“Possessive, aren’t you? We may as well think of going somewhere together.”
“Why?”
“Well, why not? Unless you prefer to go places on your own.”
“Actually, I like my own company when I’m travelling.”
“Suit yourself. I’ll find someone else. Look at that idiot in front, veering from lane to lane like a maniac.”
I should grow up, mourned Agatha. It would have been nice to have company. Why did I get miffed because he didn’t say anything affectionate? Why should he? Why should I want him to?
She ruthlessly shifted her mind onto the problems of the Carsely murders. Why had John decided that Tristan was gay? Jealousy? Agatha thought back to that dinner. She had largely blotted it out of her mind because of that final rejection. No, he had not struck her as gay. She was sure he masqueraded as one to lead women on and then rebuff them. Perhaps he had lured men on and then told them he was heterosexual. It could be that he had behaved himself while at the church in South Ken. Could he have been twisted and spoilt by his exceptional looks? Hardly. There must have been something twisted in him from the beginning.
How did those journalists that she had been so bitchy about cope with day-to-day rejections and dead ends? Perhaps she should have been nicer to them during her career as a public relations officer. Perhaps, had she done so, she might have been even more successful.
Agatha hardly ever questioned her own behaviour, but this rare introspection was caused by a longing to forget about the whole case. She felt obscurely that it was because John kept taking over. He didn’t have to suffer from the same setbacks as she did. People mostly recognized his name and were prepared to speak to him. And because he was a man, she thought sourly. Men investigated. Women were regarded as interfering. Had women’s lib all been a myth? All that seemed to have been achieved was that women were expected to work as well as raise families. Respect for women had gone.
She roused herself from her meditations to realize they were approaching south Kensington and John was saying, “Look out for a free parking meter.” They cruised around until they struck it lucky. A man was just moving his car out from a parking meter two streets away from the church.
“I hope it turns out to be someone from Tristan’s past in London,” said Agatha. “I want Carsely to go back to being its old time-warp-dull sort of place.”
“I might agree with you,” said John, “had it not been for the murder of Miss Jellop. I hope we can find someone at the church. With all the thefts these days, a lot of these churches stay locked up.”
Agatha looked at her watch. “It’s getting on for lunch-time. Some of them have a lunch-time service.”
St. David’s was a small Victorian church tucked in between two blocks of flats. To Agatha’s relief, the door was standing open.
She followed John in, noticing with irritation that John as usual was leading the way. The church was dark and smelt of incense. Agatha looked at the burning candles and at the Stations of the Cross. “Isn’t this a Catholic church?” she asked.
“No, Church of England. Very High. All bells and smells.”
A man in shirt-sleeves came out of a side door and approached the altar. “Excuse me,” called John.
He approached them down the aisle. He was wearing a grey shirt and black trousers. He had a thin intelligent face.
John introduced them and explained why they were anxious to find out all they could about Tristan.
“I am Hugh Beresford,” he said. “I am the vicar here.”
“And were you here when Tristan was curate?” asked Agatha.
“Yes. I was distressed to read about his murder. So sad.”
“What was his behaviour like when he was here?”
“Exemplary, until…”
“Until what?” demanded Agatha sharply.
“I should not speak ill of the dead, although it was not entirely his fault.”
“You’d better tell us,” said John. “We’re desperate for any morsel which might help us find out what happened to him.” At that moment a woman entered the church, sat in a back pew and then knelt down in prayer. “Is there anywhere private we can talk?”
“Yes, follow me.”
He led them up the aisle and through a heavy oak door at the left of the altar, down a stone passage where surplices hung on hooks, and through another door into a small wood-panelled room furnished with a plain desk and chairs. “Please sit down,” said the vicar. “I will tell you what I know, but I really don’t think it has much bearing on the case. I feel I should really not be telling you anything I have not said to the police, but as you explained, your local vicar is in danger of being falsely accused and so I suppose I should do everything to help. Now where shall I begin?”
The room was dark and stuffy. Agatha could hear the muted roar of the traffic on the Old Brompton Road. The chair she was sitting on was hard and pinched her thighs. She was getting pins and needles in one foot and eased her bottom from side to side.
“Tristan was a very charming young man. At first, he seemed a great asset to the parish. But I suppose having such good looks could only lead to trouble. Before I go on, you must assure me that everything I tell you is in confidence.”
“Absolutely,” said Agatha and John nodded.
“Right. A very attractive lady started attending the services. She started to get friendly with Tristan. Of course, other ladies in the congregation became jealous and one told me that Tristan was having an affair with this lady. I challenged him. He said they were going to be married. Now this lady was a divorcee in her late forties. I pointed out the age difference and the difference in circumstances.”
“Such as?” asked Agatha.
“She was very wealthy and high-class. I told Tristan he would be damned as a toy-boy. But he would not listen. I thought of reporting the matter to the bishop, but I kept putting it off. He was so very much in love, you see.”
Agatha raised her eyebrows. “Tristan? In love?”
“Possibly I should not have done what I did, but I called on this lady. The minute I explained the difficulties there would be for her in marrying someone so young she burst out laughing and said Tristan was a dear boy and very amusing but she had no intention of marrying him. I said if that was the case, she should leave him alone. She was raising hopes in him that could not be fulfilled.”
He fell silent. Did Tristan really love this woman? wondered Agatha. Or was he dazzled with the thought of wealth and a sophisticated life?
The vicar took up the story again.
“In telling him that all was off and that she had no intention of marrying him, she let fall that I had been to see her. Tristan came back in a rage and accused me of ruining his life. He said he was sick of being poor.”
“So he wasn’t really in love with her,” exclaimed Agatha. “It
“Dear me,” said the vicar. “I never thought of it like that. Before it all came to an end, he was… glowing.”
“And who was this woman?” asked John.
“I really do not think I should tell you. She has moved from this parish anyway.”
“We really will be discreet,” said John. “We are neither journalists nor the police.”
Again the vicar fell silent.
At last he said, “It was Lady Charlotte Bellinge.”
“And do you know where she is now?” asked Agatha.
“I am afraid I do not.”
They thanked him and made their way out of the church. “So how do we find this Charlotte Bellinge?” asked John.
“I’ve got friends in newspapers who could look up the files, but they would want to interview us about the murders. I know –
Tanya Cartwright, the social editor of
