ridiculous, I know, but frightened people do talk such rubbish and people
“I haven’t seen the papers today,” said Agatha. “Have you got a copy?”
“Yes, I’ve one in my desk.” Mrs. Brown pulled open a drawer. “Here it is.”
There was a coloured photograph of the Morris men fighting. The headline read:
There was nothing more about Tristan to be got from Mrs. Brown. “Two more dead ends,” said John when he dropped Agatha off at her cottage. “Now what?”
“I’m going back to see Mrs. Bloxby,” said Agatha. “I’m going to put forward my idea for the old folks’ club.”
“You’re on your own, then. Maybe see you tomorrow.”
“Yes, maybe,” said Agatha vaguely, her mind full of plans.
“It really is too generous of you, Mrs. Raisin,” said Mrs. Bloxby. “But what about all that wine? We’ll need to find a new home for it.”
“I’ve had an idea about that,” said Agatha. “The wine is very heavy and sweet. We could relabel it and call it Cotswold Liqueur. I could ask John Fletcher if he would buy the wine. He could sell it by the glass as a liqueur. I could get a write-up on it in the local paper, do a bit of promotion in return. Tell him the proceeds will go to the old folks’ home.”
“That’s a brilliant idea. I don’t think all your money should go into the repairs. Now we have done so well for Save the Children, I think we should organize the next fund-raising venture to go to repairing the hall.”
“I’ll think of something good,” said Agatha confidently.
“I am so glad to see you looking like your old self,” said Mrs. Bloxby.
“I think I’ve finally got fed up with suffering over James. I’m going to have fun.”
Agatha was hungry when she got home. Once more she scrabbled in the deep-freeze, scraping frost off labels in her search for something to eat. She was so tired, she did not notice that the tray of faggots she placed in the microwave was on a foil dish. She had not read the instructions properly and so did not know that foil was deemed unsuitable for microwaves. She had only read the time by dint of screwing up her eyes. Agatha should have realized that forty-five minutes in a microwave is a long time. While the dish spun round, she went into the garden and took a deep breath of the cold night air.
Was the murderer somewhere in the village? Was it possible to sleep easy at night after having committed three murders? As she stood there, lost in thought, she finally became aware of the frantic mewing of her cats and turned round. Black smoke was billowing out through the open kitchen door.
She rushed in. Flames were beginning to lick around the inside of the microwave. She switched it off and unplugged it and opened the door, coughing and waving her arms to try to clear the smoke. The foil tray had melted under a congealed black heap of food. Agatha lifted up the microwave and put it outside the kitchen door.
She found some slightly hard bread and cut two slices and toasted them with cheese under the grill. A film of black was lying over all the surfaces in the kitchen. When she had finished eating, she began to clean the kitchen. It was nearly midnight by the time she had finished.
Agatha went upstairs and had a hot bath and then changed into a long cotton night-dress. She climbed into bed and settled down with a weary sigh. What a day! At least the duck races had raised a lot of money. Pity about the bad publicity. So Bunty was married. She had achieved the dream of many secretaries by marrying the boss. Agatha’s thoughts drifted back to the days when she herself had been a secretary. Her boss, an advertising manager, had been tall and blond and charming. Agatha had slavishly spent some of her small pay packet on buying special brands of coffee to please him. But he had never seemed to pay any more attention to her than if she were some sort of piece of office machinery. Mr. Crinsted’s son had married his secretary.
She sat up, her mind racing. Miss Partle, Binser’s secretary. What if she was so in love with her boss that she would defend him every way she could?
? The Case of the Curious Curate ?
10
Without even bothering to put on a dressing-gown, Agatha fled down the stairs, out into the night, straight to John’s cottage and rang the bell and then hammered on the door.
“I’m coming,” she heard John’s cross voice shouting. He opened the door and stared at Agatha in her night- gown.
“Why, Agatha, this is so sudden.”
“Don’t be silly,” said Agatha. “I’ve just got to talk to you.”
He stood back and she walked into his living-room. John was bare-chested, wearing only a pair of blue silk pyjama trousers. His smooth chest was strong and muscled. Agatha wondered briefly what he did to keep so fit before plunging in. “Secretaries,” she gasped.
“Sit down. Calm down. Begin at the beginning.”
“I met my former secretary, Bunty, at the duck races. She’d married her boss. Mad about him.”
“That’s nice,” said John soothingly. “But why come dashing in here in the middle of the night?”
“I just remembered how secretaries can obsess about their bosses. What about Miss Partle?”
“Binser’s secretary?”
“Yes, her. Do you remember it was because of her that Binser met Tristan in the first place?”
“I think I do.”
“Well, think of this. She could have been charmed by Tristan, enough to effect the introduction, but her real passion was for her boss. When Tristan conned Binser out of ten thousand, she must have been determined to get it back. She may have arranged to get him beaten up. So the ten thousand is returned. Still, Tristan tried a bit of blackmail. He loved money. He was desperate for money and more money. Miss Partle thought it was all over. But somehow Tristan gets his hands on a real piece of blackmail material concerning Binser. He phones Miss Partle. Say he speaks to her because Binser is away. She decides to silence him. She phones him in the middle of the night after you leave. Maybe she reminds Tristan of the beating in New Cross. He decides to make a break for it. He leaves the house and goes to the vicarage. She follows him quietly, not wanting to attack him in the street. Let’s say he doesn’t use his key to the vicarage but goes through the French windows. She sees him open the church box and take the money. She suddenly sees it would be to her advantage to get rid of him in such circumstances. She seizes the paper-knife, and bingo!”
“And what about Peggy Slither and Miss Jellop?”
“Tristan must have told them about what he had, or hinted at it. Miss Jellop, upset at his death, decides to phone Miss Partle. Maybe she thinks Miss Jellop knew more than she did; same with Peggy. She panics. Two more murders.”
“Agatha, Agatha, think calmly. It’s all too improbable. You’re clutching at straws.”
“Nevertheless, I am going up there tomorrow and I’m going to have a word with her and see her reaction. She can’t do anything to me in a busy office.”
John was about to point out that Binser’s offices were in a quiet executive suite but restrained himself.
“Go back to bed,” he said soothingly. “We’ll talk about it tomorrow.”
“Maybe I won’t confront her right away,” said Agatha. “I’ll follow her after work, see where she lives, try to find out what sort of person she is.”
“Yes, dear. Just go home,” said John as if humoring a child.
“So you aren’t coming with me?”
Unknown to Agatha, John had a dinner date for the following evening with Charlotte Bellinge, but he wasn’t going to tell Agatha that. “I have a book to finish.”
“Very well,” said Agatha huffily. “I’ll investigate on my own.”
Agatha decided to be in London when Binser’s offices closed for the night. That way she could follow Miss Partle, see where she lived, perhaps get some idea of her real character. She put on a disguise she had worn before of a blonde wig and spectacles with non-magnifying lenses.
Before she went, she was tempted to phone Bill, but then she remembered John’s sheer disbelief at her
