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

“And what about the both of you? Did he offer to invest any money?”

“No, he said he had a little money from a family trust. He didn’t ask us for any.”

“How come you got him as a curate?” asked Agatha.

“I was told he’d had a nervous breakdown,” said the vicar. “I was glad of help in the parish work.”

“And did you find him helpful?” asked Wilkes.

“The first week was fine. But then he became – selective.”

“What do you mean – selective?”

“I found he had not been calling on any of the elderly or sick, unless – I now realize – they were wealthy. I took him to task for neglect of duty and he simply smiled and said of course he would attend to it. Then I fell ill and he took over the services in the church. I felt it churlish of me to dislike him – for I was beginning to dislike him – and I feared I was envious of the way he could pack the church.”

“It looks as if he might have surprised a burglar,” said Wilkes.

“Or,” interrupted Agatha suddenly, “been robbing the cash box himself.”

“If he had a private income and if, as we fear, he had been taking money from gullible women, why would he want a few hundred pounds?”

“He was very vain,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “It was because of his sermon that there was such a large donation. I think he probably saw that money as rightly his.”

“And he had a key to the vicarage,” said Wilkes, who had already established that fact. “Those long windows into the study, do you keep them locked?”

Mrs. Bloxby looked guilty. “We do try to remember to lock them, but sometimes we forget. Up until recently, we never bothered to lock up at night, but with the police station having been closed down along with all the other local stations, there have been a lot of burglaries recently.”

“So far, we can’t find any sign of a break-in and no fingerprints at all, not even the vicar’s,” said Wilkes. “Excuse me, I’ll see how they’re getting on. Come with me, Reverend, and check again to see if there is anything else missing.”

The vicar, the policewoman, and Wilkes went indoors. “Is there anything I can do for you?” asked Agatha, taking Mrs. Bloxby’s hand in hers. “You’ve helped me so much in the past when horrible things have happened to me.”

“You can find out who did it,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “Because they suspect Alf. You see, a lot of the women were smitten by Mr. Delon, and before he died, there was a lot of talk about how Alf should step down and leave the sermons to Mr. Delon. My husband,” she sighed, “can be, well, not very tactful and when Miss Jellop suggested such an arrangement to him, he told her not to be such a silly woman. The police are already beginning to think that Alf was jealous of Mr. Delon. He was in bed with me when the murder took place and so I told them, but they look at me in that way which seems to say, ‘You would say that.’ ”

“We’ll do our best,” said John. Agatha looked at him in surprise. She had forgotten he was there. A man as good-looking as John had no right to be so forgettable.

“I think,” pursued John, “that we should start off with whichever church he was at in New Cross in London before he came down here.”

“But the police will dig all that up,” protested Agatha.

“I still think we might be able to find out things the police don’t know. They’ll be sticking to facts. We can find out if he conned any of the women in New Cross out of money. One of them could have been watching Mrs. Feathers’s cottage and seen him slip out. She may have entered the study by the French windows. There’s no flower-bed in front of the windows to leave footprints, only grass.”

“It all sounds far-fetched to me,” said Agatha crossly, cross because she expected everyone at all times to play Dr. Watson to her Sherlock Holmes. “I mean, what sort of person would watch the cottage all night?”

“A jealous, furious woman,” said John. “Come on, Agatha, don’t knock it down just because it wasn’t your idea. We’ll hang around another day to be available for the police and then we’ll go off.”

“I think that’s a very good idea,” said Mrs. Bloxby quietly.

“All right,” said Agatha sulkily. Mrs. Bloxby, despite her fear for her husband and her shock at the murder, could not help but feel amused. There was something childlike about Agatha Raisin with her bear like eyes under a heavy fringe of glossy brown hair registering a pouting disappointment that someone else was getting in on the act.

“Now, have you eaten?” asked Agatha. “I’ve got some microwave meals at home I could bring along.”

“No, thank you,” said the vicar’s wife. “Neither of us feels like eating.” She privately thought that even if she and her husband had been starving, they could not have faced one of Agatha’s shop-bought frozen meals.

Agatha lit a cigarette. “Agatha!” exclaimed Mrs. Bloxby, startled into the use of Agatha’s first name. “You’re smoking again!”

“Tastes all right now,” mumbled Agatha.

John produced a small notebook. “I’ll just make a note of these women who were close to Tristan. Let me see – there was a Miss Jellop, and then there were two others.”

“Peggy Slither and Mrs. Tremp,” said Mrs. Bloxby.

“You call her Peggy?” asked Agatha. “First name?”

“She is not a member of the ladies’ society.”

“What’s she like and where does she live?” asked John.

“In Ancombe. A cottage called Shangri-la.”

“That’s a bit twee.”

“I think she means it to be a sort of joke. She finds it fashionable to adopt the unfashionable. She has gnomes in her garden. That sort of thing. Rather loud and busty. About fifty. Her money comes from fish and chips. She never married. Her father had a profitable chain of fish and chip shops and she sold them when her father died.”

“I know Miss Jellop,” snapped Agatha, who did not like John’s taking over the investigation.

Mrs. Bloxby leaned back and closed her eyes.

“We’d better go,” said John.

“Phone me if there is anything I can do,” said Agatha.

Mrs. Bloxby opened her eyes. “Just find out who did it.”

When John and Agatha arrived back at Agatha’s cottage it was to find Bill Wong waiting outside for them. “Thought I’d drop in for a chat. Trust you to land in trouble again, Agatha.”

Agatha unlocked the door. “Come in and we’ll have coffee in the garden.”

Bill Wong was Agatha’s first friend, a young police detective, half Chinese and half English. When they were seated in the garden, he surveyed Agatha with his brown slanting eyes. “I know you’ve already made a statement, but I’d like to know a bit more about your evening with Tristan. Did he come on to you?”

“Well, he kissed me.”

“And didn’t that let you know there was something funny about him?” demanded John sharply. “I mean, the difference in ages and all that.”

“I have attracted younger men before,” said Agatha waspishly.

“So he kissed you. When?” asked Bill.

“When I was leaving.”

“What sort of kiss? Social peck?”

“No, a warm one, on the lips. What’s all this about?”

“It’s this money business. He was after money, we think. I wondered how far he was prepared to go. If he’d had a full-blown affair with any of them, that might have been a reason for murder.”

“He didn’t have an affair with me,” said Agatha. “I’d have soused him out sooner or later. I’m not stupid , you know.”

“Women can become very stupid faced with such beauty. I saw him preach. My girl-friend heard all about him and dragged me along to church.”

“Girl-friend?” Agatha was momentarily distracted.