Agatha Raisin and the Case of the Curious Curate

∨ The Case of the Curious Curate ∧

3

Sol MacGuire was another Adonis, but a black-haired, blue-eyed one. He looked shocked when they told him they were investigating the murder of Tristan Delon.

“Sure, now, isn’t that the big shock you’ve given me,” he said. “Come on in.”

They followed him into a small living-room which seemed to be full of old beer cans and old copies of newspapers and magazines.

“Find a space and sit yourselves down,” said Sol. “How was he murdered? I haven’t kept up with the news.”

John told him and then asked what he knew about Tristan. “Not that much,” said Sol. “He saw me working on a local building site and kept coming round to chat. I told him flat-out I wasn’t gay and he just laughed and said he wasn’t gay either.”

“I couldn’t be bothered much with him at first, but he kept coming round. He was funny in a malicious way, know what I mean?”

“Give us an example?” asked Agatha.

“He was adored by the women in the parish, but he seemed to despise them.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“He’d talk about a Mrs. Hill. Said she used to look at him like a dog. He said he felt like snapping his fingers and tossing her a biscuit. Things like that.”

Agatha leaned forward. “Did Tristan ever talk about some businessman, someone who gave him presents?”

“Oh, that. Mind if I get myself a beer?”

“Go ahead.”

“Want one?”

“Not for me,” said John. “I’ve already had some beer and I’m driving. What about you, Agatha?”

“Not for me either.”

Sol disappeared and returned after a few moments with a can of beer which he popped open. After a hearty swig, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and said, “He showed me a gold Rolex. Said it was a present from Richard Binser.”

Agatha’s eyes opened wide in amazement. “Richard Binser, the tycoon?”

“That’s what he said. But then, he was a terrible liar.”

“Do you know who beat him up?”

“He said it was one of the gangs, but he didn’t know any gangs. Trust me. Maybe one of them women got wise to him and took a club to him. I dunno.”

“Do you know where this Mrs. Hill lives?”

“He told me. It’s a big house round in Jeves Place. You cross the main road, take Gladstone Street, turn right on Palmerston, then first left is Jeves. Don’t know the number, but it’s a big place on its own. I’m curious, like,” went on Sol, his accent an odd mixture of Irish and south London. “Why ask questions around here, and why you? You his relatives?”

“No,” said Agatha. “We are private detectives.”

“Got a licence?”

“Pending,” lied Agatha.

“Well, good luck to you. But if he was murdered in that village, stands to reason someone down there killed him.”

“Do you know how long it was,” asked Agatha, “between the attack and him leaving here?”

“He came round once after the attack. Said he was going abroad. Would be about six months ago.”

“That long!”

“See what I mean?” said Sol. “He was old history far as New Cross was concerned.”

When they left Sol, Agatha said, “Let’s go after Binser.”

“It’s late. We can find his offices – I think they’re in Cheapside in the City. As we’re here, shouldn’t we try Mrs. Hill?”

“All right, though mark my words, she’ll just turn out to be a sad middle-aged woman, duped by Tristan.”

“Like you,” murmured John.

Agatha glared at him and stalked on in an angry silence.

When they found the villa in Jeves Place, it appeared there was no one at home. Far in the distance came the menacing rumble of thunder.

“I think we should leave things for tonight,” said John, “drive back to Carsely and try Binser tomorrow and then Mrs. Hill.”

Agatha agreed because she was tired.

The storm burst halfway to Carsely and John had to drive very slowly through the torrents of rain. As he turned at last into the road leading down into Carsely, the storm clouds rolled away. He opened the car window and a chilly little breeze blew in.

“End of summer,” said Agatha. “What time do we set off in the morning?”

“Early. About six-thirty. Beat the rush. Don’t groan. We’ll take my car and you can sleep on the road up to town if you’re still tired.”

Agatha said good night to him when they reached Lilac Lane. Her cats came to meet her, yawning and purring. She fed them and then put a lasagne – Mama Livia’s Special – in the microwave.

After she had eaten, she bathed and went to bed. Before she went to sleep, she fought down nagging jabs of conscience that were telling her that she should have phoned Bill Wong and brought him up-to-date on what they had found.

“If Binser is in his office, we’ll be lucky,” said John as he joined the traffic heading for London on the M25 the next morning. “He travels a lot.”

“Maybe we should have waited at home and phoned him,” said Agatha sleepily.

“Best to surprise him.”

“How are we going to get past all the minions he’ll surely have to protect him?”

“We’ll send in a note saying we want to see him about Tristan Delon.”

“And if he doesn’t see us?”

“Oh, do shut up, Agatha. We have to try.”

“It will be difficult,” pursued Agatha. “I remember seeing pictures of him in Celeb magazine. Wife and two children.”

