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

John looked unconvinced. “Unless Miss Partle has any connection with Notting Hill, the whole idea remains farfetched.”

“I have the addresses of everyone concerned with the murder cases in the station,” said Bill. “Do no harm to have a look.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“All right.” Bill led the way into police headquarters and told John to take a seat and wait.

John waited and waited, feeling increasingly uneasy. Bill was taking an unusually long time.

At last Bill came out. “Miss Partle lives in Notting Hill,” he said. “I’ve phoned Kensington to pull her in for questioning just in case, and hope Binser doesn’t sue us.”

“Give me the address,” said John.

“No, one amateur is enough. Leave it to the police.”

John raced to the post office and asked for the London phone directory. He located Miss Partle’s address, got back into his car and set off at speed for London.

Agatha was in a state of sheer terror. For a long time she was unable to think. Then she remembered that paper-knife she had bought and put in the pocket of her coat. She twisted her bound hands, trying to get her fingers inside her coat pocket.

Then the cellar door opened again. This is it, thought Agatha. Miss Partle came down the stairs carrying a hammer. “I’ll just put an end to you,” she said, “and then worry about getting rid of the body later.”

She hefted the hammer and Agatha closed her eyes. Then, above their heads, the doorbell shrilled.

Miss Partle lowered the hammer. Should she answer it or wait for them to go away? But sometimes Mr. Binser sent important documents to her home for her to study. She dropped the hammer on the floor beside Agatha and went back up the stairs.

She opened the street door. Two policemen stood there. “Miss Partle?”

“Yes?”

“I wonder if you would accompany us to the police station. Just a few more questions concerning the murder of Tristan Delon.”

“But I have already answered all your questions. Mr. Binser will be most displeased.”

“It won’t take long.”

The desire to get them away from the house prompted Miss Partle to say, “I’ll fetch my handbag.”

Agatha heard the voices but could not make out what they were saying. She heard Miss Partle go back into the kitchen, and then back to the front door. Agatha began to bang her feet on the floor. But the door slammed shut behind Miss Partle and the house was quiet.

Bill and Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes were speeding for London, siren blaring. “I told them to hold this Miss Partle until we got there,” said Wilkes.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Bill, “what if Agatha’s gone to her house?”

“They say she seemed to be alone.”

“Might be an idea to call at the house first and ask the neighbours if they saw anyone like Agatha call at the door. Only take a minute,” he pleaded.

Wilkes sighed. “Well, all right. But I’ve got a feeling we’ll have Binser’s lawyers on top of us by the end of the day. Agatha Raisin. Pah! Why can’t she mind her own business?”

“She’s often blundered onto something in the past.”

“If there’s nothing in this, I’ll charge that damn woman with interfering in police business and I really will do it this time!”

Down in the cellar, Agatha rolled onto her back again with a groan. Why wasn’t real life like the movies? In a movie, the heroine would have been able to get her hands on that knife and free her bonds.

She lay still for a moment and tried again. Her pockets were deep. She got a finger on the edge of the tissue paper and gently tugged. Bit by bit the knife began to emerge from her pocket. She gave a final tug and the knife in its tissue-paper wrapping popped out and fell on the floor. She rolled on her side and felt for it. But the tissue-paper wrapping had been Sellotaped around the knife and she could not get enough movement in her fingers to tear it off. Tears began to roll down her cheeks.

John Armitage was caught up in a traffic jam. He heard the sound of a police siren and saw the cars in front twist to the side of the road. A police car roared past. He got a glimpse of Bill Wong’s face. He suddenly felt that Agatha had made a terrible mistake and the police would never forgive her.

“This is the house,” said Bill. “Let’s try next door and find out if Agatha’s been seen.”

A young woman with two children hanging on her skirts opened the door. Bill described Agatha. She shook her head. “I’ve been busy with the children. Ask old Mrs. Wirtle across the street. She never misses anything.”

Mrs. Wirtle took ages to answer the door. She was leaning on a zimmer frame, peering up at them from under a bird’s nest of uncombed grey hair. Once more, Bill described Agatha.

“Yes, I saw a woman like that go in with Miss Partle,” said Mrs. Wirtle. “Then Miss Partle was taken away by the police. What’s going on?”

“And you did not see the other woman come out?” demanded Bill in a loud voice.

“No need to shout. I’m not deaf. No, I didn’t see her.”

They thanked her and went and stood in front of Miss Partle’s house. “Might take too long to get a search warrant,” said Wilkes.

“Try the door,” suggested Bill.

Wilkes turned the handle. “It’s open.”

“Then we can go in,” said Bill. “Responsible policemen checking unlocked premises.”

Agatha heard men’s voices. Had Miss Partle associates? But she was desperate. She made choking noises behind her gag and banged her feet on the floor.

“You hear something?” asked Bill, as they stood in the narrow entrance corridor.

They stood and listened. Again a faint banging sound followed by a moan.

They walked down to the kitchen. “Agatha!” called Bill sharply.

A stifled gurgling moan.

“That door over there is open,” said Bill.

He fumbled inside the door and located the light switch and pressed down.

There down on the cellar floor lay Agatha Raisin, her face blotched with tears.

The two men hurried down. Bill ripped the gag from her mouth and then, producing a clasp knife, cut the ropes that bound her.

“She was going to kill me,” gasped Agatha. “She’s coming back to kill me.”

Bill helped her to her feet. Agatha staggered and winced at the pain in her feet and hands, for the ropes had nearly cut off her circulation.

“Get her upstairs and give her some tea,” said Wilkes. “I’ll phone Kensington. They’ve got Miss Partle there.”

The Kensington police were becoming increasingly worried. This Miss Partle was formidable and business-like. She seemed to have powerful friends and her boss was a tycoon.

Miss Partle sensed their unease and was becoming increasingly confident. All she had to do was sit tight and sooner or later they would release her. She was not under arrest. All she had to do was answer the questions put to her by the clowns from Mircester police, go home, and decide what to do with Agatha Raisin’s body. If she and Agatha had been spotted together at the market, then she might have more questions to answer, but so long as there was no body to be found, there was not much they could do. It might be an idea to put the body in the boot of her car and dump it somewhere in Carsely.

A policewoman had been sitting with her. But the door of the interview room opened and two detectives came in. They looked at her grimly. One said, “We’ll start the questioning when Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes of the Mircester CID arrives.”

It was then that Miss Partle realized she could not remember locking her front door.

John Armitage arrived just as Bill and Wilkes were ushering Agatha into their police car.

“Come with us,” said Bill, “and look after your fiancée. She was nearly killed.”