people. Must have been someone or something else and he took it out on me.
John stopped the car and asked directions to St. Edmund’s until he found a man who actually knew where the church was.
St. Edmund’s was in a leafy backstreet. It was a Victorian building, still black from the soot of former coal- burning decades. White streaks of pigeon droppings cut through the soot up at the roof. It had four crenellated spires with weather vanes of gold pennants. Beside the church was a Victorian villa, also black with soot, which, they guessed, must be the vicarage.
John pressed the old–fashioned brass bell-push sunk into the stone wall beside the door.
The door was opened after a few moments by a heavy-set woman with her hair wound up in pink plastic rollers. She had a massive bosom under an overall and a large, truculent red face.
“Whatissit?”
“We would like to see the vicar,” said John.
“’Sinerstudy.”
“Would you mind telling him we’re here?”
Without asking them who they were, the woman shuffled off. “Poor man,” murmured John. “What a housekeeper!”
The vicar arrived and peered at them curiously. He had what Agatha always thought of as a Church of England face: weak eyes behind thick glasses, sparse grey hair, grey skin, a bulbous nose and a fleshy mouth with thick pale lips.
“What do you want to see me about?” he asked. His voice was beautiful, the old Oxford accent, so pleasant to listen to that it sounds like no accent at all.
“I am Agatha Raisin and this is John Armitage. We both live in Carsely and are friends of the vicar there, Mr. Alfred Bloxby.”
“Oh, dear.” His face creased up in distress. “I heard about that dreadful murder on the news this morning. Terrible, terrible. How do you do. I am Fred Lancing. Do come in.”
He led them into the study, a shabby book-lined room. “I should really take you through to the sitting-room,” he said apologetically, “but I only really use this room and the others are rather damp and dusty. Would you like tea?”
“Yes, please,” said Agatha.
He opened the door of the study and shouted, “Mrs. Buggy!”
“What yer want?” came the answering shout.
“Tea for three.”
“Think I’ve got nothing better ter do?”
“Just do it!” shouted the vicar, turning pink.
He came back and sat down behind his desk. Agatha and John sat side by side on an old black horsehair sofa. “It was those evening classes on feminism,” he sighed. “Mrs. Buggy was much taken with them. She has regarded me as a tyrant ever since. How can I help you? Poor Tristan.”
Agatha outlined what had happened and said they were afraid that the police suspected Mr. Bloxby and she and John wanted to help to clear his name.
“The police called on me yesterday evening,” said the vicar mildly. “But I really couldn’t tell them anything much.”
“Did Tristan really get beaten up by a gang and have a nervous breakdown?” asked Agatha.
“I gather that is what he said.”
At that moment, the door crashed open and Mrs. Buggy entered with three cups of milky tea on a tray, which she crashed down on the vicar’s desk.
“No biscuits,” she snarled on her road out.
“I do hate bossy women,” murmured the vicar.
“I do so agree with you,” said John, flashing a look at Agatha.
“I did not know the vicar of Carsely – Mr. Bloxby, did you say? – was under suspicion.”
“I’m afraid so,” said Agatha. “Please tell us the truth about Tristan Delon. It could help. Someone murdered him and it could be someone from his past.”
The vicar stood up and handed each of them a cup of tea before retreating behind his desk.
“I am wondering what to tell you,” he said. “You see, if I tell you more than I have told the police, they will be very angry.”
“I am a private detective,” said Agatha. “I will not tell the police anything you say. I promise.”
“I, I, I,” murmured John, and Agatha threw him a fulminating look.
“De mortuis…” said the vicar. “I always think it is cruel to speak ill of the dead.”
“But surely it is necessary if it can help bring justice to the living. I gather Tristan was gay,” said John. Agatha stared at him in amazement.
“I believe so,” said Mr. Lancing. “There are so many temptations in town for a young man.”
“What temptations?” demanded Agatha sharply.
“He bragged about having a rich businessman as a friend and showed off a gold Rolex. But his homosexuality was not the problem. He should really have gone on the stage. He was very flamboyant in the pulpit. He charmed the parishioners – at first.”
“And then what happened?” asked John.
“He seemed to become bored after he had been with me for a few weeks. It was then he developed a, well, nasty streak. He would find out some parishioner’s vulnerable point and lean on it, if you know what I mean.”
“Blackmail?” demanded Agatha eagerly.
“No, no. Just…well, to put it in one word…spite.”
“Do you know the name of this businessman?” asked John.
There was a long silence, and then the vicar said, “No, although he bragged, he was very secretive about the details.”
He does know who it is, thought John.
Agatha sat forward on the sofa, her bear like eyes glistening. “So he didn’t have a nervous breakdown. He didn’t get beaten up.”
“He did get beaten up.”
“Because of his boys’ club?”
“He didn’t have a boys’ club. He appeared very frightened, however. He said he had to get away. He seemed to become quite demented. He was also very penitent and said he wanted to make a new start. I made inquiries and hit on the idea of removing him to a quiet country village. He had done nothing criminal, you see. And he did seem determined to become a better person.”
“Did he have any particular friend in the parish?”
“He did have one, Sol MacGuire, a builder. He lives over the shops on Briory Road. Number sixteen. It’s just around the corner if you turn left when you leave the vicarage.”
Agatha rounded on John as soon as they had left the vicarage. “How did you know he was gay?”
“I didn’t. It was just a wild guess.”
“Humph!”
“And I’ll bet he knows the name of that businessman.”
“He wouldn’t lie.”
“Because he’s a vicar? Come
“I don’t believe you,” said Agatha furiously.
They walked in silence round the corner to Briory Road. It was a shabbier street with smaller houses. Number 16 had an excuse for a front garden: a sagging privet hedge, a broken bicycle, rank grass and weeds.
No one answered their knock. They tried the neighbours and were told he was probably out working but that he usually came home around six in the evening.
“Four hours to kill,” said John, looking at his watch. “But we haven’t eaten anything. Let’s find a pub.”
They found one out in the main road where traffic shimmered in the heat. John pushed open the door and they walked into the gloom. It was fairly empty. It was an old–fashioned London pub which had not yet been
