Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate (18 page)

‘And seeing as the organization has been largely done by you, Mrs Raisin, I thought it would be nice if you could address the crowd at the end.’

Agatha brightened visibly.

When Mrs Bloxby had left, John said, ‘What now? Do we go over there and fight for something to eat?’

‘I wonder if you could get me a plate of something, John. I want to speak to Mrs Feathers.’

‘What about?’ he demanded sharply. ‘I thought you had given up.’

‘Just one question. I’ll tell you later.’

Agatha began to search. Mrs Feathers was not with the lunch crowd nor among the people still crowding in front of the farmers’ stalls, Agatha being the only one who had packed up for lunch. And then she saw her grey head bobbing along in the direction of the gate. She ran after her, shouting, ‘Mrs Feathers!’

The old lady turned around slowly, blinking in the sunlight. ‘Oh, it’s you, Mrs Raisin. Lovely day.’

‘Yes, it is. We’re very lucky. Mrs Feathers, did Tristan have a mobile phone?’

‘I was sure he had. But I must have been mistaken. He always used mine.’

‘What makes you think he had one?’

‘I went into his flat one day when I thought he was out, to change the bed linen. But he was in and he was using a mobile phone. He put it away quickly when he saw me. Later when he came down to use the phone, I asked him why he didn’t use his own phone and he said it had been a friend’s and he had returned it. It was a terrible business, that murder. It really shook me up.’

‘And Tristan never at any time said anything that you might think would give the police a clue to his murder?’

‘Oh, no, they’ve asked me and asked me. Dear Tristan. He said I was like a mother to him.’

‘I’m sure you were,’ said Agatha. ‘When’s the funeral?’

‘That took place some time ago. A cousin arranged it.’

Drat, thought Agatha, I’d forgotten all about the funeral. But what good would that have done me?

‘Do you have a name and address for this cousin?’

‘Reckon as how you’ll need to ask the police, m’dear. They took away all his stuff and then I think they sent it on to the cousin.’

Agatha thanked her and was about to turn away when she saw Bill and Alice just paying their entrance fees.

‘Bill,’ said Agatha, approaching him. ‘Could I have a word?’

‘What about?’ demanded Alice.

Agatha looked at Bill pleadingly. ‘It’s a police matter.’

‘All right. Alice, go and see if there’s anything at the stall that Mother would like.’

Alice shot Agatha a venomous look and trudged off.

Agatha told Bill about the mobile phone. ‘Good work,’ he said. ‘I’ll get them on to it. They can check all the mobile phone companies and see which one he was registered with. But I thought I told you to stop investigating.’

‘It just came up in conversation with Mrs Feathers,’ said Agatha. ‘Oh, here’s your beloved back again.’

‘I want a drink,’ said Alice, ‘but that stall is closed.’

God forgive me for what I am about to do, thought Agatha. ‘I’ll get you a drink, Alice.’ She went to her stall and drew the cork on a bottle of home-made wine while Bill had pulled out his mobile and was phoning headquarters. She picked up one of the large tumblers she had kept for people who only wanted fruit juice and filled it up. ‘I’d tell Bill that’s just punch,’ said Agatha. ‘It’s pretty strong stuff.’

‘I can drink any man under the table,’ sneered Alice. She went back to join Bill.

John came back with a plate of ham and salad, which he handed to Agatha. ‘Thanks,’ she said.

‘What’s going on?’ asked John. ‘When I was queuing up, I saw you talking to Bill and he looked very serious.’

Agatha told him about the mobile phone. ‘That might be something,’ said John. ‘Say he had his phone beside the bed. Someone phones him after you left and frightens him. He decides to make a run for it, but first of all, he thinks he’ll take that money out of the church box. Whoever threatened him is watching the house, follows him to the vicar’s study and stabs him.’

‘Could be. Oh, they’re starting up again and I haven’t had time to eat.’

‘You go ahead. I’ll cope with the first lot and then you take over so that I can eat something.’

Agatha walked over towards the duck races carrying her plate. People were cheering on the ducks, bets were being laid. The little yellow plastic ducks were bobbing down the stream, occasionally swirling round in the eddies. Agatha found it too difficult to eat with just one plastic fork, so she headed for the lunch tables and found a chair. A little way away from her the Morris men were downing glasses of Miss Jellop’s wine, their faces flushed and their voices loud.

‘Mrs Raisin? It is Agatha Raisin, isn’t it?’

