Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate (22 page)

The vicar, Alf Bloxby, had called in person to thank Agatha for her help. He made such a polite and formal speech that Agatha wryly thought that his wife had coached him in what to say.

John Armitage was often up in London and she saw little of him.

Then Bill Wong called round to tell Agatha that Miss Partle had gone completely mad and it was doubtful if she would ever stand trial.

‘It was a visit from Binser that seems to have sent her over the edge,’ said Bill. ‘He’d got her the best lawyer, but she kept asking to see him. I don’t know what was said, but after his visit, they had to put her in a strait-jacket. One always thinks of romantic people as suffering from undying passion, not plain, middle-aged secretaries.’

‘Those gay photographs that Wilkes told me about, had Binser known anything about them?’

‘No, evidently all he remembers is her asking him if he’d ever gone to a gay bar, and he was surprised, said no, and asked her why. She had responded with something non-committal. As for Jellop and Slither, their end was partly your fault, Agatha.’

‘How come?’

‘I think both of them were jealous of you and wanted to show they could be detectives as well. It’s very dangerous to keep things from the police. You should have told me about your suspicions, not gone to see her yourself. I mean, what on earth were you thinking of, going back with her to her house?’

‘It was when I met her in the Portobello Market,’ said Agatha. ‘She seemed so normal that I decided I must have been fantasizing.’

‘But it was a leap in the dark to suspect her.’

‘It was this secretary business,’ said Agatha. ‘I was a secretary once. People think because of women’s lib that secretaries no longer make the coffee or things like that. But the top-flight go on more like wives. Some of them even choose schools for the boss’s children. There’s an intimacy springs up. Often boss and secretary work together late. Men like to talk about their work and secretaries make good listeners while wives at home get bored with it all. He probably saw Miss Partle as a cross between mother and helper. And she probably lived on romantic dreams of him. Tristan must have provided a brief holiday from her obsession until she found out that he had been using her. Then all her passion for Binser would return and engulf her.’

Bill’s eyes were shrewd. ‘You sound as if you’re speaking from personal experience.’

‘No, just speculation. How’s Alice?’

‘She’s fine.’

‘I thought after that scene at the duck races that it would all be over.’

‘She was drunk. She cried so hard and apologized so sincerely that I was quite touched.’

‘You’re touched in the head,’ said Agatha acidly.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘Bill, trust me, Alice is one cast-iron bitch. She wants to get married and with that mouth of hers, I doubt if anyone else would have her.’

Bill stood up and jerked on his coat. ‘Just because you’ve been crossed in love, Agatha, you see the worst in anyone else’s romance. You should be ashamed of yourself. Who I see or what I do is none of your business.’

‘But, Bill . . .’ wailed Agatha.

‘I’m off.’

After he had gone, Agatha sat feeling miserable. If she wanted to retain his friendship, she would need to apologize to him. But what on earth did he see in the awful Alice?

Restless, she looked around her gleaming cottage. Better to get started on the old folks’ club and take her mind off things.

She walked along to the vicarage. Mrs Bloxby was out in the garden planting winter pansies.

‘You look upset, Mrs Raisin,’ she said, straightening up from a flowerbed. ‘It’s not too cold today. I’ll bring some coffee out into the garden so you can have a cigarette and you can tell me what’s been going on.’

When they were seated at the garden table with mugs of coffee, Mrs Bloxby asked, ‘What’s up?’

‘It’s Bill,’ said Agatha. ‘You’ll never believe this. He’s still devoted to Alice.’

‘And what’s that got to do with you?’

‘He’s my friend and he’s making a terrible mistake. I told him she was a cast-iron bitch.’

‘Oh, Mrs Raisin, you cannot interfere in a relationship.’

‘Really? It was you who told me my marriage to James would be a disaster.’

The vicar’s wife looked rueful. ‘So I did. But I was so worried about you.’

‘As I am about Bill.’

‘True. But you’d better apologize. He is too good a friend to lose.’

Agatha sighed. ‘I’m tired of blundering around other people’s lives. I thought I would sound out some builders about getting the church-hall roof repaired for a start.’

‘I am so glad you are still going to go on with that. John Fletcher, at the pub, is going to take the wine and label it as a liqueur. He says half of the price of each glass sold will go to the new club.’

‘That’s handsome of him. I’ll make a push and try to get it all ready by Christmas. Have some sort of party.’

