The Case of the Curious Curate

“He didn’t lie about it.”

“Only by omission. Here’s Ancombe. Look for a twee cottage.”

“Nothing in the main street that I can see. Stop at the post office there and I’ll ask.”

John waited until Agatha returned with the news that Peggy Slither lived at the far end of the village in Sheep Street.

“There must be hundreds of Sheep Streets in the Cotswolds,” said John, letting in the clutch and moving off.

At the end of the village, he turned right into Sheep Street.

“Only a few houses here. Oh, that must be it up ahead on the right.”

Shangri-la was a modern bungalow. The front garden was bright with flowers and plaster gnomes. They parked outside and then made their way up a crazy-paving path to the front door. The doormat bore the legend GO AWAY. No doubt Peggy found it humorous. John pressed the bell and they waited while it rang out the chimes of Big Ben. “Is she Mrs. or Miss?” asked John.

“Don’t know.”

The door was opened by a dark-haired middle-aged woman. She had a sallow skin and the sort of twinkling humorous eyes of people who do not have much of a sense of humour at all.

Agatha introduced herself and John.

“Oh, the snoops of Carsely,” she said in a husky voice. “I was just about to make a cup of tea. Come in.”

The living-room was full of knick-knacks and plants. Beside the window, a palm tree grew out of an old toilet. One wall was covered in those tin advertising signs that antique dealers love to fake. On the other side of the window from the palm tree was a copy of the boy of Bruges, peeing into a stone basin. The three–piece suite was upholstered in slippery green silk and decorated with gold fringe.

“I’ll get the tea,” said Peggy.

John looked at the stone boy of Bruges. “I wonder how the water circulates?” he said.

“Awful thing to have in your living room,” said Agatha. “Makes me want to pee myself.”

“Do you think she is really trying to be funny with all this kitsch?” whispered John.

“No, I have a feeling she really likes it. Shhh! Here she comes.”

Peggy entered carrying a tray. The teapot was in the shape of a squat fat man. The spout was his penis. Agatha suddenly decided she did not want tea. When Peggy handed her a cup, she placed it on a side-table.

“All this murder is quite exciting,” said Peggy.

“Exciting?” Agatha looked at her in surprise. “I thought you were very fond of Tristan.”

“Oh, we all were, dear. Such a gorgeous young man.”

“When’s the funeral?” asked John. “I forgot to ask.”

“Some cousin’s having the body taken to London for cremation.”

“I would like to attend that funeral,” said Agatha. “Do you know when it’s going to be?”

“I don’t think anyone will know until the body is released by the police. Of course, you had a thing with him, didn’t you?”

“If you mean an affair,” said Agatha stiffly, “I most certainly did not.”

“But Mrs. Feathers is telling everyone she peered round the kitchen door and saw him kissing you good night.”

“It was a social peck, that’s all,” said Agatha, becoming angry. “I thought you were close to him.”

“Not close. He amused me. And women of our decaying ages, Agatha, do like to be seen around with beautiful young men.”

“I do not need beautiful young men. I am engaged to John, here.”

“Really?” Peggy surveyed John from top to bottom before turning back to Agatha. “How did you manage that?”

John said quickly, “Did you give Tristan any money?”

“Not a penny. Not that the poor lamb didn’t try. Cost him a good few dinners before he gave up on me.”

I hate you, thought Agatha.

“Where were you on the night he died?” asked John.

“Silly man. You’re not the police, so I’m not even bothering to answer you. I thought it would be funny to see how you two snoops went about your business, but I’m beginning to find the whole thing rather boring.”

Agatha stood up. Rage was making her intuitive faculties work overtime. “It’s a good act you’re putting on, Peggy, dear. But you were in love with him and somehow he suckered you and I’m going to find out how. Oh, by the way, did you know he was gay? Come along, John.”

Peggy sat staring after them as they made their exit.

“That last remark of yours hit the old bag hard,” said John when they were back in the car. “How did you guess all that casual jeering was a front?”

“Tristan, it turns out, was a complete rat and a blackmailer,” said Agatha. “But he was glorious and charming. He made me feel fascinating and desirable. That was why he was so dangerous. People who have been conned by him – and to be honest, I could have been – will pretend he had no effect on them. But I can’t imagine any woman being unaffected by Tristan.”

“Except Mrs. Bloxby,” said John. “Let’s go and see Mrs. Tremp.”

? The Case of the Curious Curate ?

5

Mrs. Tremp lived in a converted barn outside the village. Agatha remembered seeing her at various village events. She was a small, mousy woman, and when the colonel was alive, the locals reported that he bullied her.

They bumped down the pot-holed drive leading to her home. As they got out of the car, Agatha slammed the door, and rooks, roosting in a nearby lightning-blasted tree, swirled up to the heavens, cawing in alarm. The harvest was in, and the large field beside the house was full of pheasant pecking among the golden stubble.

The converted barn looked large and solid. Agatha rang the bell and they waited. The rooks came swirling back to their tree and stared down at Agatha and John with beady eyes. Agatha shivered. “I don’t like rooks. Birds of ill omen.”

“You mean ravens,” said John.

The door opened and Mrs. Tremp stood there, blinking myopically up at them in the sunlight.

“It’s Mrs. Raisin and Mr. Armitage, is it not?”

“Yes,” said Agatha. “May we come in? We want to talk about Tristan Delon.”

“Oh dear. I was just making jam…and…I suppose you’d better.” She turned and walked indoors and they followed her into a huge sitting-room with long French windows. The furnishings were a comfortable mixture of old and new. The air was redolent with the smell of plum jam.

“Do sit down,” said Mrs. Tremp. “I hope you don’t mind, I keep the windows closed when I am making jam or I get plagued by wasps. What do you want to know about Mr. Delon?”

“We heard you were friendly with him,” said Agatha.

“Yes, I was, and I was most distressed to hear of his death. And now this other terrible murder. There was never anything like this before you arrived in our village, Mrs. Raisin.”

“Nothing to do with me. I don’t go around murdering people. But I’d like to know who is for Mr. Bloxby’s sake.”

“He has only himself to blame for being a suspect,” said Mrs. Tremp. “He was so jealous of Mr. Delon.”

“I suppose Tristan told you that.”

“He did let slip that he was having a difficult time with the vicar, yes.”

“Did you know that he was gay?” asked John. “And that he tried to get women to give him money?”

She raised a gnarled and veined hand up to her suddenly trembling mouth. “I don’t believe it. That’s a wicked thing to say.”

“I’m afraid it’s true,” said Agatha. “Did he try to get you to give him money?”