The Case of the Curious Curate

∨ The Case of the Curious Curate ∧

11

Bill began to think she had gone mad and that they were never going to get a coherent statement out of her, but at last she calmed and it all came out.

“I am devoted to my boss,” she said in a flat, even voice. “I did everything for him, more than his wife. I made him the best coffee, I put his shirts in the laundry, I bought the Christmas and birthday presents for his children as well as dealing with his business affairs. Then I received a message one day to say there was a Mr. Tristan Delon in reception. He wished to see Mr. Binser with a view to getting a charitable donation towards a boys’ club. I sent down a message that he should put his request in writing.”

Wilkes occasionally interrupted to ask for times and dates.

“He must have somehow got a description of me from one of the receptionists, for when I left that evening, he was waiting for me. He invited me for dinner. He was very charming and I knew that Mr. Binser would never love me the way I wanted him to, and it was like a perpetual ache at my heart. Tristan made me feel attractive. I found myself promising him an interview with my boss. And then suddenly Mr. Binser and Tristan seemed to be going everywhere, but Tristan was still careful to take me out as well from time to time.

“Then Mr. Binser came to me and told me how he had been cheated out of ten thousand pounds. I told Tristan to visit me at my home. I took a cricket bat to him and said that was only a taste of what he would get if he didn’t return the money, and I thought that was the end of it. I checked with his vicar and found he had moved to the country.

“And then, when I had all but forgotten about him, he phoned me. He said he and Mr. Binser had gone to a gay bar and a friend who worked there had sent pictures of Tristan and Mr. Binser. Tristan said to tell Mr. Binser that if he did not pay up two hundred and fifty thousand, the photographs would go to his wife. Much as I thought Mr. Binser’s wife was not worthy of him, I knew he would be devastated. I hated Tristan Delon. He had fooled me. He had let me think he cared for me. I went down to Carsely in disguise, dressed as a rambler. I saw a group of 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.”

“Does one need a spark at my age?”

“At any age.”

“I’ll think about it. I’ll go home and phone around some builders.”

Agatha went to feed her cats because their bowls were empty and she couldn’t remember feeding them. I’m turning into a compulsive cat feeder, she thought as she poached fish for them and then set it aside to cool. She saw John’s keys lying on the kitchen counter and decided to go next door and pick up his mail from the doormat and put it on his desk.

In his cottage, she scooped up the pile of post. She looked thoughtfully at his answering machine. Why all these trips to London? Feeling guilty, she laid down the post on his desk and crossed to the answering machine. There were several messages, and all from Charlotte Bellinge. He must have saved them, thought Agatha dismally. The first one was Charlotte apologizing for bringing some man called Giles to dinner. “Do forgive me, dear John,” she cooed. “Do let me take you out for dinner and make it up to you.” The second said, “What a wonderful time we had. Pippa is giving a party tomorrow night. Do say you’ll come.” And the third, “I’m running a bit late. Can you pick me up at nine instead of eight? Dying to see you.”

So that’s that, thought Agatha. No heading into the sunset of middle age with John Armitage.

She went home and arranged the cooled fish in bowls for the cats. The loneliness of the cottage seemed to press down on her.

Agatha picked up the phone and dialled old Mr. Crinsted’s number. “Feel like coming out for dinner?” she asked.

“Delighted,” said the old man.

“I’ll pick you up in half an hour,” said Agatha.

Agatha found she was enjoying herself in Mr. Crinsted’s company. They discussed plans for the old folks’ club and Mr. Crinsted promised to teach Agatha chess.

“I am so glad you called, Mrs. Raisin,” he said. “I wanted to hear all about the murders.”

“I would have called earlier,” lied Agatha, who had practically until that evening forgotten Mr. Crinsted’s existence, “but I’ve been settling down after the shock of it all.”

“Tell me about it, Mrs. Raisin.”

“Agatha.”

“Right, my name is Ralph.”

So Agatha did while Ralph Crinsted listened intently. When she had finished, he said, “It’s odd, all the same.”

“What’s odd?”

“This Miss Partle must have been so used to discussing everything with him, I’m surprised she decided to take matters into her own hands.”