‘When is the trial?’ asked Mrs Bloxby.

‘It seems as if there isn’t going to be one. Miss Partle has lost her marbles and will be considered unfit to stand trial. You know, I had one thought when I was lying in that cellar – I haven’t made a will. Maybe I’ll leave it all to the church and go straight to heaven.’

‘You’ll want to leave it to your husband.’

‘What husband?’

‘I cannot imagine you staying single for the rest of your life.’

Agatha grinned. ‘Maybe I’ll marry John Armitage after all.’

‘There’s not enough of a spark there.’

‘Does one need a spark at my age?’

‘At any age.’

‘I’ll think about it. I’ll go home and phone around some builders.’

Agatha went to feed her cats because their bowls were empty and she couldn’t remember feeding them. I’m turning into a compulsive cat feeder, she thought as she poached fish for them and then set it aside to cool. She saw John’s keys lying on the kitchen counter and decided to go next door and pick up his mail from the doormat and put it on his desk.

In his cottage, she scooped up the pile of post. She looked thoughtfully at his answering machine. Why all these trips to London? Feeling guilty, she laid down the post on his desk and crossed to the answering machine. There were several messages, and all from Charlotte Bellinge. He must have saved them, thought Agatha dismally. The first one was Charlotte apologizing for bringing some man called Giles to dinner. ‘Do forgive me, dear John,’ she cooed. ‘Do let me take you out for dinner and make it up to you.’ The second said, ‘What a wondertul time we had. Pippa is giving a party tomorrow night. Do say you’ll come.’ And the third, ‘I’m running a bit late. Can you pick me up at nine instead of eight? Dying to see you.’

So that’s that, thought Agatha. No heading into the sunset of middle age with John Armitage.

She went home and arranged the cooled fish in bowls for the cats. The loneliness of the cottage seemed to press down on her.

Agatha picked up the phone and dialled old Mr Crinsted’s number. ‘Feel like coming out for dinner?’ she asked.

‘Delighted,’ said the old man.

‘I’ll pick you up in half an hour,’ said Agatha.

Agatha found she was enjoying herself in Mr Crinsted’s company. They discussed plans for the old folks’ club and Mr Crinsted promised to teach Agatha chess.

‘I am so glad you called, Mrs Raisin,’ he said. ‘I wanted to hear all about the murders.’

‘I would have called earlier,’ lied Agatha, who had practically until that evening forgotten Mr Crinsted’s existence, ‘but I’ve been settling down after the shock of it all.’

‘Tell me about it, Mrs Raisin.’

‘Agatha.’

‘Right, my name is Ralph.’

So Agatha did while Ralph Crinsted listened intently. When she had finished, he said, ‘It’s odd, all the same.’

‘What’s odd?’

‘This Miss Partle must have been so used to discussing everything with him, I’m surprised she decided to take matters into her own hands.’

‘I’ve met Binser. He’s a straightforward man. He probably never noticed much about her. Thought of her as a bit of office machinery.’

‘I think any man who had a secretary so much in love with him would have noticed something.’

‘Maybe he did and took it as his due. Men do, you know.’

‘Some men.’

‘I’m just glad it’s all over and Alf Bloxby is in the clear. Not that there was ever any evidence against him, but there was gossip, and gossip in a small village can be very dangerous.’

‘True. Have you ever played chess before?’

‘No, never.’

‘Like to learn?’

‘I wouldn’t mind.’

‘Then I’ll give you lessons.’

After she had dropped Mr Crinsted off at his home, Agatha reflected that it was a long time since she had enjoyed such a carefree evening.

She had promised to call on Ralph Crinsted in a couple of days’ time and start her chess lessons. Then tomorrow, she would see what estimate the builders came up with for the roof. The ring on her finger sparkled. ‘Masquerade over,’ said Agatha ruefully to her cats. She took off the ring and put it in the kitchen drawer. She wondered how John was getting on with Charlotte and realized with relief that his relationship didn’t bother her in the slightest. Or that was what she believed. Almost impossible to imagine John getting passionate about anyone. Like Miss Partle. Poor Miss Partle. Now why think that? This was a woman who was a stone-cold murderess and who was probably faking insanity.