“Like I said, we must try.”

Richard Binser’s offices were in an impressive modern building of steel and glass with a great tree growing up to the glass roof from the entrance hall.

“Here goes,” said Agatha, marching up to the long reception desk where four beautiful and fashionably thin young ladies were answering phones.

“Mr. Binser,” said Agatha to the one she considered the least intimidating.

“What time is your appointment?”

“We don’t have one,” said Agatha. She produced a sealed envelope which contained a note she had written in the car. It was marked “Urgent, Private & Confidential.”

“See that he gets this right away. I am sure he will want to see us.”

“Take a seat,” said the receptionist, indicating a bank of sofas and chairs over by the entrance doors.

They sat down and waited, and waited.

At last the receptionist they had spoken to approached them and said, “I will take you up. Follow me.”

A glass elevator bore them up and up to the top of the building. It opened into another reception area. A middle-aged secretary greeted them and asked them to wait.

Again, they sat down. The receptionist had gone back downstairs and the secretary had retreated through a door leading off the reception. It was very quiet.

Agatha was just beginning to wonder if everyone had forgotten about them, when the secretary came back and said, “Mr. Binser will see you now.”

She led them through an inner office and then opened a heavy door leading off it and ushered them into a room where a small, balding man sat behind a large Georgian desk.

He did not rise to meet them, simply surveyed them coldly, then said, “That will be all, Miss Partle. I will call you if I need you.”

The secretary left and closed the door behind her.

“Sit!” commanded Richard Binser, indicating two low chairs in front of his desk.

Agatha and John sat down.

“You are not quite what I expected. I am taping this and I warn you both if you try to blackmail me, I will call the police.”

“We are not here to blackmail you,” said John. “We are investigating the death of Tristan Delon.”

“And you are?”

“John Armitage and Agatha Raisin.”

“John Armitage. The writer?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve read all your books.” The tycoon visibly thawed.

John explained that they both lived in Carsely and were friends of the vicar and anxious to clear his name; that they had learned that Binser had given Tristan presents.

Binser switched off the tape recorder and passed a hand over his forehead. “I thought you were his relatives.”

“Was Tristan trying to blackmail you?”

“Oh, yes, but he didn’t get anywhere. I may as well tell you what happened. I suppose the police will find out about me eventually. Where shall I begin? I give a lot of money to charities, but my employees sift through the applications, type up a report and I decide how much each should get. Therefore I was a bit taken aback when my senior secretary, Miss Partle, insisted that I should see Tristan in person. It seemed he wanted to raise funds to start a boys’ club in New Cross. I was amused that my usually stern secretary appeared to have been bowled over by this Tristan and so I agreed to see him. He was so beautiful and so charming that I began at times to doubt my own sexuality. He flattered me very cleverly. I do not have a son and it amused me to see the way Tristan’s eyes lit up when I gave him a present. Then I cut off the friendship.”

“Why?” asked Agatha.

“I went down to the church in New Cross one day to find out how the boys’ club was getting along. I had given Tristan a cheque for ten thousand pounds to rent a hall and buy equipment. He had asked for more money, but being first and last a businessman, I wanted to see how he had used the money he already had. He was out when I called, but the vicar was there. He said he’d never heard of a boys’ club. Tristan came in at that point and waffled and protested that he had meant it to be a surprise but it became clear to me that he had done nothing. I did not want anyone to know how I had been suckered and so I left the vicar to deal with him. Then Tristan wrote to me, threatening to tell my wife that we’d had an affair – which we most certainly had not – and saying he would show her the presents I had given him. I told him if he approached me again I would go straight to the police and that I’d taped his call. All my calls are taped. I never heard from him again. But I was puzzled at being so easily taken in. I consulted a psychiatrist friend and outlined what I knew of Tristan’s character. He asked me if Tristan was fascinated by mirrors. It seemed an odd question, but I remembered that on the few occasions I had taken Tristan out for dinner to a restaurant with a lot of mirrors that he would sit gazing fascinated at his own reflection.

“The psychiatrist said he was probably a somatic narcissist and that this type of narcissist could charm people by exuding that warm, fuzzy emotional feeling of well-being you get on a good day. He said this type could be prone to violence.

“Anyway, that was Tristan’s charm. He made me feel good about myself. I was sure, however, that I would hear from him again, but not a word. When I received your note, I thought he had left some journal about our friendship and that you had come to blackmail me. But that’s all there was to it. I pride myself on being a good judge of character and yet Tristan had me completely fooled.”

“I don’t think the police need to know about this,” said John, “unless the vicar tells them. We certainly won’t. Will we, Agatha?”

