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

John looked at his watch, only half listening to the woman next to him, who was telling him that she was sure she could sit down and write a book if she only had the time. They had been there two hours and Charlotte showed no signs of leaving. Time to take charge. He crossed the room and took her arm in a possessive grip. “Time we were leaving.”

“Oh, darling.” Charlotte pouted prettily. “We’re all going on to Jilly’s party.”

John did not know who this Jilly was and he did not care.

He said stiffly, “Either we leave now or I’m going home.”

“Then you’d better go. But why not come with us? It’ll be fun.”

“Good night,” snapped John.

As he strode to the door, he heard one of the men with Charlotte laugh and say, “There goes another of Charlotte’s walkers.”

His face flamed. That had been all she had really wanted from him, an escort to walk her to the endless social functions she loved.

His thoughts turned to Agatha on the road home. He had been neglecting her along with his work. He would get going on the book for a couple of days and then take her out for dinner. But, damn Charlotte Bellinge. She had really led him a fine dance.

Agatha was busy with the builders next day and with looking around the church hall. Old people like comfort and dignity. The floor would need a carpet and she would need to supply comfortable chairs and tables. Bookshelves along one wall for books, games and jigsaws. What else? The walls painted, of course, but not in those dreadful pink and pale-blue pastel colours do-gooders liked to inflict on the old as if catering for a second childhood. Plain white would do, with pictures. It should really be called the Agatha Raisin Club, considering all the work and money she was putting into it. But Mrs. Bloxby would think she was being grandiose. Of course, she had promised to think up some fund-raising venture so that she would not have to bear all the cost herself. Agatha’s mind worked busily. An auction would be a good idea. She had raised a lot of money for one of those before by going around the country houses and getting them to contribute. Or what about getting some well-known pop group to put on a concert? No, scrub that. It would bring in too much mess and probably drugs as well. She must think of something.

She walked back to her cottage in the pouring rain, trying to avoid the puddles gathering amongst the fallen leaves.

In her cottage, there was a note lying on the kitchen table from Doris Simpson, one of the few women in Carsely to use Agatha’s first name. “Dear Agatha,” she read, “Have taken poor Scrabble home to feed. Cat looks half-starved. Be round to clean as usual next week. Doris.”

“Bloody cat ate like a horse,” muttered Agatha.

The doorbell rang. Agatha answered it. John stood there. He had suddenly decided he wanted to see Agatha.

“Yes?” asked Agatha coldly.

“Can I come in? It’s bucketing with rain.”

He followed her into the kitchen.

“So what were you doing in London?” asked Agatha.

“This and that. Bookshops, agent, publisher, the usual round. Are you free for dinner this evening?”

“I think I’ve got a date,” lied Agatha. “I’ll check.”

She dialled Mr. Crinsted’s number. “Is our date for tonight, Ralph, sweetie?” asked Agatha in a husky voice.

“I thought we’d arranged to play chess tomorrow,” came the surprised voice at the other end. “But tonight, any time is fine.”

“Look forward to it,” said Agatha. “See you then.” She put down the receiver and turned to John.

“Sorry, I’ve got a date.”

“Well, what about tomorrow?”

“Sorry, going to be busy for some time.” And I am not interested in Charlotte Bellinge’s leavings, thought Agatha. She must have ditched him.

“I’ll leave you to it.” John marched out, feeling doubly rejected. The rain poured down. What am I doing stuck in this village? thought John angrily. It doesn’t help a bit with the writing. I was better off in London.

After he had gone, Agatha took the ring he had given her out of the drawer and put it in an envelope. On her way out that evening, she popped it through his letter-box. Not that she was jealous of Charlotte Bellinge.

For Ralph Crinsted’s sake, Agatha tried to concentrate on her chess lesson while privately wondering what could be the fun in playing such a boring game. There seemed to be so much to memorize. “I don’t think you’re going to make a chess player,” said Ralph finally. “You’re not enjoying this one bit.”

“I will, I will,” said Agatha. And with a rare burst of honesty, she added, “You see, I’m not used to concentrating on anything other than people – what motivates them, why they commit murder, that sort of thing. Let’s try again another night. I’ll buy some sort of book, Chess Made Easy , or something like that, so I’ll be geared-up next time.”

“If you say so. Do you play cards?”

“Don’t know many games. Poker. I once played poker.”

“Like a game?”

“Sure.”

Agatha actually won the first game and began to enjoy herself. It had reached midnight when she finally put down the cards and said ruefully, “I’m keeping you up late.”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t sleep much. The old don’t, you know.”

As Agatha drove home, she thought with a shiver of impending old age and loneliness, would she endure white nights and long days? Would her joints seize up with arthritis?

Tomorrow, she thought gloomily, I’ll draft out my will. I’m not immortal.

Had the weather cleared up, Agatha might have put off thoughts of making out a will, but another day of rain blurred the windows of her cottage and thudded down on the already rain-soaked garden.

She went into the sitting-room, carrying her cigarettes and a mug of coffee and sat down at her desk. She took a small tape recorder out of her drawer and had got as far as “This is the last will and testament of Mrs. Agatha Raisin” when there was a ring at the doorbell.

“Blast,” muttered Agatha and went to answer it.

Mr. Binser stood there. “Good heavens,” said Agatha. “Come in out of this dreadful rain. What brings you?”

“I just came to see you and thank you for clearing up those dreadful murders,” said the tycoon. “I’m curious. How did you arrive at the truth?”

Agatha took his coat and ushered him into the sitting-room. “Coffee?”

“No,” he said, sitting down on the sofa. “I haven’t much time. So how did you guess it was my Miss Partle?”

Agatha, glad of an opportunity to brag, told him how she had managed to leap to the conclusion that the culprit was Miss Partle.

“Interesting,” he said when she had finished. “You seem such a confident lady. Are you never wrong?”

“I pride myself I’m not.”

“You were certainly right about Miss Partle’s adoration of me.”

Agatha felt a lurch in her stomach. “You mean I was wrong about something else?”

“If there is one thing I hate, it is busy-body interfering women.”

The rain drummed against the windows and dripped from the thatch outside. The day was growing darker. Agatha switched on a lamp next to her. “That’s better,” she said with a lightness she did not feel. “At least you don’t go around killing them.”

There was a long silence while Binser studied her. Agatha broke it by saying sharply, “I have a feeling you came to tell me something.”

“Yes. You are so unbearably smug. You see, Miss Partle didn’t commit these murders. I did.”

Agatha goggled at him. “Why? How?”

“In all my life,” he said calmly, “no one has ever managed to put one over on me – except Tristan Delon. I suppose, in my way, I was as infatuated with that young man as Miss Partle was with me. I married for money, the daughter of a wealthy company director. I never had any real friends. I felt I could be honest with Tristan, I could relax with him. Then he cheated me. All he had ever wanted from me was money. I hated him. I have certain underworld contacts which come in useful from time to time. I arranged to have him beaten up. I got Miss Partle to tell him who had done it. He returned the money and I thought that was that. But the leech wouldn’t let go. He phoned Miss Partle and said he was going to tell my wife unless I paid up. I found he had gone to the country. I went down to Carsely. I had already studied ordnance survey maps of the area. I dressed as a rambler and left my car hidden some distance outside the village and crossed the fields so that I would get down to where he was living without being seen. I decided to give him one more chance. I had his mobile phone number. I phoned Miss Partle and told her to go out to the nearest phone-box and call him and tell him I was coming to kill him. I thought I would give him a chance to run for it.