Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate (17 page)

She dressed in dark clothes and decided to walk. Thank goodness Mrs Tremp doesn’t keep a dog, she thought, as she finally reached the converted barn. The guttering was too high up for anyone to reach and there was no doormat or flowerpot. Frustrated and not wanting to turn back now she had come so far, she walked round the side of the house. That must be the study window, she thought. Easy to break a pane of glass and release the catch, but that would mean Mrs Tremp might hear the noise. Shining the light of a pencil torch at the ground to make sure she did not trip over anything, she made her way round to the back of the house. At the back there was a trapdoor in the ground with coal dust around it. She eased back the bolt and lifted the trapdoor and looked down. Coal had been delivered recently and glittered with reptilian blackness in the faint beam of her torch. She eased herself down on to the top of the pile. The coal began to slide under her feet. She reached upwards trying to catch the top of the trapdoor but she was descending too fast, crashing down among rumbling lumps of coal to finally land at the bottom of the cellar. She lay there, her heart thumping. She had lost her torch but there was faint light from the open trapdoor. She crawled to her feet, feeling bruised. She could dimly make out a stone staircase.

Agatha was just creeping towards it when she heard from above someone running down the stairs and then a key being turned in the cellar door. Then she heard the front door of the house opening and footsteps hurrying round the side of the house. Agatha scrambled away from the coal and into a corner piled with old suitcases and boxes. Mrs Tremp’s voice said triumphantly, ‘Got you. You can wait in there until the police come.’ She slammed down the trapdoor and Agatha could hear her shooting the bolt across.

Agatha felt her way across the floor on her hands and knees with the mad idea of trying to climb up the coal stack and force the trapdoor. Her hand touched her lost torch and she grabbed it eagerly. No, she could not force the trapdoor. She must hide somewhere, somewhere the police would not find her. The beam of the torch lit on a rusty suit of armour covered in coal dust. In a mad panic, Agatha hauled the suit upright. It was unusually light. Probably a replica. She lifted off the helmet and headpiece. Standing on one of the old suitcases, and putting the legs of the suit at an angle, she eased herself into them. She put on the breastplate and fastened it with the leather straps at the back. Then she put on the gauntlets and lifted the headpiece over her head and with a trembling hand forced the rusty visor down, shuffled off into the corner and stood there.

It was then she realized that because of the murders it wouldn’t be one local policeman from Moreton-in-Marsh who would arrive but probably the whole squad from Mircester.

She stood there, trembling with cold and fright until she heard the wail of police sirens drawing closer and closer. Then Mrs Tremp’s voice shrill with excitement. ‘I’ve got him locked in the cellar. He can’t get out.’

The cellar door opened, the light was switched on. There was a light switch at the top of the stairs, thought Agatha. But Mrs Tremp had sounded the alarm before I could have reached it. Bill Wong was there with Wilkes. Four policemen were systematically going through the cellar, turning over boxes, raking over the coal. Coal dust rose in the air. Agatha prayed she would not sneeze.

And then Bill Wong walked over to the suit of armour which encased the trembling Agatha. He raised the visor. A pair of terrified bearlike eyes stared back at him. Bill slammed down the visor.

‘Nothing here,’ he said.

After the search was over, Agatha could hear Wilkes complaining that everyone around was getting hysterical and that Mrs Tremp had probably left the trapdoor open herself or the coalman had. She had said a load of coal had been delivered only that day. The coal must have shifted and tumbled down in the night. At last Agatha was left alone. She lifted off the visor, took off the gauntlets and headpiece, and lay against a pile of boxes and eased out of the armoured legs. The house was silent again. She crept up the cellar stairs and tried the door. It was unlocked. Agatha walked through a laundry room and then into the hall. All she wanted to do now was escape. She tiptoed to the front door and gently unlocked it and slid back the bolt. Mrs Tremp would just have to think that in all the excitement she had forgotten to lock the door.

She hurried down the hill, keeping to the shadow of the trees. She let out a sob of relief when she turned into Lilac Lane. She reached her cottage door and put her key in the lock. A voice in her ear said, ‘What the hell were you playing at?’

Agatha gave a stifled scream and turned round. Bill Wong’s eyes gleamed at her in the darkness.

