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

“Mr. Delon, the curate, was found this morning in the vicar’s study. He had been stabbed.”

Agatha felt hysterical. “Was he stabbed with a rare oriental dagger?” She stifled a giggle.

Wilkes glared at her. “He was stabbed with a paper-knife on the vicar’s desk.”

Agatha fought down the hysteria. “You can’t kill someone with a paper-knife.”

“You can with this one. It’s very sharp. Mr. Bloxby said he kept it sharp. The church box, the one people put donations in for the upkeep of the church, was lying open. The money had gone.”

“I know the vicar took it from the church from time to time to record what had been donated,” said Agatha. “But Mr. Delon couldn’t have surprised a burglar. I don’t think there were ever any donations in there worth bothering about.”

“Evidently, according to the vicar, there were this time. The curate had delivered a sermon the Sunday before last about the importance of donating to the upkeep of the church. There were several hundred pounds in there. The vicar hadn’t got around to counting it. He says he just checked inside and planned to get down to counting the takings today.”

“But what was Mr. Delon doing in the vicar’s study?” asked Agatha.

“If we can stop the speculation and get to your movements, Mrs. Raisin. You had dinner with Mr. Delon in his flat last night. You left around midnight.”

“Yes.”

“Were you intimate with him?”

Agatha’s face flamed. “Of course not! I barely knew the man.”

“And yet he asked you for dinner.”

“Oh, I thought it was a parish thing. I assume it was his way of getting to know everybody.”

“So what did you talk about?”

“He was a good listener,” said Agatha. “I’m afraid I talked mostly about myself. I asked him about himself and he said he had been at a church in New Cross in London and that he had formed a boys’ club and that one of the gang leaders had become angry, thinking he was taking the youth of the area away and had had him beaten up. He said he’d had a nervous breakdown.”

“And you left at midnight and that was that?”

“Of course.”

“Do you know of any other women in the village he was particularly friendly with?”

“No. I mean, I’d been away and then I was up in London, working. The first time I met him was on Sunday, outside the church. Then he turned up on my doorstep yesterday and invited me to dinner.”

“Let’s go over it again,” said Wilkes.

Agatha went through the whole business again and then felt her face going red. They would check phone calls to Mrs. Feathers’s phone and would know she had phoned him when she got home.

“What is it?” demanded Wilkes, studying her red face.

“When I got home, I realized I had asked him for dinner but hadn’t fixed a date, so I phoned him and he said he would let me know.”

“Those were his only words?”

“Exactly,” said Agatha with all the firmness of one used to lying.

“That will be all for the moment. We would like you to come down to headquarters and sign a statement, say, tomorrow morning, and to hold yourself in readiness for further questioning.”

As they rose to leave, Agatha’s friend, Detective Sergeant Bill Wong, gave her the ghost of a wink.

“Call me later,” mouthed Agatha silently.

As Wilkes was leaving, Agatha called, “When was Mr. Delon killed?”

He turned. “We don’t know. Mrs. Bloxby rose at six-thirty this morning. She went out into the garden and noticed the French windows to the study were wide open. She could see papers were blowing about. She went in to close the window and found the curate dead.”

Agatha felt a great wave of relief. She realized she had been afraid the vicar might have lost his temper and struck out at Tristan.

“So someone came in from outside?”

“Or someone made it look that way.”

Agatha sat down shakily when they had left. Then she rose and phoned the vicarage. A policeman answered and said curtly that neither the vicar nor his wife were free to come to the phone.

The doorbell rang and she rushed to answer it. For once John Armitage got a warm welcome. “Oh, John,” cried Agatha, grabbing his arm and dragging him indoors. “Isn’t this too awful? Do you think Alf did it and made it look like a burglary?”

“I cannot believe our vicar would harm a fly,” said John, shutting the door behind them. “Let’s sit down calmly and think about it. Why did the police want to see you?”

“As far as they know, I was the last one to see Tristan alive. I went to his place for dinner and left around midnight.”

“Oho. He’s a fast worker. How did that come about?”

“He just turned up on the doorstep and asked me, just like that.”

“Tell me about it.”

“I’ve already gone over and over it with the police.” She started to describe her evening again.

“Wait a minute,” he interrupted. “Mrs. Feathers supplied a dinner of pâté de foie gras, tournedos Rossini, and baked Alaska. She can’t be rich and she’s a widow. Didn’t you think it was a bit much of him?”

“I did a bit,” said Agatha ruefully.

“Sounds a bit of a taker to me. Did he try to get money out of you?”

“You do underrate my charms, don’t you? Oh, Lord. I’ve just remembered something. He said something about being a whiz at playing the stock exchange and that he could invest money for me. I said I’d a very good stockbroker but that I’d let him know.”

“So that was why he asked you for dinner.”

“What do you mean?” demanded Agatha huffily.

“Look at it this way. He’d conned old Mrs. Feathers into supplying an expensive meal. Who knows? He may have got his hands on her savings. You know what the gossip in this village is like. He’d have heard you’re rich. You’ve got a bit of a reputation when it comes to men.”

“Undeserved,” snapped Agatha.

“And you’re a divorcée. You should tell the police.”

“Must I?” asked Agatha bleakly.

“Yes, of course. And just think. They’re probably still up at the vicarage and it’ll be an excuse for us to get in there.”

The policeman on guard at the door of the vicarage listened to Agatha’s request to see Wilkes because she had something to tell him relevant to the murder. He disappeared indoors and reappeared a few minutes later. “Follow me,” he said. “They’re in the garden.” The vicar’s study door was standing open. Men in white overalls were swarming all over the place.

They followed the policeman out through the French windows and into the garden where Wilkes, a policewoman, the vicar and Mrs. Bloxby sat round a garden table. There was no sign of Bill Wong.

Mrs. Bloxby was holding her husband’s hand. Both looked strained.

“What is it?” asked Wilkes.

Agatha drew up a chair and sat down. She told him about the expensive dinner and about the offer to invest money for her.

“This might give us an angle,” said Wilkes slowly. “He may have been successful with some of the other women. We’ll be checking his bank account. Now Mrs. Feathers says you were the only one he invited home for dinner and he told her to make a special effort and you were very rich and probably used to the best.”

Agatha felt herself grow red yet again with mortification.

Wilkes turned to Mrs. Bloxby. “Was he particularly friendly with any other women in the village?”

“It’s hard to say,” she said wearily. “I think they mostly invited him for meals. Miss Jellop was one. Then there was Peggy Slither over in Ancombe. Oh dear, let me think. Old Colonel Tremp’s widow, Mrs. Tremp, she lives up the hill out of the village in that converted barn. So many were smitten with him. He was very handsome.”