“I’ve met Binser. He’s a straightforward man. He probably never noticed much about her. Thought of her as a bit of office machinery.”

“I think any man who had a secretary so much in love with him would have noticed something.”

“Maybe he did and took it as his due. Men do, you know.”

“Some men.”

“I’m just glad it’s all over and Alf Bloxby is in the clear. Not that there was ever any evidence against him, but there was gossip, and gossip in a small village can be very dangerous.”

“True. Have you ever played chess before?”

“No, never.”

“Like to learn?”

“I wouldn’t mind.”

“Then I’ll give you lessons.”

After she had dropped Mr. Crinsted off at his home, Agatha reflected that it was a long time since she had enjoyed such a carefree evening.

She had promised to call on Ralph Crinsted in a couple of days’ time and start her chess lessons. Then tomorrow, she would see what estimate the builders came up with for the roof. The ring on her finger sparkled. “Masquerade over,” said Agatha ruefully to her cats. She took off the ring and put it in the kitchen drawer. She wondered how John was getting on with Charlotte and realized with relief that his relationship didn’t bother her in the slightest. Or that was what she believed. Almost impossible to imagine John getting passionate about anyone. Like Miss Partle. Poor Miss Partle. Now why think that?

This was a woman who was a stone-cold murderess and who was probably faking insanity.

John Armitage was at another hot and noisy party in Chelsea with Charlotte flirting with a group of men across the room. But he could bear it. Tonight was going to be the night. Hadn’t she said they would just drop in for an hour and then go home together? He remembered fondly the seductive look in her eyes when she had said those words and the caress in her voice.

He had been disappointed that she had still shown no interest in the murders except to laugh and say that Agatha Raisin was a formidable woman.

John looked at his watch, only half listening to the woman next to him, who was telling him that she was sure she could sit down and write a book if she only had the time. They had been there two hours and Charlotte showed no signs of leaving. Time to take charge. He crossed the room and took her arm in a possessive grip. “Time we were leaving.”

“Oh, darling.” Charlotte pouted prettily. “We’re all going on to Jilly’s party.”

John did not know who this Jilly was and he did not care.

He said stiffly, “Either we leave now or I’m going home.”

“Then you’d better go. But why not come with us? It’ll be fun.”

“Good night,” snapped John.

As he strode to the door, he heard one of the men with Charlotte laugh and say, “There goes another of Charlotte’s walkers.”

His face flamed. That had been all she had really wanted from him, an escort to walk her to the endless social functions she loved.

His thoughts turned to Agatha on the road home. He had been neglecting her along with his work. He would get going on the book for a couple of days and then take her out for dinner. But, damn Charlotte Bellinge. She had really led him a fine dance.

Agatha was busy with the builders next day and with looking around the church hall. Old people like comfort and dignity. The floor would need a carpet and she would need to supply comfortable chairs and tables. Bookshelves along one wall for books, games and jigsaws. What else? The walls painted, of course, but not in those dreadful pink and pale-blue pastel colours do-gooders liked to inflict on the old as if catering for a second childhood. Plain white would do, with pictures. It should really be called the Agatha Raisin Club, considering all the work and money she was putting into it. But Mrs. Bloxby would think she was being grandiose. Of course, she had promised to think up some fund-raising venture so that she would not have to bear all the cost herself. Agatha’s mind worked busily. An auction would be a good idea. She had raised a lot of money for one of those before by going around the country houses and getting them to contribute. Or what about getting some well-known pop group to put on a concert? No, scrub that. It would bring in too much mess and probably drugs as well. She must think of something.

She walked back to her cottage in the pouring rain, trying to avoid the puddles gathering amongst the fallen leaves.

In her cottage, there was a note lying on the kitchen table from Doris Simpson, one of the few women in Carsely to use Agatha’s first name. “Dear Agatha,” she read, “Have taken poor Scrabble home to feed. Cat looks half-starved. Be round to clean as usual next week. Doris.”

“Bloody cat ate like a horse,” muttered Agatha.

The doorbell rang. Agatha answered it. John stood there. He had suddenly decided he wanted to see Agatha.

“Yes?” asked Agatha coldly.