‘Oh, Bill,’ babbled Agatha. ‘I’m so sorry. So very sorry.’

‘Let’s go inside. You’ve some explaining to do.’

In the fluorescent light of the kitchen, Agatha was a sorry sight. She was black with coal dust. ‘I’d let you clean yourself up first,’ said Bill. ‘But I’m in a hurry.’

Agatha seized a handful of kitchen paper and ran it under the cold tap and then wiped her face and hands.

She sat down at the kitchen table. ‘Bill, thank you for not betraying me.’

‘I should have done,’ he said grimly. ‘This could cost me my job if anything came out. Lucky for you that Mrs Tremp came to the conclusion that the coalman had left that trapdoor open and rats or something had shifted the coal during the night. She was most apologetic. So, what have you been up to?’

In a halting voice, Agatha told him all about her plan to look at the papers on Mrs Tremp’s desk and also to see what was in her computer.

‘Now, listen to me very carefully,’ said Bill. ‘If I ever catch you doing anything like that again, I will not only have you arrested, our friendship will be at an end. I risked my job for you, Agatha. Of all the stupid things to do! This is one case you are going to leave strictly alone from now on. If you do hear of anything relevant to the case, then you are to tell me immediately. I am going to get some sleep with what is left of the night.’

‘Any news of the rambler?’

‘Lucky for you, there is. He walked into police headquarters around seven o’clock this evening – I mean, yesterday evening. Respectable computer nerd, member of a rambling society, said he liked night walking on his own occasionally. No record.’

‘Why lucky for me?’

‘If no one had turned up, it would have looked as if that faulty memory of yours had lost us the chance of getting the killer. Before I go – why Mrs Tremp? Did she say something you aren’t telling me about?’

‘John and I saw her earlier in the day. Tristan had taken her once to meet Peggy Slither. There’s something not quite right about Mrs Tremp. When her husband had his fatal stroke, she sat watching him for a bit before calling the ambulance. She seemed to be . . . well . . . gleefuI that he was dead.’

‘And that’s all you had to go on?’

‘I know it sounds silly, but I’ve had good hunches before.’

‘Agatha, for the last time, leave it alone.’

‘Okay,’ said Agatha wearily. She saw him to the door. ‘Give my regards to Alice.’

His tired face lit up. ‘Thanks. I will.’

Agatha shut and locked the door behind him and set the burglar alarm. Then she crawled wearily up the stairs and stripped off her dirty clothes and threw them in the laundry basket before taking a shower and scrubbing off all the coal dust.

Her last thought before she fell asleep was that she was actually relieved she could leave this messy and dreadful case alone.

Next day Agatha went to a printer’s where she got a flyer she had run off on her computer enlarged. She collected two hundred copies and spent an afternoon posting them up in shop windows and on trees in Carsely and in the villages round about.

When she returned home, John rang and said he’d be round in a few minutes.

‘I’ve been thinking,’ he said as he walked in, ‘that perhaps we’ve been neglecting the London end. We never found out who beat Tristan up in New Cross.’

‘Forget it,’ said Agatha. ‘I have been told in no uncertain terms to keep away from everything and anything to do with the case. And by the way, that rambler I saw was kosher. A respectable citizen.’

‘Why are you warned off? What’s been happening?’

‘I may as well tell you.’ Agatha described the events of the night. John was hardly able to hear the rest of her story, he was laughing so hard. ‘You are an idiot,’ he said finally. ‘Thank goodness you didn’t drag me into it. Not that I would have gone with you. But I haven’t been warned off.’

‘I should think the warning applies to you as well.’

‘So you’re just giving up? Have you ever given up before?’

‘No, but I’ve never been at such a dead end before. I tell you, John, I’m going to concentrate on these duck races and make it all a success for Mrs Bloxby and then find something safe and pleasant to do with my time.’

‘Like what?’

‘I’ll think of something.’

‘I think I’ll go back up to London,’ said John, ‘and see what I can find out. Want to come with me?’

Agatha shook her head. ‘I’ve given up.’

The day of the duck races was fine. Hazy sunshine gilded the countryside. Agatha was there early to supervise the arrangements. John had said he would join her later.