Agatha looked up. A pretty young woman was standing over her holding a child by the hand. With a wrench of memory Agatha said, ‘Bunty! How are you?’

The woman seated next to Agatha moved away and Bunty sat down and put the child on her knee.

Bunty had been Agatha’s last secretary before she retired. ‘Is that yours?’ asked Agatha, pointing with her fork to the little girl Bunty was holding.

‘Yes, this is Philippa.’

‘Who did you marry?’

‘Philip Jervsey.’

‘Of Jervsey Advertising?’

‘That’s the one. After you packed up and retired, I took a job as his secretary.’

Agatha frowned. ‘I thought he was married.’

‘Yes, he was . . . then.’

‘Did he get a divorce to marry you?’ asked Agatha, ever curious.

‘Yes. I feel guilty about it. But I was mad about him. Still am. I took my time about saying yes. You know how it is, Agatha, secretaries and bosses. It gets like a marriage. You get to know them better than their wives.’

‘Was it a bitter divorce?’

‘Not too bad. Cost him a lot, though. But there were no children. We’ve got a place over in Cirencester we use for weekends. Give Philippa here some country air. And what about you? I see your name from time to time in the newspapers. Death does seem to follow you around.’ She looked at the ring sparkling on Agatha’s finger. ‘Are you married?’

‘I was. I’m divorced. I still wear my rings.’ Agatha did not want to talk about John.

Bunty looked around. ‘It all looks so peaceful here. You wouldn’t think there had been any murders in such a quiet rural spot. Have the police any idea who did it?’

Agatha shook her head. Philippa squirmed on her mother’s knee. ‘I want to see the ducks,’ she wailed.

‘I’d better take her or I’ll get no peace.’ Bunty rose to her feet. ‘Nice to see you again.’

Agatha saw Alice sitting a little way away on her own, drinking wine. She must have bought a whole bottle from John. There was no sign of Bill. He was probably off somewhere phoning to see if there was any news about that mobile phone. She finished her food and went back to where John was ladling out punch. ‘We’d better stop selling that wine,’ he said when he saw her. ‘The Morris men won’t be able to dance if they have any more.’

‘Are we selling much?’

‘Yes, quite a lot. But people are mostly taking it home.’

‘We’ll put the bottles on the table in the boxes and if the Morris men come back, tell them we’re sold out and we’ll keep on selling it when they go away.’

The afternoon wore on and a chill crept into the air. Mrs Bloxby came up. ‘The Morris men are getting ready to perform and then it’s your speech, Agatha. You may as well close up here. You’ve done splendidly.’

Agatha thankfully put a CLOSED sign on the table and she and John put the remaining plastic cups in a box.

They walked to where the crowd was gathering to watch the Morris men. Bill and Alice were standing just behind the crowd and Alice was red-faced and shouting at him. ‘You’re nothing but a mother’s boy.’

‘Let’s go round the other side. I don’t want to listen to this,’ said Agatha. She felt guilty. She should have warned Alice about the effects of the wine.

They found a space where they could watch the Morris men. Alf Bloxby’s voice sounded over the crowd. ‘We will now see a performance of the stick dance by the Mircester Morris Men. Morris dancing is one of the characteristic folk dances of England. We do not know its origins, although we know it was derived from agrarian traditions of fertility rites and celebrations at sowing and at harvest time.’

A Morris man fell over and lay on the grass.

‘Though well-known during Shakespeare’s time,’ continued the vicar, ‘it almost died away during the Industrial Revolution, but has now thankfully been revived. You will enjoy the colourful sight of the dancers with their bells and waving hankies dancing to tunes played on the fiddle, pipe and tabor and melodeon. Over to you, boys.’

The Morris man who had fallen over was dragged to his feet and he stood there, blinking in the fading sunlight. A tape was put into a player and the jingly, jaunty tune of Morris music sounded out. The dancers with flowers in their hats and silver bells at their knees clutched their sticks and faced each other. They were supposed to bang their crossed sticks as they met in the dance but two of them missed and hit their opposite number a thwack. ‘You did that o’ purpose, Fred,’ yelled one, and seizing his stick brought it down on the unfortunate Fred’s head. Soon the dance had degenerated into a rumble.

Alf Bloxby tried to separate the warring dancers but was thrust aside with cries of ‘Get away, you murderer.’

The vicar, his face flaming, looked around for help, shouting to the crowd to stop laughing and do something.