“Can I come in? It’s bucketing with rain.”

He followed her into the kitchen.

“So what were you doing in London?” asked Agatha.

“This and that. Bookshops, agent, publisher, the usual round. Are you free for dinner this evening?”

“I think I’ve got a date,” lied Agatha. “I’ll check.”

She dialled Mr. Crinsted’s number. “Is our date for tonight, Ralph, sweetie?” asked Agatha in a husky voice.

“I thought we’d arranged to play chess tomorrow,” came the surprised voice at the other end. “But tonight, any time is fine.”

“Look forward to it,” said Agatha. “See you then.” She put down the receiver and turned to John.

“Sorry, I’ve got a date.”

“Well, what about tomorrow?”

“Sorry, going to be busy for some time.” And I am not interested in Charlotte Bellinge’s leavings, thought Agatha. She must have ditched him.

“I’ll leave you to it.” John marched out, feeling doubly rejected. The rain poured down. What am I doing stuck in this village? thought John angrily. It doesn’t help a bit with the writing. I was better off in London.

After he had gone, Agatha took the ring he had given her out of the drawer and put it in an envelope. On her way out that evening, she popped it through his letter-box. Not that she was jealous of Charlotte Bellinge.

For Ralph Crinsted’s sake, Agatha tried to concentrate on her chess lesson while privately wondering what could be the fun in playing such a boring game. There seemed to be so much to memorize. “I don’t think you’re going to make a chess player,” said Ralph finally. “You’re not enjoying this one bit.”

“I will, I will,” said Agatha. And with a rare burst of honesty, she added, “You see, I’m not used to concentrating on anything other than people – what motivates them, why they commit murder, that sort of thing. Let’s try again another night. I’ll buy some sort of book, Chess Made Easy, or something like that, so I’ll be geared-up next time.”

“If you say so. Do you play cards?”

“Don’t know many games. Poker. I once played poker.”

“Like a game?”

“Sure.”

Agatha actually won the first game and began to enjoy herself. It had reached midnight when she finally put down the cards and said ruefully, “I’m keeping you up late.”

“Doesn’t matter. I don’t sleep much. The old don’t, you know.”

As Agatha drove home, she thought with a shiver of impending old age and loneliness, would she endure white nights and long days? Would her joints seize up with arthritis?

Tomorrow, she thought gloomily, I’ll draft out my will. I’m not immortal.

Had the weather cleared up, Agatha might have put off thoughts of making out a will, but another day of rain blurred the windows of her cottage and thudded down on the already rain-soaked garden.

She went into the sitting-room, carrying her cigarettes and a mug of coffee and sat down at her desk. She took a small tape recorder out of her drawer and had got as far as “This is the last will and testament of Mrs. Agatha Raisin” when there was a ring at the doorbell.

“Blast,” muttered Agatha and went to answer it.

Mr. Binser stood there. “Good heavens,” said Agatha. “Come in out of this dreadful rain. What brings you?”

“I just came to see you and thank you for clearing up those dreadful murders,” said the tycoon. “I’m curious. How did you arrive at the truth?”

Agatha took his coat and ushered him into the sitting-room. “Coffee?”

“No,” he said, sitting down on the sofa. “I haven’t much time. So how did you guess it was my Miss Partle?”

Agatha, glad of an opportunity to brag, told him how she had managed to leap to the conclusion that the culprit was Miss Partle.

“Interesting,” he said when she had finished. “You seem such a confident lady. Are you never wrong?”

“I pride myself I’m not.”

“You were certainly right about Miss Partle’s adoration of me.”

Agatha felt a lurch in her stomach. “You mean I was wrong about something else?”

“If there is one thing I hate, it is busy-body interfering women.”

The rain drummed against the windows and dripped from the thatch outside. The day was growing darker. Agatha switched on a lamp next to her. “That’s better,” she said with a lightness she did not feel. “At least you don’t go around killing them.”

There was a long silence while Binser studied her. Agatha broke it by saying sharply, “I have a feeling you came to tell me something.”

“Yes. You are so unbearably smug. You see, Miss Partle didn’t commit these murders. I did.”

Agatha goggled at him. “Why? How?”

