Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate (13 page)

‘I’m shackled at the moment,’ said Agatha. ‘The police will be furious if I carry on, and I think they’ll charge me next time.’

‘Did you find out anything else?’

Agatha told her about Charlotte Bellinge. ‘Tristan must have been furious,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘Beauty, titled lady, wealth, and all snatched from him.’

‘He thought he was using her and all the while she was just using him,’ said Agatha.

‘So he was probably not gay although it is so hard to tell, with all of us being such a mixture of masculine and feminine.’

‘Anyway, it appears the London end is closed.’

‘I don’t think that matters. Surely it is something to do with someone here.’

‘Tell me about Peggy Slither,’ said Agatha. ‘Is there a Mr Slither?’

‘She’s divorced. Her husband, Harry, was a wealthy businessman. He was having an affair. She hired a private detective and when she’d gathered enough evidence, she sued him for divorce. She already had money of her own, but she took a lot from him, including the house. He had evidently once jeered at her over what he called her vulgar taste and the minute the house was hers, she redecorated – I think – in a way that would infuriate him.’

‘I think John is going to try her again on his own. Do you know her very well?’

‘Only through charity work or when the Ancombe Ladies’ Society and our own get together. She is not popular.’

‘She evidently was with Tristan.’

‘I don’t think he really cared what women were like as long as they had money.’

Ouch, thought Agatha, so much for my charms.

‘But,’ continued the vicar’s wife, ‘the parish work must go on. We need some event which will raise a good sum for Save the Children. We seem to have done everything in the past – jumble sales, whist drives, fêtes, country and western dances – there must be something else.’

‘People like to gamble,’ said Agatha.

‘I thought of a fishing competition.’ Mrs Bloxby opened her handbag and drew out a small yellow plastic duck with a hook in its head. ‘The scouts use these for fishing contests – you know, fishing lines and tanks of water and a prize for the person who hooks the most ducks.’

‘No money in it,’ said Agatha. She took the duck from Mrs Bloxby and examined it. ‘I’ve got an idea,’ she said. ‘If you took the hook off and weighted the duck underneath for balance and put a cocktail stick with a flag on the head instead of the hook, you could have duck races.’

‘Duck races?’

‘Yes, you see, that would bring in the gambling element. We could ask Farmer Brent if we could use the stream on his land. We run, say, six races and get people to sponsor each race and get their name on it. John Fletcher at the Red Lion could sponsor a John Fletcher race, and so on. Have a refreshment tent. Have a gate with entrance fees. Planks laid across the stream for starting and finishing points. I’ll be bookie and get them to place bets on the ducks. Small prizes for the winners. Take the ducks back at the end of each race, dry them out and sell them again for the next one.’

‘It could work,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘We’d be awfully dependent on the weather.’

‘The long-range forecast says October is going to be a good month. Put posters up in all the villages.’

‘I’ll get to work on it,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘It will take my mind off things. You are a great loss to public relations, Mrs Raisin.’

‘I’ll talk to Farmer Brent and get his permission, I’ll arrange the posters and publicity.’

‘Do you know what you mean to do next?’ asked Mrs Bloxby. ‘I mean, in finding out who committed these murders?’

‘I’ll keep digging around,’ said Agatha.

The next morning, Agatha found John’s keys lying inside her front door. She picked them up and put them in the pocket of her slacks. Perhaps, she thought, Mrs Essex might have discovered or remembered something. I might get more out of her on my own. After a breakfast of two cigarettes and two cups of black coffee, she fed her cats and then set out for Dover Rise.

As she was passing John’s door, she noticed a package sticking out of his letter-box. Better pop it inside, thought Agatha. Like that, it’s an invitation to thieves.

She fished out his keys, extracted the package, picked up letters from the floor and placed them all on his desk. The phone began to ring. She stood listening to it, wondering whether to answer it when it clicked over on to the answering machine. A voice said, ‘John, dear, this is Charlotte Bellinge. Looking forward to seeing you for dinner tonight. Would you be a dear and bring me a signed copy of one of your books? ’Bye.’

Agatha sat down by the desk and twisted the bright engagement ring round and round on her finger. Of course John must be investigating further, she tried to tell herself. But then she thought of the beautiful and exquisite Charlotte and shook her head dismally. It was obvious John couldn’t wait to see Charlotte again. And he hadn’t told her.