‘Police!’ shouted Bill Wong. Alf switched off the music. The dancers stopped hitting each other and stood there sheepishly.

Bill shouted to the crowd. ‘All of you, go home. Show’s over.’

The crowd began to stream off towards the gate. ‘My speech,’ wailed Agatha.

‘Too late,’ said John. ‘We’d better get back and start loading up the rest of the wine and stuff.’ John had borrowed a trailer which was hitched to his car, parked at the edge of the field.

John stared at the ground behind the table. ‘Agatha, the wine’s gone. Someone’s nicked the rest of it.’

‘I don’t care,’ said Agatha. ‘I hope it poisons them.’

‘But we’d better tell Bill!’

‘Bill’s got his hands full. You didn’t leave the money behind?’

‘No, I’ve got it here in a bag. We’ll count it out at home and then take it along to the vicarage. Are you sure you don’t want to report the missing wine?’

‘I’m sure. Just let’s hope it wasn’t a married couple who took it. A few slugs of that wine and they’ll be in the divorce courts in no time at all. I don’t like Alice, but I should never have let her drink that wine.’

‘Better Bill finds out what she’s really like now instead of later,’ said John. ‘Hurry up and help me, Agatha. It’s getting cold.’

The sun had turned red and was low on the horizon. They loaded up the trailer with the remainder of the plastic cups, the glasses, the punch-bowl, and then the table itself. As they drove out of the field, Agatha said, ‘I should have told Bill as well about Brent and his wife.’

‘I really don’t think they had anything to do with it, Agatha.’

‘Someone had. Someone somewhere. Someone who could have been at this very fête.’

They drove to the church hall first and carried the table in. There was still plenty of wine, stacked in boxes. ‘Just as well we didn’t take the whole lot along,’ said John. ‘Where did you get the punch-bowl from?’

‘I bought it.’

‘No one could call you mean, Agatha Raisin. It must have cost you a lot, what with the silver cups and all.’

‘Just doing my bit,’ said Agatha wearily.

‘Will Bill book the Morris dancers?’

‘No, I think he’ll give them a warning and tell them not to dare drive until they’ve sobered up.’

‘That’s all right. They’d hired a minibus. As long as the bus driver didn’t have any of the wine, they’ll be all right.’

‘We’ll leave the cups and glasses here,’ said Agatha. ‘They can be used another time. I was too upset to notice. I hope the press had all gone by the time the dancers started fighting.’

‘Sorry. There was at least one television camera in action and I saw two press photographers.’

‘Damn.’

‘Let’s go to my place and have a drink.’

‘No, mine,’ said Agatha. ‘I want to let my cats out.’

After they had finished their drinks, they counted out the money on the kitchen table. ‘Nearly one hundred and fifty pounds, and that for the wine alone,’ said John. ‘Not bad. There couldn’t have been many bottles left for them to steal.’

‘Miss Jellop must have brought most of the wine down here with her when she moved. It must have taken years to make a cellarful of the stuff,’ said Agatha. ‘Let’s take this money along to Mrs Bloxby. She could raise a lot of money for the church with the wine that’s left. But I think someone in the village who knows about homemade wine should figure out how to weaken it before any more is sold. At least that should be the end of Alice. I never could figure out what Bill saw in her.’

‘Maybe she’s good in bed.’

Agatha shuddered. For some reason she did not want to imagine Bill Wong in bed with anyone, least of all Alice.

Mrs Bloxby welcomed them at the vicarage and took the bag of money from John. ‘I’ll give this to Alf. He’s in his study counting out the takings. From the initial look of things, we’ve done very well. It is all thanks to you, Agatha, and Alf is going to say so in his sermon next Sunday. I saw you talking to old Mrs Feathers. Did she have anything interesting to say?’

‘I should have spoken to her before,’ said Agatha. ‘She said she was sure Tristan had a mobile phone.’

‘And how does that help?’

‘Because Mrs Feathers said he had no calls the night after I left. But if, say, he had a mobile in his bedroom, someone could have rung him up and threatened him. He could have decided to flee and decided at the same time to take the church donations with him. He was too mean, I think, to let Mrs Feathers know he had a phone of his own. He preferred to run up bills on hers.’

‘Did you tell Bill?’

‘Yes, for once, I did. He’s getting the police to check it.’

‘If only, oh, if only these murders could be solved.’

‘If they ever are,’ said Agatha, ‘I’ll never complain of being bored again. But Bill has definitely warned me off for the last time, so I’ll need to leave it to the police.’