The Case of the Curious Curate ar-13 Read online

  “No, not anymore. But then, people do say things like – but who else could have done it?”

  “What about Miss Jellop?” asked John. “What’s being said about her?”

  “She wasn’t very popular. Always complaining. I mean, she irritated people. But I can’t see anyone wanting to murder her. Of course, people are saying she was being spiteful about the vicar, saying he murdered Tristan, things like that.”

  And what that amounts to, thought Agatha wearily, is that people will still be thinking of Alf Bloxby as a murderer. I must do something. But what? Just keep on ferreting around and hope I find something out.

  Miss Simms finished her drink and left. “What should we do now?” asked Agatha.

  “I don’t know. We’ll try that church in London tomorrow. In the meantime, let’s go down to the library and look up the name ‘Jellop’ in the Stoke-on-Trent directory. We might get the sister’s number and we could call her. Tristan obviously told Miss Jellop something that made her dangerous.”

  “Nothing here,” said Agatha, half an hour later. “Not in the residential addresses.”

  “Jellop’s Jams and Jellies. Try under the business addresses,” said John.

  Agatha searched the book. “Got it,” she said.

  “Write it down and we’ll go back and phone in comfort.”

  Back at Agatha’s cottage, she said, “Who’s going to phone? You or me?”

  “I’ll do it.”

  Agatha went into the kitchen and petted her cats and let them out in the garden. She stood for a moment surveying the scene in front of her, and thinking the garden looked rather dull. Not having green fingers herself, she had hired a gardener, but he turned out to be expensive and lazy, so she had fired him and replaced the flowers with shrubs. Next year, she thought, she would start all over again and have a colourful display of flowers.

  John came out to join her. “Miss Jellop’s sister is a Mrs. Essex. A nice woman in personnel even gave me her home address. You want to try it?”

  “No, you do it.”

  John gave her a surprised look, but went back indoors.

  Agatha was suddenly tired of the whole business. She should leave it to the police. She wanted something else to occupy her mind. Anything else. She could not, somehow, relax in John’s company. Agatha could not understand that it was John’s regular good looks which fazed her. Such men were usually interested in prettier and younger women. Such men were not for the likes of Agatha Raisin. And Agatha was old–fashioned in that she could only relate to men when there was a sexual undercurrent.

  When John returned again, he said, “I spoke to the husband. Mrs. Essex is down here, at Mircester police headquarters. Let’s go. We might catch her as she comes out.”

  “We might not recognize her,” said Agatha, reluctant to move.

  “With luck, there’ll be some sort of family resemblance.”

  “She might have left Mircester and be up at the cottage.”

  “I doubt it. I took a walk up there early this morning. It’s still taped off and the forensic people are still working on it. Come on, Agatha!”

  They waited in the car-park outside Mircester police headquarters, studying all the people coming out. After an hour, Agatha yawned and then shifted restlessly. “No one who even looks like her. I say we should go home. She probably left ages ago.”

  “That might be her,” said John. A middle-aged woman had just emerged accompanied by a policewoman. She had protruding eyes and a ferrety appearance. A police car drove up and both women got in the back.

  “Now what?” said Agatha.

  “We follow them. She might be staying somewhere locally.”

  John, who was driving, followed the police car at a safe distance. “They’re going in the Carsely direction,” said John after a few miles. “Maybe the police have finished with the cottage and she’s going to stay there.”

  “Must be tough if she is,” retorted Agatha. “I don’t know that I’d want to stay in a house where my sister had been murdered.”

  “Maybe keeping an eye on her assets. She’ll probably inherit.”

  Sure enough, the police car drove on down into Carsely.

  “We’d best go home,” said John, “and wait, and then walk up later when we’re sure the police have gone. We’ll go to my place.”

  Agatha always experienced a pang of loss when she entered John’s cottage. There was no feel, no trace of her missing ex-husband’s personality. James Lacey’s books had spilled from the shelves. John’s books were all in neat order, according to subject. He worked at a metal computer desk placed in front of the window. There were two armchairs covered in bright chintz and an oak coffee-table, shining and bare.

