you playing at?”
Agatha gave a stifled scream and turned round. Bill Wong’s eyes gleamed at her in the darkness.
“Oh, Bill,” babbled Agatha. “I’m so sorry. So very sorry.”
“Let’s go inside. You’ve some explaining to do.”
In the fluorescent light of the kitchen, Agatha was a sorry sight. She was black with coal dust. “I’d let you clean yourself up first,” said Bill. “But I’m in a hurry.”
Agatha seized a handful of kitchen paper and ran it under the cold tap and then wiped her face and hands.
She sat down at the kitchen table. “Bill, thank you for not betraying me.”
“I should have done,” he said grimly. “This could cost me my job if anything came out. Lucky for you that Mrs. Tremp came to the conclusion that the coalman had left that trapdoor open and rats or something had shifted the coal during the night. She was most apologetic. So, what have you been up to?”
In a halting voice, Agatha told him all about her plan to look at the papers on Mrs. Tremp’s desk and also to see what was in her computer.
“Now, listen to me very carefully,” said Bill. “If I ever catch you doing anything like that again, I will not only have you arrested, our friendship will be at an end. I risked my job for you, Agatha. Of all the stupid things to do! This is one case you are going to leave strictly alone from now on. If you do hear of anything relevant to the case, then you are to tell me immediately. I am going to get some sleep with what is left of the night.”
“Any news of the rambler?”
“Lucky for you, there is. He walked into police headquarters around seven o’clock this evening – I mean, yesterday evening. Respectable computer nerd, member of a rambling society, said he liked night walking on his own occasionally. No record.”
“Why lucky for me?”
“If no one had turned up, it would have looked as if that faulty memory of yours had lost us the chance of getting the killer. Before I go. Why Mrs. Tremp? Did she say something you aren’t telling me about?”
“John and I saw her earlier in the day. Tristan had taken her once to meet Peggy Slither. There’s something not quite right about Mrs. Tremp. When her husband had his fatal stroke, she sat watching him for a bit before calling the ambulance. She seemed to be…well…gleeful that he was dead.”
“And that’s all you had to go on?”
“I know it sounds silly, but I’ve had good hunches before.”
“Agatha, for the last time, leave it alone.”
“Okay,” said Agatha wearily. She saw him to the door. “Give my regards to Alice.”
His tired face lit up. “Thanks. I will.”
Agatha shut and locked the door behind him and set the burglar alarm. Then she crawled wearily up the stairs and stripped off her dirty clothes and threw them in the laundry basket before taking a shower and scrubbing off all the coal dust.
Her last thought before she fell asleep was that she was actually relieved she could leave this messy and dreadful case alone.
Next day Agatha went to a printer’s where she got a flyer she had run off on her computer enlarged. She collected two hundred copies and spent an afternoon posting them up in shop windows and on trees in Carsely and in the villages round about.
When she returned home, John rang and said he’d be round in a few minutes.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said as he walked in, “that perhaps we’ve been neglecting the London end. We never found out who beat Tristan up in New Cross.”
“Forget it,” said Agatha. “I have been told in no uncertain terms to keep away from everything and anything to do with the case. And by the way, that rambler I saw was kosher. A respectable citizen.”
“Why are you warned off? What’s been happening?”
“I may as well tell you.” Agatha described the events of the night. John was hardly able to hear the rest of her story, he was laughing so hard. “You are an idiot,” he said finally. “Thank goodness you didn’t drag me into it. Not that I would have gone with you. But I haven’t been warned off.”
“I should think the warning applies to you as well.”
“So you’re just giving up? Have you ever given up before?”
“No, but I’ve never been at such a dead end before. I tell you, John, I’m going to concentrate on these duck races and make it all a success for Mrs. Bloxby and then find something safe and pleasant to do with my time.”
“Like what?”
“I’ll think of something.”
“I think I’ll go back up to London,” said John, “and see what I can find out. Want to come with me?”
Agatha shook her head. “I’ve given up.”
? The Case of the Curious Curate ?
9
The day of the duck races was fine. Hazy sunshine gilded the countryside. Agatha was there early to supervise the arrangements. John had said he would join her later.
Miss Simms was to sell programmes at the field gate. Six races were to be run. The entrance fee was one pound, but as Agatha had put a sign up on the main road saying free drinks, she was sure that the entrance charge would not deter the crowd. The free drinks were to be fruit punch laced with Miss Jellop’s wine. The bottles of wine could be bought for three pounds each. The ducks, for anyone wanting to take part in the race, were to be sold for two pounds each. One of Miss Simms’s ex-lovers, a bookie, had volunteered to take the racing bets. Agatha had donated small engraved silver cups to be given to the winner of each race. Agatha was glad the day was warm because the three men who had volunteered to start the duck races would have to stand in the stream in their bare feet to lift the restraining plank across the stream which held the ducks at the starting line.
Agatha was glad she had trusted the weather report and had cancelled the marquee. The day set fair without a breath of wind. The sun sparkled on the rushing stream and shone on the red and yellow leaves of the trees bordering the field.
Some of the local farmers, along with Farmer Brent, had set up tables to sell meat and local vegetables. Mrs. Tremp had two tables, one with home-made jam and the other with cakes.
Agatha mixed fruit juice and two bottles of Miss Jellop’s wine into a giant punch-bowl, ready to be ladled into small plastic cups. The event was to start at ten. A small trickle of people began to enter the field. Agatha noticed old Mrs. Feathers. Why didn’t I think to question her about Tristan? she wondered. But deep down she knew it was because Mrs. Feathers was old and frail and Agatha was ashamed when she remembered the trouble the old woman had gone to producing that expensive dinner. More people arrived and Agatha was suddenly very busy ladling out punch and selling wine. John appeared and she appealed to him for help because a large crowd of people were demanding punch.
Although Agatha had vowed to have nothing more to do with the case, she could not help turning over what she knew in her mind. There were noisy cheers from the stream where the races were taking place. The bookie was doing well, taking bets. After the first hour, Mrs. Tremp had sold practically everything. More and more people were arriving, drawn by the offer of free drink. Agatha began to feel marginalized. After all, she had paid for the cups. She should be the one to present them. But it was Mrs. Bloxby who was making the presentations.
Agatha tried to console herself with the thought that the day had turned out to be a roaring success. But the press were there in force and she was getting none of the glory.
John tugged out his mobile phone. “Won’t be moment,” he said. “Just phoning home to see if there are any messages.”
“All right. But hurry up,” said Agatha sulkily. Then she thought about mobile phones. What had people ever done without them? A thin woman a little away from her was shouting into one. Doesn’t need a phone, thought Agatha. Her voice is loud enough to carry miles.
And then she stood with her mouth a little open, the ladle in her hand while a customer looked at her
