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

She was just making her way through the crowds, past a man with a hurdy-gurdy and with a parrot on his shoulder when a voice in her ear said, “Mrs. Raisin?”

Agatha swung round. There was Miss Partle, surveying her.

“What a surprise!” said Agatha. “Isn’t this market fascinating?”

“It is, if you can tell fake from genuine. But I like looking,” said Miss Partle. “Like a coffee?”

“Thanks,” said Agatha. “Where shall we go? It’s so long since I’ve been here.”

“I live close by. I was just going home.”

They walked together chatting amiably about how London had changed and all the while Agatha was thinking, I must have been mad to suspect this nice woman.

In Chepstow Villas, Miss Partle unlocked the door. Agatha followed her into a sitting-room which led off a narrow entrance corridor. It was furnished with good antiques and some fine paintings. The room, which had originally consisted of front and back parlours, was now one long room with long windows front and back.

Miss Partle went to a thermostat on the wall and turned it up. “Keep your coat on. It’s chilly in here but it will soon warm up. Come downstairs to the kitchen and I’ll make coffee.”

“This is a fine house,” said Agatha when they were downstairs, looking around the gleaming modern kitchen. “You’ve put a lot of work into it.”

“I bought it with an inheritance from an aunt back when Notting Hill was still pretty unfashionable and got work done on it every time I could afford it. Take a seat and tell me why you were following me yesterday in that strange disguise. The coffee will be ready in a minute.”

Agatha laughed. “You are never going to believe this. I must have had a rush of blood to the head. I didn’t know you had spotted me last night.”

“That’s a very distinctive ring you are wearing. You should have left it off. And the wind must have disarranged your wig. I noticed in the restaurant that a strand of brown hair had escaped. I studied you when you thought I wasn’t looking and finally I was able to place you and then I saw you standing outside my house. So what were you doing?”

“I may as well tell you. I hope you are not going to be too furious with me. It all started at the duck races.”

“This sounds weird. Duck races? What has that got to do with me? Oh, the coffee is ready. How do you take it?”

“Just black. Do you mind if I smoke?”

“Yes, I do.”

“I’ll live without one.”

“Here’s your coffee. Now tell me why you were following me.”

“Well, at these duck races in the village, I met my former secretary, Bunty, who had married her boss. I got to thinking about secretaries who were in love with their bosses and I thought that if Mr. Binser had been under some sort of threat from Tristan, you might have stepped in to protect him. It all seems fantastic now I’m here talking to you.”

“I should be angry but I suppose three murders in and around your village must have made you want to grasp at straws. So the police have no leads?”

“Not unless the one I’ve just given them comes to anything.”

“And what was that?”

“Mrs. Feathers, the elderly lady Tristan was living with, she told me she had once seen him using a mobile phone. I told the police. You see, he might have got a phone call on the night he died that frightened him. I think he broke into the church box to take the money because he planned to make a run for it and wanted some petty cash. So if there was a call, they’ll be able to trace who it was.”

A cloud crossed the sun, darkening the garden outside, where two starlings pecked for worms in the small lawn.

“You don’t see many of them nowadays,” said Agatha.

“What? Mobile phones?”

“No, starlings. London used to be full of them. I was looking at the starlings on your lawn.”

“Tell me about these duck races,” said Miss Partle. “It sounds very primitive. It’s a wonder you didn’t have the animal-rights people after you or the Royal Society for the Protection of Birds.”

“These were plastic ducks, the little yellow ones.” Agatha told her all about the races and the drunken Morris men.

“I didn’t realize there was so much fun to be had in a village,” said Miss Partle. “What on earth made you decide to poke around in murder?”

“Insatiable curiosity, I guess. But I have no intention of giving up until I find out who did it.”

“Well, you know what they say: curiosity killed the cat. Would you like to see the rest of the house?”

“Not really,” said Agatha. “I think I’d better be getting back down to the country.”

“You were talking about all that wine the dead woman’s sister gave to the races. I’ve built up quite a cellar. Not homemade, mind. Good stuff.”

“You have a cellar?”

“Yes, here.” Miss Partle opened a door in the kitchen. “Come on. You can choose a bottle.”

Agatha walked to the cellar door and peered down some stone steps. “You go on down,” said Miss Partle behind her. “I’ll just switch off the percolator.”

“Is there a light switch?” said Agatha, uneasily reminded of being trapped in Mrs. Tremp’s coal cellar.

“On the inside of the door on your right.” Agatha was searching inside the door for the switch when a massive blow struck her on the back of the head and she fell headlong down the steps and lay in a heap at the bottom.

Agatha could feel pain all over though she was still conscious, but as she heard Miss Partle coming down the stairs, with what was left of her wits she realized she had better look as if she were unconscious.

Then she felt her ankles being bound and then her wrists. A piece of strong adhesive tape was put over her mouth. “Interfering bitch,” hissed Miss Partle. “I thought that phone had been got rid of. I phoned from a call-box round the corner. I hope they don’t realize the phone-box is near where I live. What’ll I do now? I’ll be back. Oh, God, why couldn’t you leave things alone!”

Agatha heard her footsteps mounting the stairs and then the cellar door banged shut. At first Agatha was in such a state of pain and fright that her brain did not seem to be able to work at all. Then she thought dismally that she should have told Bill her suspicions. When she went missing, John would tell him, and he would then question Miss Partle and maybe her body would be found.

John Armitage carried his groceries to his car parked in the public car-park in front of Mircester police headquarters. Bill Wong hailed him. “On your own? Where’s your fiancée?”

For one split second, John wondered whom he was taking about and then rallied and said, “Oh, Agatha. She must still be up in London. Any luck with that mobile phone?”

“There was a call to him the night he was murdered. It came from a call-box in Notting Hill.”

“Pity. Look, Bill, I hope she isn’t getting herself into trouble.”

“You’d better tell me.”

“It’s just that she had this mad idea that the murderer was Miss Partle – you know, Binser’s secretary.”

“Why on earth should she think that?”

“It’s because she met her former secretary at the duck races. Former secretary married her boss. Agatha starts thinking about secretaries who are in love with their bosses and comes to the mad conclusion that the respectable Miss Partle must have gone around bumping off people to protect Binser. I just hope she doesn’t get into trouble. She’s gone to find out about her. Binser’s got powerful friends.”

Bill stood very still. “I’ve often thought,” he said slowly, “that although Agatha might sometimes do silly things, she is possessed of an almost psychic ability to leap to the right conclusion.”