John Armitage was at another hot and noisy party in Chelsea with Charlotte flirting with a group of men across the room. But he could bear it. Tonight was going to be the night. Hadn’t she said they would just drop in for an hour and then go home together? He remembered fondly the seductive look in her eyes when she had said those words and the caress in her voice.

He had been disappointed that she had still shown no interest in the murders except to laugh and say that Agatha Raisin was a formidable woman.

John looked at his watch, only half listening to the woman next to him, who was telling him that she was sure she could sit down and write a book if she only had the time. They had been there two hours and Charlotte showed no signs of leaving. Time to take charge. He crossed the room and took her arm in a possessive grip. ‘Time we were leaving.’

‘Oh, darling.’ Charlotte pouted prettily. ‘We’re all going on to Jilly’s party.’

John did not know who this Jilly was and he did not care.

He said stiffly, ‘Either we leave now or I’m going home.’

‘Then you’d better go. But why not come with us? It’ll be fun.’

‘Goodnight,’ snapped John.

As he strode to the door, he heard one of the men with Charlotte laugh and say, ‘There goes another of Charlotte’s walkers.’

His face flamed. That had been all she had really wanted from him, an escort to walk her to the endless social functions she loved.

His thoughts turned to Agatha on the road home. He had been neglecting her along with his work. He would get going on the book for a couple of days and then take her out for dinner. But, damn Charlotte Bellinge. She had really led him a fine dance.

Agatha was busy with the builders next day and with looking around the church hall. Old people like comfort and dignity. The floor would need a carpet and she would need to supply comfortable chairs and tables. Bookshelves along one wall for books, games and jigsaws. What else? The walls painted, of course, but not in those dreadful pink and pale-blue pastel colours do-gooders liked to inflict on the old as if catering for a second childhood. Plain white would do, with pictures. It should really be called the Agatha Raisin Club, considering all the work and money she was putting into it. But Mrs Bloxby would think she was being grandiose. Of course, she had promised to think up some fund-raising venture so that she would not have to bear all the cost herself. Agatha’s mind worked busily. An auction would be a good idea. She had raised a lot of money at one of those before by going around the country houses and getting them to contribute. Or what about getting some well-known pop group to put on a concert? No, scrub that. It would bring in too much mess and probably drugs as well. She must think of something.

She walked back to her cottage in the pouring rain, trying to avoid the puddles gathering amongst the fallen leaves.

In her cottage, there was a note lying on the kitchen table from Doris Simpson, one of the few women in Carsely to use Agatha’s first name. ‘Dear Agatha,’ she read, ‘Have taken poor Scrabble home to feed. Cat looks half-starved. Be round to clean as usual next week. Doris.’

‘Bloody cat ate like a horse,’ muttered Agatha.

The doorbell rang. Agatha answered it. John stood there. He had suddenly decided he wanted to see Agatha.

‘Yes?’ asked Agatha coldly.

‘Can I come in? It’s bucketing with rain.’

He followed her into the kitchen.

‘So what were you doing in London?’ asked Agatha.

‘This and that. Bookshops, agent, publisher, the usual round. Are you free for dinner this evening?’

‘I think I’ve got a date,’ lied Agatha. ‘I’ll check.’

She dialled Mr Crinsted’s number. ‘Is our date for tonight, Ralph, sweetie?’ asked Agatha in a husky voice.

‘I thought we’d arranged to play chess tomorrow,’ came the surprised voice at the other end. ‘But tonight, any time is fine.’

‘Look forward to it,’ said Agatha. ‘See you then.’ She put down the receiver and turned to John.

‘Sorry, I’ve got a date.’

‘Well, what about tomorrow?’

‘Sorry, going to be busy for some time.’ And I am not interested in Charlotte Bellinge’s leavings, thought Agatha. She must have ditched him.

‘I’ll leave you to it.’ John marched out, feeling doubly rejected. The rain poured down. What am I doing stuck in this village? thought John angrily. It doesn’t help a bit with the writing. I was better off in London.

After he had gone, Agatha took the ring he had given her out of the drawer and put it in an envelope. On her way out that evening, she popped it through his letter-box. Not that she was jealous of Charlotte Bellinge.

For Ralph Crinsted’s sake, Agatha tried to concentrate on her chess lesson while privately wondering what could be the fun in playing such a boring game. There seemed to be so much to memorize. ‘I don’t think you’re going to make a chess player,’ said Ralph finally. ‘You’re not enjoying this one bit.’