  “Like a drink?” asked John.

  “Gin and tonic.”

  “I don’t have lemon or ice.”

  “How British! I’ll drink it warm.”

  While John went into the kitchen, Agatha sat down and closed her eyes, trying to conjure up an image of James and of the room as it used to be. She had nearly succeeded when John came back in. She opened her eyes and accepted a glass of gin and tonic. He carefully put two coasters down on the coffee-table.

  “You live like a bachelor,” commented Agatha. “Neatness everywhere.”

  “It’s the only way I can live. If I let it go for one day, then sloppiness sets in. There’s a police car just gone past.” He went to the door and opened it and looked out. “Bill!” he shouted. “In here.”

  “I feel guilty every time I look at him,” grumbled Agatha.

  Bill came in. He was on his own. “Was that you following us from Mircester?” he asked.

  “We just happened to be in Mircester doing some shopping,” said Agatha defensively. “We saw the police car in front of us. I didn’t know you were in it.”

  “I wasn’t. I was in the car behind you.”

  “Anyway, now you’re here, what can we do for you?”

  Bill studied Agatha’s face and noticed the way she dropped her eyes and reached for her drink.

  “I think you pair have been up to something. I’ve never known you to let things alone before, Agatha.”

  “It’s this engagement,” said John. “We’ve got so much to deal with. We don’t know whether to keep one of our cottages or buy somewhere bigger.”

  “So you say. Have you heard anything?”

  “Only that the villagers have been sharing views about Tristan and seem to be coming to the conclusion that he was rather nasty.”

  “Give me an example.”

  Agatha told him about Miss Simms. “Now, that is odd,” said Bill. “I mean, what would a gay man want with a woman without money?”

  “Probably did it out of spite.”

  “It still seems out of character. If he was out to fleece rich women, then he would be anxious to keep up his front of being sweet and charming. He must have known that Miss Simms would talk about it.”

  “Unless,” said Agatha slowly, “someone or something frightened him and he’d decided to leave. That was why he wanted the church money. He probably hoped to get a cheque from me.”

  “Or he decided to dump Miss Simms because you provided a possibility of good pickings.”

  “But he asked Miss Simms out for dinner after he’d invited me. Did Miss Feathers say if he had received any calls during the night?”

  “Not that she knows of, apart from the one from you.”

  “Miss Simms must have been very flustered and excited about that invitation,” said Bill. “I wonder if she got the evening wrong. You had dinner with him on the Tuesday. I wonder if he said tomorrow evening and in her excitement, Miss Simms misunderstood him.”

  “I’ll phone up the restaurant and see when he made the booking for,” said John.

  “You’ll need an Oxfordshire phone-book,” said Agatha.

  “I’ve got one. You two go on talking; I’ll phone from the bedroom.”

  “So you’re really going to get married again,” sa
id Bill, scrutinizing Agatha’s face.

  “Seems like a good idea.”

  “Women of your age often marry because they want companionship, or someone to go into pubs and restaurants with, or to mend fuses; but not you, Agatha.”

  “I’ve decided I’ll never fall in love again,” said Agatha. “So I may as well settle for companionship. Can we talk about something else? Like is Miss Jellop’s sister going to stay in her cottage?”

  “How did you know it was Miss Jellop’s sister?”

  “The police car turned off in the direction of Dover Rise. Simple.”

  “Now, why do I get the feeling that the pair of you found out that she was at police headquarters and waited outside and tailed her back here?”

  “Because you’ve got a nasty, suspicious copper’s mind. Oh, here’s John.”

  “Mystery solved,” said John, coming down the stairs. “Tristan booked a table for the Friday evening, not Thursday. The restaurant was quiet, so when Miss Simms turned up, saying she was waiting for a gentleman friend, but not giving any name, they put her at a table for two.”

  “Another dead end,” said Bill. “I’d best be off. Don’t go bothering Mrs. Essex.”

  “Who’s she?” asked Agatha innocently.

  “As if you didn’t know!”

  When Bill had left, John asked, “Are we going to bother Mrs. Essex?”

  “Of course,” said Agatha.

