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

They debated the mystery and then left the pub and wandered around the streets of New Cross, past Indian shops and Turkish restaurants until John looked at his watch and said, “Time to go back to see if Sol MacGuire is at home.”

∨ The Case of the Curious Curate ∧

3

Sol MacGuire was another Adonis, but a black-haired, blue-eyed one. He looked shocked when they told him they were investigating the murder of Tristan Delon.

“Sure, now, isn’t that the big shock you’ve given me,” he said. “Come on in.”

They followed him into a small living-room which seemed to be full of old beer cans and old copies of newspapers and magazines.

“Find a space and sit yourselves down,” said Sol. “How was he murdered? I haven’t kept up with the news.”

John told him and then asked what he knew about Tristan. “Not that much,” said Sol. “He saw me working on a local building site and kept coming round to chat. I told him flat-out I wasn’t gay and he just laughed and said he wasn’t gay either.”

“I couldn’t be bothered much with him at first, but he kept coming round. He was funny in a malicious way, know what I mean?”

“Give us an example?” asked Agatha.

“He was adored by the women in the parish, but he seemed to despise them.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“He’d talk about a Mrs. Hill. Said she used to look at him like a dog. He said he felt like snapping his fingers and tossing her a biscuit. Things like that.”

Agatha leaned forward. “Did Tristan ever talk about some businessman, someone who gave him presents?”

“Oh, that. Mind if I get myself a beer?”

“Go ahead.”

“Want one?”

“Not for me,” said John. “I’ve already had some beer and I’m driving. What about you, Agatha?”

“Not for me either.”

Sol disappeared and returned after a few moments with a can of beer which he popped open. After a hearty swig, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “He showed me a gold Rolex. Said it was a present from Richard Binser.”

Agatha’s eyes opened wide in amazement. “Richard Binser, the tycoon?”

“That’s what he said. But then, he was a terrible liar.”

“Do you know who beat him up?”

“He said it was one of the gangs, but he didn’t know any gangs. Trust me. Maybe one of them women got wise to him and took a club to him. I dunno.”

“Do you know where this Mrs. Hill lives?”

“He told me. It’s a big house round in Jeves Place. You cross the main road, take Gladstone Street, turn right on Palmerston, then first left is Jeves. Don’t know the number, but it’s a big place on its own. I’m curious, like,” went on Sol, his accent an odd mixture of Irish and south London. “Why ask questions around here, and why you? You his relatives?”

“No,” said Agatha. “We are private detectives.”

“Got a licence?”

“Pending,” lied Agatha.

“Well, good luck to you. But if he was murdered in that village, stands to reason someone down there killed him.”

“Do you know how long it was,” asked Agatha, “between the attack and him leaving here?”

“He came round once after the attack. Said he was going abroad. Would be about six months ago.”

“That long!”

“See what I mean?” said Sol. “He was old history far as New Cross was concerned.”

When they left Sol, Agatha said, “Let’s go after Binser.”

“It’s late. We can find his offices – I think they’re in Cheapside in the City. As we’re here, shouldn’t we try Mrs. Hill?”

“All right, though mark my words, she’ll just turn out to be a sad middle-aged woman, duped by Tristan.”

“Like you,” murmured John.

Agatha glared at him and stalked on in an angry silence.

When they found the villa in Jeves Place, it appeared there was no one at home. Far in the distance came the menacing rumble of thunder.

“I think we should leave things for tonight,” said John, “drive back to Carsely and try Binser tomorrow and then Mrs. Hill.”

Agatha agreed because she was tired.

The storm burst halfway to Carsely and John had to drive very slowly through the torrents of rain. As he turned at last into the road leading down into Carsely, the storm clouds rolled away. He opened the car window and a chilly little breeze blew in.

“End of summer,” said Agatha. “What time do we set off in the morning?”

“Early. About six-thirty. Beat the rush. Don’t groan. We’ll take my car and you can sleep on the road up to town if you’re still tired.”

Agatha said good night to him when they reached Lilac Lane. Her cats came to meet her, yawning and purring. She fed them and then put a lasagne – Mama Livia’s Special – in the microwave.

After she had eaten, she bathed and went to bed. Before she went to sleep, she fought down nagging jabs of conscience that were telling her that she should have phoned Bill Wong and brought him up-to-date on what they had found.

“If Binser is in his office, we’ll be lucky,” said John as he joined the traffic heading for London on the M25 the next morning. “He travels a lot.”

“Maybe we should have waited at home and phoned him,” said Agatha sleepily.

“Best to surprise him.”

“How are we going to get past all the minions he’ll surely have to protect him?”

“We’ll send in a note saying we want to see him about Tristan Delon.”

“And if he doesn’t see us?”

“Oh, do shut up, Agatha. We have to try.”

“It will be difficult,” pursued Agatha. “I remember seeing pictures of him in Celeb magazine. Wife and two children.”

“Like I said, we must try.”

Richard Binser’s offices were in an impressive modern building of steel and glass with a great tree growing up to the glass roof from the entrance hall.

“Here goes,” said Agatha, marching up to the long reception desk where four beautiful and fashionably thin young ladies were answering phones.

“Mr. Binser,” said Agatha to the one she considered the least intimidating.

“What time is your appointment?”

“We don’t have one,” said Agatha. She produced a sealed envelope which contained a note she had written in the car. It was marked “Urgent, Private & Confidential.”

“See that he gets this right away. I am sure he will want to see us.”

“Take a seat,” said the receptionist, indicating a bank of sofas and chairs over by the entrance doors.

They sat down and waited, and waited.

At last the receptionist they had spoken to approached them and said, “I will take you up. Follow me.”

A glass elevator bore them up and up to the top of the building. It opened into another reception area. A middle-aged secretary greeted them and asked them to wait.

Again, they sat down. The receptionist had gone back downstairs and the secretary had retreated through a door leading off the reception. It was very quiet.

Agatha was just beginning to wonder if everyone had forgotten about them, when the secretary came back and said, “Mr. Binser will see you now.”

She led them through an inner office and then opened a heavy door leading off it and ushered them into a room where a small, balding man sat behind a large Georgian desk.

He did not rise to meet them, simply surveyed them coldly, then said, “That will be all, Miss Partle. I will call you if I need you.”

The secretary left and closed the door behind her.

“Sit!” commanded Richard Binser, indicating two low chairs in front of his desk.

Agatha and John sat down.

“You are not quite what I expected. I am taping this and I warn you both if you try to blackmail me, I will call the police.”