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

Bill’s eyes were shrewd. “You sound as if you’re speaking from personal experience.”

“No, just speculation. How’s Alice?”

“She’s fine.”

“I thought after that scene at the duck races that it would all be over.”

“She was drunk. She cried so hard and apologized so sincerely that I was quite touched.”

“You’re touched in the head,” said Agatha acidly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Bill, trust me, Alice is one cast-iron bitch. She wants to get married and with that mouth of hers, I doubt if anyone else would have her.”

Bill stood up and jerked on his coat. “Just because you’ve been crossed in love, Agatha, you see the worst in anyone else’s romance. You should be ashamed of yourself. Who I see or what I do is none of your business.”

“But, Bill…” wailed Agatha.

“I’m off.”

After he had gone, Agatha sat feeling miserable. If she wanted to retain his friendship, she would need to apologize to him. But what on earth did he see in the awful Alice?

Restless, she looked around her gleaming cottage. Better to get started on the old folks’ club and take her mind off things.

She walked along to the vicarage. Mrs. Bloxby was out in the garden planting winter pansies.

“You look upset, Mrs. Raisin,” she said, straightening up from a flower-bed. “It’s not too cold today. I’ll bring some coffee out into the garden so you can have a cigarette and you can tell me what’s been going on.”

When they were seated at the garden table with mugs of coffee, Mrs. Bloxby asked, “What’s up?”

“It’s Bill,” said Agatha. “You’ll never believe this. He’s still devoted to Alice.”

“And what’s that got to do with you?”

“He’s my friend and he’s making a terrible mistake. I told him she was a cast-iron bitch.”

“Oh, Mrs. Raisin, you cannot interfere in a relationship.”

“Really? It was you who told me my marriage to James would be a disaster.”

The vicar’s wife looked rueful. “So I did. But I was so worried about you.”

“As I am about Bill.”

“True. But you’d better apologize. He is too good a friend to lose.”

Agatha sighed. “I’m tired of blundering around other people’s lives. I thought I would sound out some builders about getting the church-hall roof repaired for a start.”

“I am so glad you are still going to go on with that. John Fletcher, at the pub, is going to take the wine and label it as a liqueur. He says half of the price of each glass sold will go to the new club.”

“That’s handsome of him. I’ll make a push and try to get it all ready by Christmas. Have some sort of party.”

“When is the trial?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.

“It seems as if there isn’t going to be one. Miss Partle has lost her marbles and will be considered unfit to stand trial. You know, I had one thought when I was lying in that cellar – I haven’t made a will. Maybe I’ll leave it all to the church and go straight to heaven.”

“You’ll want to leave it to your husband.”

“What husband?”

“I cannot imagine you staying single for the rest of your life.”

Agatha grinned. “Maybe I’ll marry John Armitage after all.”

“There’s not enough of a spark there.”

“Does one need a spark at my age?”

“At any age.”

“I’ll think about it. I’ll go home and phone around some builders.”

Agatha went to feed her cats because their bowls were empty and she couldn’t remember feeding them. I’m turning into a compulsive cat feeder, she thought as she poached fish for them and then set it aside to cool. She saw John’s keys lying on the kitchen counter and decided to go next door and pick up his mail from the doormat and put it on his desk.

In his cottage, she scooped up the pile of post. She looked thoughtfully at his answering machine. Why all these trips to London? Feeling guilty, she laid down the post on his desk and crossed to the answering machine. There were several messages, and all from Charlotte Bellinge. He must have saved them, thought Agatha dismally. The first one was Charlotte apologizing for bringing some man called Giles to dinner. “Do forgive me, dear John,” she cooed. “Do let me take you out for dinner and make it up to you.” The second said, “What a wonderful time we had. Pippa is giving a party tomorrow night. Do say you’ll come.” And the third, “I’m running a bit late. Can you pick me up at nine instead of eight? Dying to see you.”

So that’s that, thought Agatha. No heading into the sunset of middle age with John Armitage.

She went home and arranged the cooled fish in bowls for the cats. The loneliness of the cottage seemed to press down on her.

Agatha picked up the phone and dialled old Mr. Crinsted’s number. “Feel like coming out for dinner?” she asked.

“Delighted,” said the old man.

“I’ll pick you up in half an hour,” said Agatha.

Agatha found she was enjoying herself in Mr. Crinsted’s company. They discussed plans for the old folks’ club and Mr. Crinsted promised to teach Agatha chess.

“I am so glad you called, Mrs. Raisin,” he said. “I wanted to hear all about the murders.”

“I would have called earlier,” lied Agatha, who had practically until that evening forgotten Mr. Crinsted’s existence, “but I’ve been settling down after the shock of it all.”

“Tell me about it, Mrs. Raisin.”

“Agatha.”

“Right, my name is Ralph.”

So Agatha did while Ralph Crinsted listened intently. When she had finished, he said, “It’s odd, all the same.”

“What’s odd?”

“This Miss Partle must have been so used to discussing everything with him, I’m surprised she decided to take matters into her own hands.”

“I’ve met Binser. He’s a straightforward man. He probably never noticed much about her. Thought of her as a bit of office machinery.”

“I think any man who had a secretary so much in love with him would have noticed something.”

“Maybe he did and took it as his due. Men do, you know.”

“Some men.”

“I’m just glad it’s all over and Alf Bloxby is in the clear. Not that there was ever any evidence against him, but there was gossip, and gossip in a small village can be very dangerous.”

“True. Have you ever played chess before?”

“No, never.”

“Like to learn?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Then I’ll give you lessons.”

After she had dropped Mr. Crinsted off at his home, Agatha reflected that it was a long time since she had enjoyed such a carefree evening.

She had promised to call on Ralph Crinsted in a couple of days’ time and start her chess lessons. Then tomorrow, she would see what estimate the builders came up with for the roof. The ring on her finger sparkled. “Masquerade over,” said Agatha ruefully to her cats. She took off the ring and put it in the kitchen drawer. She wondered how John was getting on with Charlotte and realized with relief that his relationship didn’t bother her in the slightest. Or that was what she believed. Almost impossible to imagine John getting passionate about anyone. Like Miss Partle. Poor Miss Partle. Now why think that?

This was a woman who was a stone-cold murderess and who was probably faking insanity.

John Armitage was at another hot and noisy party in Chelsea with Charlotte flirting with a group of men across the room. But he could bear it. Tonight was going to be the night. Hadn’t she said they would just drop in for an hour and then go home together? He remembered fondly the seductive look in her eyes when she had said those words and the caress in her voice.

He had been disappointed that she had still shown no interest in the murders except to laugh and say that Agatha Raisin was a formidable woman.