  “Better leave it a bit until we’re sure the police have gone. That’s Mrs. Bloxby just gone past the window. She’s probably on her way to your place.”

  He opened the window and called, “Mrs. Bloxby!” She turned and smiled and then walked up to the door. John opened it and ushered her in. Mrs. Bloxby was looking so relaxed and cheerful that Agatha cried, “You look great. You must have heard some good news.”

  “I haven’t heard any good news. But I’ve been in church and I have renewed my faith.”

  Agatha felt embarrassed. She said, “Bill Wong has just been here.” She told the vicar’s wife about Miss Simms’s date, ending up with, “But I don’t see why he even asked her in the first place.”

  “I think,” said Mrs. Bloxby slowly, “that perhaps he was not gay.”

  “But by all accounts he said so himself,” exclaimed Agatha.

  “He may have said that as one of his ways of rejecting and hurting people. Men who are very beautiful are naturally assumed to be gay. I must confess I made that mistake myself. Think, Mrs. Raisin, when you had dinner with him, did you ever think he might be gay?”

  “No, I didn’t,” said Agatha. “He was exuding sexual vibes.”

  “If he was as cruel as he seems to have been, it might have delighted him to lead both men and women on. To the men, he could imply he was gay and then reject them if they made any advances. To the women, he could say he was gay, and reject them that way. He liked manipulating people. He did at first imply that I was wasted on Alf, but, you see, that didn’t work with me, for I have never fallen out of love with my husband.”

  Agatha felt a sour pang of jealousy which she quickly dismissed. Mrs. Bloxby deserved the rewards of a good woman. Maybe I should pray myself, thought Agatha.

  They all went over what they knew about Tristan without getting any further.

  When Mrs. Bloxby had left, John glanced at his wrist-watch. “Perhaps we should try Mrs. Essex now.”

  They walked up through the village to Dover Rise. “If she was well off,” said John, “it’s a wonder she didn’t choose somewhere a bit more expensive to live. I think these used to be workers’ cottages at one time.”

  “She was on her own and probably didn’t feel she needed anywhere larger. One of these terraced cottages costs nearly two hundred thousand pounds. Living in the Cotswolds is expensive. Everyone wants to live here. A lot of people who had second homes in the Cotswolds during the last recession opted to sell their London homes and commute from here. It’s only an hour and a half on the train from Moreton. If you live in Hampstead, say, it can take you all that just to get into the City.”

  They stood at the end of the cul-de-sac and looked along it. “No police cars,” said John. “I can’t see a copper on duty either.”

  “Why are they called coppers?” asked Agatha.

  “It comes from an old acronym, COP, constable on patrol. Why are you playing Trivial Pursuits, Agatha?”

  “Because I’m nervous. I expect Bill Wong to leap out of the bushes at me.”

  “Looks all-clear.”

  “I hate this business of being unauthorized,” Agatha burst out. “We look like a couple of Nosy Parkers.”

  “The curse of the amateur detective,” remarked John cheerfully. “Buck up, Agatha. Where’s your stiff upper lip?”

  “To quote the Goons, it’s over my loose wobbly lower one.”

  They arrived at the cottage. The door was standing open. “Here goes!” said Agatha.

  She rang the bell beside the door, suddenly aware that she was wearing trousers, a shirt blouse and flat sandals. I’m letting my appearance slip, thought Agatha. I haven’t been to the beautician in ages. I hope to God I’m not growing a moustache. She nervously felt her upper lip. Was that a hair? She fumbled in her handbag and took out a powder compact and peered in the little mirror.

  “Yes? Can I help you?”

  Agatha lowered the compact and found Mrs. Essex staring curiously at her.

  Agatha tucked the compact hurriedly in her handbag. She introduced both of them as friends of Miss Jellop and said they had come to offer their condolences.

  “Too kind,” said Mrs. Essex. Her protruding eyes stared at Agatha’s face with such intensity that Agatha wondered if she was, after all, sprouting a moustache.

  “We would like to talk to you about your sister,” said Agatha.

  “Why?”