Miss Simms was to sell programmes at the field gate. Six races were to be run. The entrance fee was one pound, but as Agatha had put a sign up on the main road saying FREE DRINKS, she was sure that the entrance charge would not deter the crowd. The free drinks were to be fruit punch laced with Miss Jellop’s wine. The bottles of wine could be bought for three pounds each. The ducks, for anyone wanting to take part in the race, were to be sold for two pounds each. One of Miss Simms’s ex-lovers, a bookie, had volunteered to take the racing bets. Agatha had donated small engraved silver cups to be given to the winner of each race. She was relieved the day was warm because the three men who had volunteered to start the duck races would have to stand in the stream in their bare feet to lift the restraining plank across the stream which held the ducks at the starting line.

Agatha was glad she had trusted the weather report and had cancelled the marquee. The day was set fair without a breath of wind. The sun sparkled on the rushing stream and shone on the red and yellow leaves of the trees bordering the field.

Some of the local farmers, along with Farmer Brent, had set up tables to sell meat and local vegetables. Mrs Tremp had two tables, one with home-made jam and the other with cakes.

Agatha mixed fruit juice and two bottles of Miss Jellop’s wine into a giant punch-bowl, ready to be ladled into small plastic cups. The event was to start at ten. A small trickle of people began to enter the field. Agatha noticed old Mrs Feathers. Why didn’t I think to question her about Tristan? she wondered. But deep down she knew it was because Mrs Feathers was old and frail and Agatha was ashamed when she remembered the trouble the old woman had gone to producing that expensive dinner. More people arrived and Agatha was suddenly very busy ladling out punch and selling wine. John arrived and she appealed to him for help because a large crowd of people were demanding punch.

Although Agatha had vowed to have nothing more to do with the case, she could not help turning over what she knew in her mind. There were noisy cheers from the stream where the races were taking place. The bookie was doing well, taking bets. After the first hour, Mrs Tremp had sold practically everything. More and more people were arriving, drawn by the offer of free drink. Agatha began to feel marginalized. After all, she had paid for the cups. She should be the one to present them. But it was Mrs Bloxby who was making the presentations. Agatha tried to console herself with the thought that the day had turned out to be a roaring success. But the press were there in force and she was getting none of the glory.

John tugged out his mobile phone. ‘Won’t be a moment,’ he said. ‘Just phoning home to see if there are any messages.’

‘All right. But hurry up,’ said Agatha sulkily. Then she thought about mobile phones. What had people ever done without them? A thin woman a little away from her was shouting into one. Doesn’t need a phone, thought Agatha. Her voice is loud enough to carry for miles.

And then she stood with her mouth a little open, the ladle in her hand while a customer looked at her impatiently.

Had Tristan had a mobile phone? If he had, could someone have phoned him the night he died and threatened him? But the police would have found it and checked the numbers.

‘Are you going to give me any of that punch or not?’ demanded a man in front of her.

‘Sure.’ Agatha ladled some into a cup. She realized she had served the same man about five times before. The crowd was getting noisy and boisterous. Agatha, seeing the punch-bowl was nearly empty, added a bottle of wine and fruit juice to fill it up again. Perhaps two bottles of the stuff had been too strong. A team of Morris dancers had just arrived in their flowered hats and jingling bells and started buying bottles of wine. ‘I don’t have a spare corkscrew,’ said Agatha uneasily. She had not imagined that anyone would drink that lethal stuff until they got home. ‘Got one here,’ said a red-faced Morris dancer and his friends all cheered.

Over the Tannoy came an announcement that there would be a break for lunch. Agatha picked a placard off the ground at her feet which said CLOSED FOR LUNCH and placed it on the table. ‘Do you think anyone will pinch anything?’ asked John.

‘We’ll put the bottles back in the boxes for now and tape them over.’

The members of the ladies’ societies had set up a buffet at the far corner of the field and had laid out tables and chairs.

Mrs Bloxby came up to Agatha, her eyes shining. ‘Such success,’ she said. ‘We were going to confine it to six races, but we’ve decided to hold more in the afternoon and finish with the Morris dancers.’

‘What about prizes?’ asked Agatha. ‘Surely all the cups have gone.’

‘I thought we might present each winner with two bottles of wine.’

‘Good idea,’ said Agatha in a flat voice because she still thought that she should have been the one to present the prizes.