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

“Ah, our Mr. Delon. Did you see anything past his extraordinary good looks?”

“I spoke to him on the porch. He seems charming.”

“He’s all of that.”

“You don’t like him, and I know why,” said Agatha.

“Why?”

“Because he is filling up the church the way Mr. Bloxby never could.”

“Mrs. Raisin, when have I ever been petty ?”

“Sorry, but he does seem such a wonderful preacher.”

“Indeed! I forget what the sermon was about. Refresh my memory.”

But try as she could, Agatha could not remember what it had all been about and she reddened under Mrs. Bloxby’s mild gaze.

“You know, Mrs. Raisin, beauty is such a dangerous thing. It can slow character formation because people are always willing to credit the beautiful with character attributes they do not have.”

“You really don’t like him!”

“I do not know him or understand him. Let’s leave it at that.”

Agatha felt restless and discontented when she returned home. She had started to make up her face again and wear her most elegant clothes. Surely her meetings with the curate were not going to be confined to one-minute talks on a Sunday on the church porch.

The doorbell rang. Ever hopeful, Agatha checked her hair and make-up in the hall mirror before opening the door. Miss Simms, the secretary of the ladies’ society, stood there.

“Come in,” urged Agatha, glad of any diversion.

Miss Simms teetered after Agatha on her high heels. Because of the heat of the day, she was wearing the minimum: tube top, tiny skirt and no tights. Agatha envied women who were able to go around in hot weather without stockings or tights. When she went barelegged, her shoes rubbed her heels and the top of her feet and raised blisters.

“Isn’t he gorgeous,” gasped Miss Simms, flopping down on a kitchen chair. “I saw you in church.”

“The curate? Yes, he’s quite something to look at.”

“He’s more than that,” breathed Miss Simms. “He’s got the gift.”

“What gift? Speaking in tongues?”

“Nah! Healing. I had this terrible pain in me back and I met him in the village and told him about it. He took me back to his place and he laid his hands on my back and I could feel a surge of heat.”

I’ll bet you could, thought Agatha, sour with jealousy.

“And the pain had gone, just like that!”

There was a clatter as Agatha’s cleaner, Doris Simpson, came down the stairs carrying the vacuum cleaner. “Just going to do the sitting room and then I’ll be off,” she said, putting her head round the kitchen door.

“We was just talking about the new curate,” said Miss Simms.

“Oh, him,” snorted Doris. “Slimy bastard.”

“Come back here,” shouted Agatha as Doris retreated.

“What?” Doris stood in the doorway, her arms folded over her apron, Agatha’s cats purring and winding their way around her legs.

“Why did you call Tristan a slimy bastard?” asked Agatha.

“I dunno.” Doris scratched her grey hair. “There’s something about him that gives me the creeps.”

“But you don’t know him, surely,” complained Agatha.

“No, just an impression. Now I must get on.”

“What does she know about anything?” grumbled Miss Simms. “She’s only a cleaner,” she added, forgetting that she herself was sometimes reduced to cleaning houses when she was between what she euphemistically called “gentlemen friends.”

“Exactly,” agreed Agatha. “What’s his place like?”

“Well, Mrs. Feathers’s cottage is ever so dark, but he’s brightened up the room with pictures and throw rugs and that. He doesn’t have his own kitchen, but old Mrs. Feathers, she cooks for him.”

“Lucky Mrs. Feathers,” said Agatha.

“I was wondering if there was any chance of a date.”

Agatha stiffened. “He’s a man of the cloth,” she said severely.

“But he ain’t Catholic. He can go out with girls same as anybody.”

“What about your gentleman friend in bathroom fittings?”

Miss Simms giggled. “He wouldn’t have to know. Anyway, he’s married.”

The normally pushy Agatha was beginning to feel out classed. Besides, Tristan was young – well, maybe thirty-something, and Miss Simms was in her late twenties.

When Miss Simms had left, Agatha nervously paced up and down. She jerked open a kitchen drawer and found herself looking down at a packet of cigarettes. She took it out, opened it and lit one. Glory be! It tasted marvellous. The hypnotist’s curse had gone. She hung on to the kitchen table until the first wave of dizziness had passed. Think what you’re doing to your health, your lungs, screamed the governess in her head. “Shove off,” muttered Agatha to the inner voice.

There was another ring at the doorbell. Probably some other woman come to gloat about a laying-on of hands by the curate, thought Agatha sourly.

She jerked open the door.

Tristan stood there, smiling at her.

Agatha blinked at the vision in blue shirt and blue chinos. “Oh, Mr. Delon,” she said weakly. “How nice.”

“Call me Tristan,” he said. “I noticed you at church on Sunday. And I heard that you used to live in London. I’m still a city boy and still out of my depth in the country. This is very last minute, but I wondered whether you would be free to have dinner with me tonight?”

“Yes, that would be lovely,” said Agatha, wishing she had put on a thicker layer of make-up. “Where?”

“Oh, just at my place, if that’s all right.”

“Lovely. What time?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“Fine. Won’t you come in?”

“Not now. On my rounds. See you this evening.” He gave her a sunny smile and waved and walked off down the lane.

Agatha retreated to the kitchen. Her knees were trembling. Remember your age, snarled the voice in her head. Agatha ignored it and lit another cigarette while she planned what to wear. No more sensible clothes. She did not stop to consider what gossip the curate had heard that had prompted him to ask her to dinner. Agatha considered herself a very important person, which was her way of lacquering-over her feelings of inferiority.

By the time she stepped out into the balmy summer evening some hours later in a gold silk dress, the bedroom behind her in the cottage was a wreck of discarded clothes. The dress was a plain shirt-waister, Agatha having decided that full evening rig would not be suitable for dinner in a village cottage.

She kept her face averted as she passed the vicarage and knocked at Mrs. Feathers’s door. She had not told Mrs. Bloxby about the invitation, feeling that lady would not approve.

Old Mrs. Feathers answered the door. She was grey-haired and stooped and had a mild, innocent face. “Just go on upstairs,” she said.

Agatha mounted the narrow cottage stairs. Tristan opened a door at the top. “Welcome,” he said. “How nice and cool you look.”

He ushered Agatha into a small room where a table had been laid with a white cloth for dinner.

“We’ll start right away,” he said. He opened the door and shouted down the stairs, “You can start serving now, Mrs. Feathers.”

“Doesn’t she need some help?” asked Agatha anxiously.

“Oh, no. Don’t spoil her fun. She likes looking after me.”

But Agatha felt awkward as Mrs. Feathers subsequently appeared carrying a heavy tray. She laid out two plates of pâté de foie gras, toast melba, a chilled bottle of wine and two glasses. “Just call when you’re ready for your next course,” she said.

Agatha sat down. Mrs. Feathers spread a large white napkin on Agatha’s lap before creaking off.

Tristan poured wine and sat down opposite her. “Now,” he said, “tell me what brings a sophisticated lady like yourself to a Cotswold village?”