for an hour of his movements?”

“He did account for them!”

“But only his word. No witnesses. Let’s go and see her.”

“All right. If it’ll make you feel any better.”

“You’re not wearing your ring.”

“Oh, that. I’d forgotten about it. Do you want me to put it on?”

“May as well maintain the fiction.”

“We don’t need to maintain it in front of Mrs. Bloxby.”

“But we do in front of other people,” said John.

Agatha went through to her desk and fished out the ring and put it on her finger. It felt loose. Good heavens, she thought, I’m even losing weight on my fingers.

Leaves wheeled and whirled about them as they walked to the vicarage. To Agatha, the village no longer felt like a safe haven. She felt there was menace lurking around every corner. She longed for a cigarette and remembered the days when one never, ever smoked in the street. Now the street was about the only place outside one’s own home where one could smoke.

Mrs. Bloxby opened the door to them. “Come in quietly,” she said. “Alf is resting.”

They followed her into the vicarage sitting-room. Agatha and Mrs. Bloxby surveyed each other. Mrs. Bloxby noticed that Agatha was considerably thinner and Agatha noticed that Mrs. Bloxby’s usually mild eyes held a haunted look. They had talked since the murder, but only briefly.

Agatha told her about the rambler and Mrs. Bloxby clasped her hands as if in prayer. “If only you had remembered this earlier, Mrs. Raisin.”

“They’re putting out a bulletin, asking him to come forward,” said John. “If he’s innocent, he will.”

“I’ve been thinking about ramblers,” said Agatha. “I mean, one never really notices them.”

“Not groups of ramblers,” commented Mrs. Bloxby with a certain edge in her voice. “But one, on his own, at night!”

“I know, I know,” mourned Agatha. “But the horror of Peggy’s murder drove it right out of my mind until today.”

“Bill was round this morning,” said John. “He says there is a whole hour your husband can’t account for.”

“Most of us have whole hours in our lives we can’t account for,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “It’s just unlucky for Alf his hour should have happened on the evening Peggy was murdered. All this is wearing my husband down. I could do without your suspicions being added to our worries, Mr. Armitage.”

“I didn’t – ”

“Yes, you did,” interrupted Mrs. Bloxby. She rounded on Agatha. “I thought you had given up investigating.”

“I had,” said Agatha, silently cursing John.

“Whoever is committing these murders is highly dangerous. I suggest you both leave it to the police. Now, if you don’t mind, I have things to do.”

They both left the vicarage, Agatha furious with John. “I never should have gone along with you,” she said. “Mrs. Bloxby is my best friend.”

“Never mind. It’s lunch-time and you look a ghost of your former self. We’ll go to the pub and have something.”

Agatha was about to say pettishly that she didn’t want to go with him, but realized she was reluctant to be on her own. “All right,” she said ungraciously. “But I don’t want much.”

In the pub, they both ordered shepherd’s pie. Although there were quite a few regulars at the bar, there wasn’t much conversation. The murders had poisoned the atmosphere.

Agatha surprised herself by eating all the food on her plate. She decided it was time she went in for some decent home cooking instead of microwave meals.

When they had finished, she looked curiously at John. “You are strangely reticent about Charlotte Bellinge.”

“If I had anything relating to the case to tell you, Agatha, I would.”

“I don’t think you went to see her because you thought she had anything to add. I think you’re smitten with her.”