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

Agatha told him that she had always had a dream of living in a Cotswold village. She left out the bit about taking early retirement because she did not want to refer to her age. And all the time she talked and ate, she admired the beauty of the curate opposite. He had the face of an angel come to earth with his cherubic, almost androgynous face framed by his gold curls, but his athletic, well-formed body was all masculine.

Tristan rose and called for the second course. Mrs. Feathers appeared bearing tournedos Rossini, new potatoes and salad.

“Isn’t Mrs. Feathers an excellent cook?” said Tristan when they were alone again.

“Very,” said Agatha. “This steak is excellent. Where did you buy it?”

“I leave all the shopping to Mrs. Feathers. I told her to make a special effort.”

“She didn’t pay for all this, I hope?”

“Mrs. Feathers insists on paying for my food.”

Agatha looked at him uneasily. Surely an old widow like Mrs. Feathers could not afford all this expensive food and wine. But Tristan seemed to take it as his due and he continued to question her about her life until the steak was finished and Mrs. Feathers brought in baked Alaska.

“I’ve talked about nothing but myself,” said Agatha ruefully. “I don’t know a thing about you.”

“Nothing much to know,” said Tristan.

“Where were you before you came down here?”

“At a church in New Cross in London. I ran a boys’ club there, you know, get them off the streets. It was going well until I was attacked.”

“What on earth happened?”

“One of the gang leaders felt I was taking his members away. Five of them jumped me one night when I was walking home. I was badly beaten up, cracked ribs, all that. To tell the truth, I had a minor nervous breakdown and I felt a spell in the country would be just what I needed.”

“How awful for you,” said Agatha.

“I’m over it now. These things happen.”

“What made you want to join the church?”

“I felt I could help people.”

“And are you happy here?”

“I don’t think Mr. Bloxby likes me. I think he’s a bit jealous.”

“He’s a difficult man. I’m afraid he doesn’t like me either.” Both of them laughed, drawn together by the vicar’s dislike of both of them.

“You were saying you had been involved in some detection. Tell me about that?”

So Agatha bragged away happily over dessert, over coffee, until, noticing it was nearly midnight, she reluctantly said she should leave.

“Before you go,” he said, “I have a talent for playing the stock exchange. I make fortunes for others. Want me to help you?”

“I’ve got a very good stockbroker,” said Agatha. “But I’ll let you know.”

Somehow, she expected him to offer to walk her home, but he led the way downstairs and then stood facing her at the bottom. “My turn next time,” said Agatha.

“I’ll keep you to that.” He bent and kissed her gently on the mouth. She stared up at him, dazed. He opened the door. “Good night, Agatha.”

“Good night, Tristan,” she said faintly.

The door shut behind her. Over at the vicarage, Mrs. Bloxby’s face appeared briefly at an upstairs window and then disappeared.

Agatha walked home sedately although she felt like running and jumping and cheering.

It was only when she reached her cottage that she realized she had not set a date for another dinner. She did not even know his phone number. She searched the phone book until she found a listing for Mrs. Feathers. He would not be asleep already. She dialled. Mrs. Feathers answered the phone. Agatha asked to speak to Tristan and waited anxiously.

Then she heard his voice. “Yes?”

“This is Agatha. We forgot to set a date for dinner.”

There was a silence. Then he gave a mocking little laugh and said, “Keen, aren’t you? I’ll let you know.”

“Good night,” said Agatha quickly and dropped the receiver like a hot potato.

She walked slowly into her kitchen and sat down at the table, her face flaming with mortification.

“You silly old fool,” said the voice in her head, and for once Agatha sadly agreed.

Her first feeling when she awoke the next day was that she never wanted to see the curate again. She felt he had led her on to make a fool of herself. A wind had got up and rattled through the dry thatch on the roof overhead and sent small dust devils dancing down Lilac Lane outside. She forced herself to get out of bed and face the day ahead. What if Tristan was joking with Mrs. Bloxby about her? She made herself her customary breakfast of black coffee and decided to fill up the watering cans and water the garden as the radio had announced a hose-pipe ban. She was half-way down the garden when she heard sirens rending the quiet of the village. She slowly put down the watering can and stood, listening. The sirens swept past the end of Lilac Lane and up in the direction of the church and stopped.

Agatha dropped the watering can and fled through the house and out into the lane. Her flat sandals sending up spirals of dust; she ran on in the direction of the vicarage. Please God, she prayed, let it not be Mrs. Bloxby.

There were three police cars and an ambulance. A crowd was gathering. Agatha saw John Fletcher, the landlord from the Red Lion and asked him, “Is someone hurt? What’s happened?”

“I don’t know,” he said.

They waited a long time. Hazy clouds covered the hot sun overhead. The wind had died and all was still. Rumour buzzed through the crowd. It was the vicar, it was Mrs. Bloxby, it was the curate.

A stone-faced policeman was on duty outside the vicarage. He refused to answer questions, simply saying, “Move along there. Nothing to see.”

A white-coated forensic unit arrived. People began to drift off. “I’d better open up,” said the publican. “We’ll find out sooner or later.”

Agatha was joined by John Armitage. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Agatha. “I’m terrified something’s happened to Mrs. Bloxby.”

Then Agatha’s friend, Detective Sergeant Bill Wong, came out of the vicarage accompanied by a policewoman.

“Bill!” called Agatha.

“Later,” he said. He and the policewoman went to Mrs. Feathers’s small cottage and knocked at the door. The old lady opened the door to them. They said something. She put a trembling hand up to her mouth and they disappeared inside and shut the door.

“There’s your answer,” said John Armitage.

“It’s the curate and he’s dead because that ambulance hasn’t moved!”

∨ The Case of the Curious Curate ∧

2

John and Agatha decided to go back to Agatha’s cottage and then return to the vicarage later.

“Who would want to kill the curate – if it was the curate,” asked John.

Me, thought Agatha. I could have killed him last night.

Aloud, she said, “I hate this waiting.” Then she thought, they’ll have questioned Mrs. Feathers and she’ll tell them about that dinner last night. I don’t want John to know about it. I’ve got to get rid of him.

“I’m restless,” she said, getting to her feet. “I think I’ll go for a walk.”

“Good idea.”

“Alone.”

“Oh, all right.”

They walked together to the door. Agatha opened it. Detective Inspector Wilkes of the Mircester CID stood there, accompanied by Bill Wong and a policewoman.

“May we come in?” asked Wilkes.

“Yes,” said Agatha, flustered. “See you later, John.”

He was urged on his way by a push in the back from Agatha.

Agatha led the police into her living-room and sat down feeling, irrationally, like a guilty schoolgirl.

“What’s happened?” she asked.