Again those jabs of conscience. But Agatha said reluctantly, “No.”

“I liked him,” said John, as they joined the stream of traffic heading for south London.

“Binser? I suppose.”

“You don’t seem too sure.”

“I had it in my mind that whoever beat him up or had him beaten up had something to do with his murder. A powerful man like Binser could have had him beaten up.”

“You’ve been watching too many left-wing dramas on the box about sinister company executives, Agatha.”

“It could have happened that way,” said Agatha stubbornly.

A glaring, watery sunlight was bathing London. Agatha glanced sideways at John and noticed for the first time the loosening of the skin under his chin and the network of wrinkles at the side of his eyes. This for some reason made her feel cheerful and she began to whistle tunelessly until John told her to stop.

Back at New Cross, they drove round to Jeves Place and parked in front of the villa. The front door was standing a few inches open. “Someone’s at home,” said Agatha.

“Good,” said John. “Let’s go.”

A thin voice was singing a hymn somewhere in the interior of the house. John rang the bell. A very small woman with greying hair and a sallow skin came to the door carrying a feather duster.

“Mrs. Hill?” asked Agatha, pushing in front of John who, she obscurely felt, was taking over too much of this investigation.

“Yes. I am Mrs. Hill.”

Agatha introduced both of them and launched into their reasons for wanting to speak to her.

Mrs. Hill stepped out on the doorstep and looked nervously up and down the street. “You’d better come in,” she whispered, although the street was empty.

She led them into a large dark room full of heavy old furniture. “I was shocked about poor Tristan’s death,” she said. “Such a good young man.”

“May we sit down?” asked Agatha.

“Oh, please do.”

John and Agatha sat in hard high-backed chairs and Mrs. Hill sank down on the edge of an armchair and looked at them with all the fascination of a bird confronted with a snake.

“He wasn’t very good at all, as it turns out,” said Agatha bluntly. “He conned a respectable businessman out of money to set up a boys’ club, and of course he kept the money. No boys’ club.”

John glared at Agatha and mouthed, “Shut up!” The business about Binser should surely be kept private.

But tears welled up in little Mrs. Hill’s eyes and rolled down her cheeks. “I’m so glad I wasn’t the only one,” she choked out. “I’ve felt such a fool.”

John passed her a large clean handkerchief and she dried her eyes and blew her nose. “Tell us about him,” said Agatha gently.

“I felt so silly, so betrayed. You see, I adored him. I saw later what must have happened. All the houses in this street are split up into flats except mine. I have the reputation of being wealthy. I am referred to as the rich Mrs. Hill. But to go back to the beginning. Tristan flattered me. He made me feel good, made me feel worthwhile. I was quite dazed by the impact he had on me. We occasionally went out together, but somewhere where no one would recognize us. He said he didn’t want me making the other women of the parish jealous. He said he cared for me. He said that he thought age difference was no barrier when two people respected each other.” She wiped away a tear. “I lived and breathed for him. Then he asked me for a donation for this boys’ club he said he was setting up. I confided in him that I had no money to spare. I lived on very little. I said I hoped my savings would last until I died. He asked me a lot of questions about how much I was worth, seemingly sympathetically. And then he stopped calling. I thought he loved me,” she wailed. “He said he loved me. And I…I would have died for him.”

She gave a great gulp and then went on. “I waited outside the vicarage one day until I saw him coming out and I asked him why he had been avoiding me. I reminded him he’d said he loved me. He laughed in my face. He said he was gay. He said a lot of things I don’t want to repeat. I could have killed him. But I didn’t.”

“Do you think he did get money out of anyone else?” asked John quietly.

“I don’t know. It was, before he came, a tiny congregation. When he preached instead of the vicar, a lot of people came but mostly silly young girls. Please, you won’t tell anyone what I’ve told you. I couldn’t bear it.”

“We won’t unless we have to,” said Agatha. “You’ve got a lot of rooms here, haven’t you?”

“Too many,” she said in a hollow voice.

“You should let a few rooms out,” said Agatha bracingly. “Give you an income.”

“But I might get, well, bad people.”

“Use an estate agent to handle the renting for you. You couldn’t charge all that much because they wouldn’t have private kitchens or bathrooms, not unless you spent a lot of money on renovation. I saw an estate agent’s out in the main road that handles rentals. They could vet the people for you. Means you wouldn’t be alone in this house either. I mean, no children, no pets; just collect the money.”

“I couldn’t…”

“Oh, yes, you could. Look, get your coat and we’ll go with you to that estate agent and see what they say.”