  Agatha took a deep breath. Where had all her old confidence gone? “I have helped the police on murder cases before,” she said. “I thought we might be able to help find out who murdered your sister if we could ask you a few questions.”

  “But I have already told the police all I know!”

  John edged in front of Agatha. He gave Mrs. Essex a charming smile. “As you may know, I write detective stories.”

  “What’s your name again?”

  “John Armitage.”

  Her pale lips parted in a smile. “Why, I saw you on the South Bank Show last year. Please come in. This is exciting.”

  Hardly the grieving sister, thought Agatha sourly as she followed John into the cottage.

  “I’m just making an inventory of everything,” said Mrs. Essex. “Poor Ruby never spent much on herself.”

  Ruby, thought Agatha. So that was her first name. Momentarily distracted, she began to wonder about the first names of other women in the ladies’ society where the tradition was to use second names.

  Then she realized John was speaking. “Your sister phoned Mrs. Bloxby, the vicar’s wife, asking her to call round as she had something to tell her, but by the time Mrs. Bloxby got here, your sister was dead. Did Miss Jellop say anything at all to you that might indicate she knew something dangerous about someone?”

  “No, because we didn’t speak. We had a falling-out. I was amazed when the police told me they had found Ruby’s will and that she had left everything to me. In fact, she had changed her will the day before she died.”

  Agatha’s bearlike eyes gleamed. “Who had she left her money to in the previous will?”

  “To that curate. The one who was murdered. Poor Ruby. She was always getting these schoolgirl crushes on some man or another.”

  “And you didn’t know anything about it?” asked Agatha.

  Those protruding eyes fastened on Agatha’s face with a flash of malicious intelligence. “Meaning did I murder my sister the minute I knew she’d changed her will? You should leave detecting to your friend here.”

  “Might there be something among her papers?” put in John quickly. “Letters or diary or someth
ing?”

  “You’ll need to ask the police. They took all her papers away. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a lot to do.”

  “Will you sell the cottage?” asked Agatha.

  “I don’t know. Maybe keep it for holidays and weekends. My husband’s due to retire soon.”

  “When did you last speak to your sister?” asked Agatha.

  “Must have been about three years ago.”

  “Not much there,” said John gloomily as they walked back down through the village. “You know, the car has caused a decline in gossip in English villages. I suppose not so long ago one would see people standing gossiping and walking about. Now a lot of them even use their cars to drive a few yards to the village stores.”

  “But that means empty roads and lanes,” said Agatha impatiently. “Surely a stranger would have been noticed. Unless it was someone masquerading as a local reporter. The village is fed up with the press. They see someone that looks like a journalist and they shy away. I can tell a genuine journalist a mile off.”

  “How?”

  “Even if they’re well-dressed, they carry a shabby sort of people-pleasing alcoholism about with them.”

  “You’re sour because you were a public relations officer.”

  “You’re right,” said Agatha reluctantly. “I hated crawling to the bastards.”

  “I can’t imagine you crawling,” said John. “I can imagine you frightening them into writing what you wanted them to write.”

  This was in fact true but Agatha didn’t want to hear it or believe it. She still saw herself as a waiflike creature – shy, vulnerable and much put-upon. Sometimes when she looked in a full-length mirror, she could not believe that the stocky, well-groomed woman looking back at her was really herself.

  They walked on in silence and then Agatha said, “What next?”

  “Just keep on trying. London tomorrow.”

  ∨ The Case of the Curious Curate ∧

  6

  You look very nice,” commented John when Agatha got into his car the next morning. Agatha was wearing a silky gold jersey suit. It had a short skirt. Her best feature, her legs, were encased in sheer tights and her feet in high-heeled sandals.

  “Thanks,” said Agatha gruffly. She had decided it was time she started dressing up again, not, she told herself, that this sudden desire to smarten her appearance had anything to do with John Armitage. She wished she had elected to drive them herself. There was something about John doing all the driving that was making her feel diminished. Agatha liked to feel in charge at all times. Subconsciously she had felt that putting on her best clothes might prompt some sexual interest in her from John, and in that way, she would have the upper hand. But what Agatha’s subconscious decided hardly ever reached the conscious part of her brain.