“In all my life,” he said calmly, “no one has ever managed to put one over on me – except Tristan Delon. I suppose, in my way, I was as infatuated with that young man as Miss Partle was with me. I married for money, the daughter of a wealthy company director. I never had any real friends. I felt I could be honest with Tristan, I could relax with him. Then he cheated me. All he had ever wanted from me was money. I hated him. I have certain underworld contacts which come in useful from time to time. I arranged to have him beaten up. I got Miss Partle to tell him who had done it. He returned the money and I thought that was that. But the leech wouldn’t let go. He phoned Miss Partle and said he was going to tell my wife unless I paid up. I found he had gone to the country. I went down to Carsely. I had already studied ordnance survey maps of the area. I dressed as a rambler and left my car hidden some distance outside the village and crossed the fields so that I would get down to where he was living without being seen. I decided to give him one more chance. I had his mobile phone number. I phoned Miss Partle and told her to go out to the nearest phone-box and call him and tell him I was coming to kill him. I thought I would give him a chance to run for it.

“I hid behind one of the gravestones in the churchyard where I could watch the entrance to his cottage. The door is clearly illuminated by that one streetlight. I saw him slip out and head for the vicarage. I saw him enter by those French windows and followed him. There he stood in the moonlight like a fallen angel, rifling the contents of the church box. I saw that paper-knife. I was in such a blinding rage. I did not know it was so sharp. I drove it down into his neck.

“And then I ran. I told Miss Partle what I had done and she said that no one would ever suspect me. And then you came to see me. I thought I had shut you up with my statement to the police, and then I found myself being threatened by a village spinster called Jellop who Tristan had told about me. She said she felt she should go to the police with what she knew. She said Tristan had photographs of the pair of us in a gay bar. Now Tristan had taken me to one once. I said I would call and see her and she was not to go to the police until I explained things. So that was the end of her. When Peggy Slither told me she actually had the photographs, I thought the nightmare would never end. I said I would pay her two hundred thousand for the photos and she agreed. I didn’t trust her. She kept crowing about what a great detective she was. I felt she might take my money and tell the police all the same. After she had handed me the photographs and I had given her the money, she suddenly snatched back the photographs. ‘This isn’t right,’ she said. ‘I told someone I would go to the police and so I will.’ I found out that she had not mentioned my name. I said mildly, ‘All right, but what about a cup of tea?’ What a triumphant bully she was. I followed her quietly into her kitchen and slid a carving knife out of the drawer. She turned just as I was raising the knife and screamed.” He shrugged. “But it was too late.”

Agatha felt cold sweat trickling down the back of her neck.

“I made an arrangement with Miss Partle that should anything break, she was to take the blame.”

“But why should she do that?” demanded Agatha hoarsely while her frightened eyes roamed around the room looking for a weapon.

“I told her if she took the rap, with good behaviour she would be out in ten years’ time and I would marry her. I knew she would go through hell if only I married her.”

“Are you going to kill me?” asked Agatha.

“No, you silly cow, I am not. You have no proof. And poor Miss Partle is now stone-mad. You won’t get anything out of her. If it hadn’t been for you, she wouldn’t be in prison. I couldn’t bear the idea of you sitting smugly in your cottage thinking what a great detective you are.”

“I’ll tell the police!” panted Agatha.

“And what proof will they find? Nothing. You will find that the police, having got her confession, will not thank you for trying to re-open the case. I have powerful friends. Goodbye, Mrs. Raisin.”

Agatha sat very still. She heard the door slam. She heard him driving off. She tried to stand up but her legs were trembling so much, she collapsed back into her chair.

And then she saw her tape recorder sitting on the desk.

She had forgotten to turn it off.

Now a burst of rage and energy flooded her body. She went to the desk and re-ran the tape and switched it on. It was all there.

Agatha picked up the phone and dialled Mircester police headquarters and explained she had the real murderer. She got put straight through to Wilkes, who listened in astonished silence and then began to rap out questions: When had he left; what car was he driving?

