The Case of the Curious Curate

ramblers and tagged on to them until I got a plan of the village in my head. I was still thinking what to do. You see, I told him I had money saved and I would pay him the money myself. I watched and waited. I saw that Raisin woman leave his house around midnight. And then I wondered if I could frighten him into leaving. So I phoned him and told him I would call on him the following day and I would shoot him. You see, I was beginning to wonder if there really were any photographs. Because I’d asked my boss if he’d ever been to a gay bar and he said he hadn’t, and Mr. Binser,” she said, all mad pride, “never lies.

“Tristan did sound frightened. But I waited. I saw him slip out and walk to the vicarage. He entered by the French windows. I slipped in after him. I saw him open a box and take money out and at the same time I saw the paper-knife, gleaming in the moonlight. I seized it and stabbed him and left. I had parked my car among woods at the top of the hill and I made my way across the fields to it.”

She fell silent.

“Miss Jellop?” prompted Wilkes. “Why her?”

“Tristan had told her. She said he had left the photos with a Mrs. Slither but that she, Miss Jellop, knew all about it. She said he had got drunk one day and told her. She said she was going to the police. She said she was up in London and calling from a phone-box. I couldn’t have that. I said I would call on her and give her a full explanation. I was so lucky to get to her first. But would it never end? Then I had that Slither woman saying she was sure Tristan had told her that he had enough evidence to ruin Mr. Binser. I hoped it was over but then I began to worry about Peggy Slither. Getting rid of her would make sure there would be an end to it. I carefully looked through her house after I had killed her without disturbing anything, but could not see any photographs. I waited and prayed, but it became evident that the police had not found any either. You won’t tell Mr. Binser about any of this? I would not want to lose his respect.”

“I’m afraid we’ll have to,” said Wilkes and Miss Partle began to cry.

Agatha, for the next few weeks, was frightened into domesticity. Doris Simpson, her cleaner, had gone on holiday to Spain, leaving Agatha to look after her cat, Scrabble. Agatha had brought back Scrabble from one of her cases, had rescued Scrabble, but the ungrateful cat seemed to be pining for the missing Doris, and did not appear to remember Agatha at all. Agatha polished and cleaned and had a brave try at making apple jelly from a basket of windfall apples which Farmer Brent had given her but it would not set, so she gave the jars of runny liquid to Mrs. Bloxby, who miraculously did something to them to turn them into golden jelly.

The vicar, Alf Bloxby, had called in person to thank Agatha for her help. He made such a polite and formal speech that Agatha wryly thought that his wife had coached him in what to say.

John Armitage was often up in London and she saw little of him.

Then Bill Wong called round to tell Agatha that Miss Partle had gone completely mad and it was doubtful if she would ever stand trial.

“It was a visit from Binser that seems to have sent her over the edge,” said Bill. “He’d got her the best lawyer, but she kept asking to see him. I don’t know what was said, but after his visit, they had to put her in a strait-jacket. One always thinks of romantic people as suffering from undying passion, not plain, middle-aged secretaries.”

“Those gay photographs that Wilkes told me about, had Binser known anything about them?”

“No, evidently all he remembers is her asking him if he’d ever gone to a gay bar, and he was surprised, said no, and asked her why. She had responded with something non-committal. As for Jellop and Slither, their end was partly your fault, Agatha.”

“How come?”

“I think both of them were jealous of you and wanted to show they could be detectives as well. It’s very dangerous to keep things from the police. You should have told me about your suspicions, not gone to see her yourself. I mean, what on earth were you thinking of, going back with her to her house?”

“It was when I met her in the Portobello Market,” said Agatha. “She seemed so normal that I decided I must have been fantasizing.”

“But it was a leap in the dark to suspect her.”

“It was this secretary business,” said Agatha. “I was a secretary once. People think because of women’s lib that secretaries no longer make the coffee or things like that. But the top-flight go on more like wives. Some of them even choose schools for the boss’s children. There’s an intimacy springs up. Often boss and secretary work together late. Men like to talk about their work and secretaries make good listeners while wives at home get bored with it all. He probably saw Miss Partle as a cross between mother and helper. And she probably lived on romantic dreams of him. Tristan must have provided a brief holiday from her obsession until she found out that he had been using her. Then all her passion for Binser would return and engulf her.”

Bill’s eyes were shrewd. “You sound as if you’re speaking from personal experience.”

“No, just speculation. How’s Alice?”

“She’s fine.”

“I thought after that scene at the duck races that it would all be over.”

“She was drunk. She cried so hard and apologized so sincerely that I was quite touched.”

“You’re touched in the head,” said Agatha acidly.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Bill, trust me, Alice is one cast-iron bitch. She wants to get married and with that mouth of hers, I doubt if anyone else would have her.”

Bill stood up and jerked on his coat. “Just because you’ve been crossed in love, Agatha, you see the worst in anyone else’s romance. You should be ashamed of yourself. Who I see or what I do is none of your business.”

“But, Bill…” wailed Agatha.

“I’m off.”

After he had gone, Agatha sat feeling miserable. If she wanted to retain his friendship, she would need to apologize to him. But what on earth did he see in the awful Alice?

Restless, she looked around her gleaming cottage. Better to get started on the old folks’ club and take her mind off things.

She walked along to the vicarage. Mrs. Bloxby was out in the garden planting winter pansies.

“You look upset, Mrs. Raisin,” she said, straightening up from a flower-bed. “It’s not too cold today. I’ll bring some coffee out into the garden so you can have a cigarette and you can tell me what’s been going on.”

When they were seated at the garden table with mugs of coffee, Mrs. Bloxby asked, “What’s up?”

“It’s Bill,” said Agatha. “You’ll never believe this. He’s still devoted to Alice.”

“And what’s that got to do with you?”

“He’s my friend and he’s making a terrible mistake. I told him she was a cast-iron bitch.”

“Oh, Mrs. Raisin, you cannot interfere in a relationship.”

“Really? It was you who told me my marriage to James would be a disaster.”

The vicar’s wife looked rueful. “So I did. But I was so worried about you.”

“As I am about Bill.”

“True. But you’d better apologize. He is too good a friend to lose.”

Agatha sighed. “I’m tired of blundering around other people’s lives. I thought I would sound out some builders about getting the church-hall roof repaired for a start.”

“I am so glad you are still going to go on with that. John Fletcher, at the pub, is going to take the wine and label it as a liqueur. He says half of the price of each glass sold will go to the new club.”

“That’s handsome of him. I’ll make a push and try to get it all ready by Christmas. Have some sort of party.”

“When is the trial?” asked Mrs. Bloxby.

“It seems as if there isn’t going to be one. Miss Partle has lost her marbles and will be considered unfit to stand trial. You know, I had one thought when I was lying in that cellar – I haven’t made a will. Maybe I’ll leave it all to the church and go straight to heaven.”

“You’ll want to leave it to your husband.”

“What husband?”

“I cannot imagine you staying single for the rest of your life.”

Agatha grinned. “Maybe I’ll marry John Armitage after all.”

“There’s not enough of a spark there.”