Feeling very much on her own, she locked up and left and went to her own cottage. What of her former Watsons – Charles Fraith and Roy Silver? She would get one of them on the case with her and show John Armitage that she did not need him.

But when she phoned Roy’s office, it was to be told he was working out of the New York office, and Charles Fraith’s aunt informed her that Charles was in Paris.

Agatha stood up and squared her shoulders and set her mouth in a grim line. She would solve this case herself.

Agatha had decided that Mrs Essex would have probably returned to the north before she arrived at the cottage, but Mrs Essex herself answered the door.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said. ‘Come in. Maybe you can tell me what I should do with this lot. They’re down in the cellar,’ she said, leading the way to a door under the stairs.

As Agatha bent her head to follow her through the low door and down shallow stone steps, she wondered if Mrs Essex had found something gruesome.

‘There they are,’ said Mrs Essex.

The small cellar was full of metal wine racks stacked with dusty bottles.

‘I wouldn’t have thought your sister would be a wine collector,’ said Agatha.

‘If you mean fine wines, forget it. This lot is all home-made. See!’ She took a bottle out of the nearest rack. A faded white label with the inscription ‘Jellop’s Brew’ had been stuck on the greenish glass.

‘Is it any good?’ asked Agatha.

‘I never touch alcohol, so I wouldn’t know.’

Agatha thought of the duck races. Nothing like a bit of alcohol to get the punters going. And home-made wine would not be considered sinful.

‘If it tastes all right, I could maybe take the lot off you for a church fête.’

‘What! All of it?’

‘Yes, how much would you want?’

‘If it’s for the church, you can have it. I could turn this cellar into a big kitchen. The one upstairs is like a cupboard. But you’d better try some first. We’ll take this bottle upstairs and I’ll find you a glass.’

Agatha reflected it was a bit early in the day for alcohol. On the other hand, it was probably pretty mild.

She led the way upstairs and Mrs Essex followed her carrying the bottle. The living-room smelt damp and musty. ‘Ruby was too mean to get central heating in,’ said Mrs Essex, as if reading her thoughts. ‘Have a seat and I’ll get a glass.’

At least she’s being friendly, thought Agatha. I might just find out something.

Mrs Essex returned with a corkscrew and a glass. She drew the cork and poured Agatha a glass of golden liquid. Agatha sniffed it cautiously. Then she took a sip. It was sweet and she normally didn’t like sweet wine, but it slid pleasantly down her throat and sent a warm glow coursing through her veins.

‘So have you found out anything relevant to my sister’s murder?’ asked Mrs Essex.

‘No, nothing. All I can think of is that Tristan told her something about somebody and that somebody found out she knew and decided to silence her. Would she keep such information to herself without telling the police?’

Agatha took another large gulp of the wine.

‘If she did know something, she might not realize how important it was. She liked secrets and she liked power. Ruby wasn’t a nice person. I know she’s dead. But the fact is that she tormented the life out of me when we were growing up. I remember once . . .’

Her voice went on, describing the iniquities of Ruby while Agatha refilled her glass, enjoying the effect of the wine. It was as if all the golden warmth of summer were surging through her body.

She realized Mrs Essex was asking her a question. ‘I beg your pardon,’ said Agatha dreamily.

‘I was asking how you pass your time in this village. It seems so cut off.’

‘Oh, there’s the ladies’ society. We’re always arranging events to raise money for charity.’

‘Forgive me, but you don’t look the type to enjoy that sort of thing. Are you married?’

‘I was.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Agatha. A dark tide of misery flooded her. She told Mrs Essex all about James, all about how he had pretended to be taking holy orders while fat tears coursed down her cheeks. She went on to tell the bemused lady about her past, about her struggles, about her life, until she realized that somewhere in this sad tale, Mrs Essex had gone into the kitchen, taking the remains of the bottle of wine and had replaced it with a steaming mug of coffee.

‘Drink that,’ said Mrs Essex. ‘You must forgive me for saying so, but you are drunk.’

Shock sobered Agatha somewhat. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t know what came over me.’

‘Alcohol’s what came over you. It looks as if that stuff’s pretty lethal. Do you still want it?’