John Armitage wanted to question the vicar again. The vicar had deliberately lied to them about Richard Binser. He knew Binser because Binser had said he called on him. The vicar had also said that Tristan had done nothing criminal and yet he had. He had pocketed ten thousand pounds. But John had to fret with impatience while Agatha plunged happily into room rentals with Mrs. Hill, who was looking happier by the minute. A representative from the estate agent’s then had to come back to the house with them and inspect the rooms. He said for a modest sum she could have wash-basins installed in the bedrooms and allow tenants the use of the kitchen. He seemed as bossy and managing as Agatha Raisin, and Mrs. Hill was delighted to be ordered what to do. When Agatha finally decided she had done enough, a grateful and tearful Mrs. Hill hugged her and said she had given her a new start in life. Agatha said gruffly it was her pleasure, but looked every bit as bored as she was beginning to feel.

“Well, now that waste of space is over,” said John crossly, “I want to see that vicar again.”

“I had to do something for the poor soul,” snapped Agatha.

“That poor soul, as you call her, could have stabbed Tristan. We never asked her what she was doing on the night he was murdered. If you are going to be so trusting about every suspect, we may as well pack it in.”

“I’m beginning to think I don’t really know you,” said Agatha. “You’re quite nasty.”

“You don’t even know yourself, Agatha Raisin.”

“Are we going to stand here all day bickering?”

“I want to talk to that vicar again.”

“So let’s get on with it, for God’s sake!”

“I’m tired and we haven’t eaten.”

“We’ll get something after we grill the vicar. But not that pub again.”

The vicar of St. Edmund’s looked distinctly unhappy to see them again. There was no sign of his ferocious housekeeper.

“I am rather busy writing my sermon,” he began.

“We will only take a few minutes of your time, Mr. Lancing,” said Agatha. “We want to know why you lied to us.”

“Dear me. You’d better come in.”

When they were once more seated in his study, Agatha began. “You told us that Tristan had done nothing criminal. Yet he had conned Mr. Binser out of ten thousand pounds. You also told us that you did not know Mr. Binser and yet he said he called on you.”

“He did call on me but he urged me not to tell anyone how he had been fooled by Tristan. He said it would be bad for his business image. And Tristan was so truly penitent. He assured me he would pay back every penny.”

“Well, we gather he didn’t.”

“I am sorry I lied to you, but I did give Mr. Binser my solemn word that I would not say anything.”

“Is there anything else you have not told us?”

“Not that I can think of.” Mr. Lancing gave them a strained look. “Surely what I have told you is enough.” His voice became angry. “You are not the police. I should never have spoken to you in the first place. You have no authority.”

“We are merely trying to help our local vicar, Mr. Bloxby,” said John gently. “Surely you can see that. The police will not hear of anything you have told us unless it is really necessary.”

“Then would you mind leaving? You have upset me very much.”

“And that’s that,” said Agatha wearily. “Let’s get something to eat.”

They stopped at a service station on the A40 for a greasy all-day breakfast of egg, sausage and chips.

“I keep having a feeling we’re wasting our time up in London,” said John. “The murder was committed in Carsely and I’m sure our murderer lives in the village or round about.”

“No, I think the clues lie in London,” said Agatha, more out of a desire to contradict John than because she really believed it.

They took to the road again and Agatha fell asleep and did not wake until they were going through Woodstock. “Goodness, have I been asleep all that time?” she said, sitting upright.

“Yes,” said John, “and you snored terribly.”

“I’ve had enough of you for one day,” snarled Agatha. “You’re always nit-picking about something.”

“I was merely stating a fact,” he said stiffly.

Agatha stifled a yawn and thought longingly of the comfort and peace of her cottage.

When John finally drove into the village, it was to see the narrow main street almost blocked by two television vans.

“I thought the press would have given up by now,” said John.

He turned into Lilac Lane. A police car was standing outside Agatha’s cottage. “Listen,” said John fiercely, “I don’t know what’s going on, but tell them we simply went up to London for the day to look at the shops and have a meal. No, wait, they’ll check restaurants. We can tell them about the service station and then just say we had taken a picnic lunch and ate it in Green Park.”

When they parked, Bill Wong and a detective constable and a policewoman got out of the waiting car.

Bill looked grim. “Where were you, Mrs. Raisin?” he demanded. Agatha’s heart sank at the formal use of her second name.

“In London, going around the shops,” she said. “Why?”

“We’d better go inside,” said Bill. “You come along as well, Mr. Armitage.”

Agatha unlocked her cottage door. “Come into the kitchen,” she said, nearly tripping over her cats, which were winding themselves around her ankles.

When they were all seated around the kitchen table, Agatha said, “What’s this about? I’ve made a statement.”

“There has been a further development,” said Bill, his eyes hard. Then he winced as Hodge dug his nails into his trouser leg.

“Miss Jellop has been murdered.”