“Come in. It’s amazing. Someone bumps off Miss Jellop and nobody sees a thing, and yet you know I had the police here last night.” Agatha told her about Binser’s complaint.
Mrs. Bloxby sighed and sat down and placed her battered handbag on the kitchen table. Look at her, thought Agatha, mangy old handbag, droopy cardigan, baggy tweed skirt, and yet she always appears the picture of a lady. “If only you could find out who did these dreadful murders,” said the vicar’s wife. “Nothing in the village will ever be the same if you don’t.”
“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, fetes, 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 onto 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.
? The Case of the Curious Curate ?
7
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 homemade. 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 fete.”
“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.”