When Agatha replaced the phone, she wondered whether to call John and then decided against it. Although she would never admit it to herself, she viewed his pursuit of Charlotte Bellinge as a rejection of herself. She phoned the vicarage instead, only to learn that Mrs. Bloxby was out. The doorbell went. It couldn’t be the police already. Agatha went into the kitchen and slid a knife out of the drawer and approached the door. She peered through the peep-hole in the door and saw, with a flood of relief, the elderly face of Ralph Crinsted under a dripping hat.

“You’ll never guess what’s happened!” she cried, brandishing the kitchen knife in her excitement.

“Be careful with that knife, Agatha,” he said nervously.

“Oh, what? Gosh, I was frightened. The police are on their way.”

“May I come in? It’s awfully wet.”

“Yes, come along.”

“I hope I’m not disturbing you; I thought up a few ideas for the old folks’ club. You seem to be in the middle of a drama.”

Agatha led him into the sitting-room. “I don’t know about you, but I would like a large brandy. Care to join me?”

“Why not.”

Once the drinks were poured, Agatha got half-way through the story when Bill Wong arrived with another detective.

He asked to hear the tape. Agatha switched it on, wincing at the earlier bit, which included the start of her will, and then all her bragging. But then Binser’s dry precise voice describing the murders sounded in the room.

“We’ll get him,” said Bill. “We have his registration number. He’ll be stopped before he reaches London. I think we’d better start ferreting in his background. He was up for a knighthood, you know.”

“You’d better come back with us to Mircester, Agatha, and make a full statement.”

Agatha was taken over her statement again and again until she was gratefully able to sign it. She then had a long talk with Bill which depressed her. He was doubtful whether the tape alone would be enough to convict Binser.

Poor Miss Partle. Had Binser said something to her during his prison visit that had finally tipped her over the edge? Had he always been respectable?

John Armitage watched her climbing out of a police car that evening. He hurried round to her cottage and listened amazed to the story that Agatha was now heartily tired of telling.

“Did they get Binser?” John asked when she had finished.

“He was stopped on the road to London. He’s denying everything. He’s got a team of lawyers. Bill says they are digging into his past. He says Binser seems always to have been a pretty ruthless person.”

“And you thought he was straightforward and decent.”

“I got there in the end,” said Agatha crossly. “Get your ring all right?”

“Thank you. As a matter of fact, I’m thinking of moving back to London.”

“Not a good time to sell. The house market’s in a slump at the moment.”

“I’ll take what I can get, and,” John added with a tinge of malice, “I shall think of you down here busy at work on your old folks’ club. So Miss Partle’s off the hook?”

“If she ever recovers her sanity, she’ll probably be charged with aiding and abetting a murderer and attempting to murder me. I’m glad it’s all over. It’s up to the police now to prove he did it.”

“They’ve got that taped confession.”

“Bill told me after I’d made my statement that he might get away with it. He’s saying he only told me a load of rubbish because he thought I was so smug. He’s insisting it was a joke at my expense. Also, I don’t know if that tape would stand up in court. There was no one in authority here, he wasn’t cautioned and he wasn’t on oath.”

“You should be worried. If he gets away with it, he’ll come looking for you.”

“No, he won’t,” said Agatha. “I’m no threat to him. He seemed pretty confident I couldn’t find out anything. And if they don’t get him this time, then they can’t charge him with the same crime twice.”

“Well, I can’t share your confidence. I’d best be off. I’ve got enough in the bank to rent somewhere in London until this place is sold.”

Agatha wanted to say, “Will you miss me? Did you care anything for me at all?” But fear of rejection kept her silent.

Instead, she said, “I suppose you’ll be seeing a lot of Charlotte Bellinge.”

“That silly woman,” he said viciously. “No. She turned out to be a terrible bore. I shall be glad to return to all the fun and lights of London. The thought of being buried down here in the winter is an awful prospect. I don’t know how you cope with it.”

“Some people would think three murders was enough excitement for anyone.”

“Anyway. See you around, maybe.”

John went back to his cottage and stood looking around. May as well think of packing some things up. He’d be glad to get away. And whoever it was that Agatha was romancing, he wished her the joy of him. He didn’t care. She meant nothing to him. Infuriating woman. And as a proof of his lack of interest in Agatha Raisin, he kicked the wastebasket clear across the room.