‘Oh, yes. I’ll get John at the pub to collect it and we can stack it somewhere in the church hall. I’ll ask Mrs Bloxby where it should be stored.’ Agatha rose unsteadily to her feet. ‘I’ll jusht be on my way.’

Mrs Essex scribbled something on a piece of paper and held it out. ‘That’s my phone number. Give me a ring when they’re coming to collect the wine.’

Agatha looked at her helplessly. ‘Shorry.’

‘It’s all right. I think you should go home and sleep it off.’

Agatha was sure the fresh air would restore her, but she had to walk home very slowly and carefully as her legs were showing an alarming tendency to give way.

With a sigh of relief she opened her front door and went into the sitting-room. She would just lie down on the sofa until her head cleared.

When she awoke, the room was in darkness. Her cats were sitting on her stomach looking down at her, their eyes gleaming.

Agatha straightened up and they jumped down on the floor and headed for the kitchen, mewing crossly.

What time is it? wondered Agatha. She stumbled to the door and switched on the light and stared in amazement at her watch. Eight o’clock in the evening. She hurried into the kitchen and opened cans of cat food. Once the cats were fed, she made herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table and lit a cigarette. With the first puff, memory came flooding back. With dreadful clarity she remembered telling Mrs Essex everything about her life. Her face flooded with colour and she let out a groan. She wondered what proof that wine was. It had seemed such a good idea for the duck races. She picked up the phone in the kitchen and dialled the vicarage number. When Mrs Bloxby answered, Agatha told her all about the wine. ‘It’s heady stuff. Do you know I gave Mrs Essex my life story after only a couple of glasses? Do you think it would be safe to serve it?’

‘It’s in a good cause,’ said the vicar’s wife. ‘And she is giving it away. We’ll sell it by the small glass and warn everyone it’s very strong.’

‘I feel such a fool,’ wailed Agatha.

There was a long silence.

‘Are you still there?’ asked Agatha anxiously.

‘Yes. I’m thinking. Something just struck me. If it loosened your tongue so effectively, it might have done the same to Tristan Delon’s.’

‘So it might,’ said Agatha slowly. ‘I’ve never behaved like that before. He might have been blackmailing someone we don’t know about. John was going to see Peggy Slither again, but he’s gone off to London. I might try her myself. I’m going to phone John Fletcher and ask him if he can pick up the wine tomorrow. Where do you want it stored?’

‘In the church hall. I’ll leave it open tomorrow morning. We could really do with a proper church hall. That one is too small for events and we always have to use the school hall.’

‘Maybe the duck races could be used to raise money for a new one.’

‘Tempting. But Save the Children comes first.’

‘Okay. Can you think of any excuse I could use to talk to Peggy Slither again?’

Mrs Bloxby sat in thought. Then she said, ‘We could involve the Ancombe lot in the duck races. Old Mrs Green is the chairwoman of the Ancombe Ladies’ Society, but she is poorly at the moment. Peggy is the secretary. You could call on her as my emissary and propose to her that we join forces.’

‘Excellent. I’ll do that.’

‘I’ll phone John Fletcher at the pub and ask him if he’ll send the truck round to pick up the wine,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘If the wine is as powerful as you say, perhaps we should mix it with fruit juice and serve a punch.’

‘Might be safer,’ conceded Agatha. ‘Tell John to call Mrs Essex and tell her what time the truck will be there. I’ll try Peggy Slither tomorrow. I’m still feeling shaky.’

After Mrs Bloxby rang off, Agatha put a frozen shepherd’s pie in the microwave. It never struck her as odd that she should be prepared to spend time cooking for her cats and yet be content with microwave meals for herself.

Agatha had tried to get interested in cooking. The Sunday supplements for the newspapers were full of recipes and coloured photos of delicious meals. Everyone who was anyone knew how to cook exotic dishes these days.

But it was very hard to plan exotic meals for one. She poked at the microwaved mess on her plate, forcing herself to eat some of it so that she would not wake up hungry during the night.

It’s just as well I’m not in love with John, she thought, as she finally settled down for the night. I wish him well with that tart, Charlotte Bellinge. But as if to give the lie to this thought, her cats sidled into the bedroom and leaped on to the bed, something they only did when they sensed she was upset.