Agatha Raisin and the Curious Curate by MC Beaton

any money?’
    ‘Not a penny. Not that the poor lamb didn’t try. Cost him a good few dinners before he gave up on me.’
    I hate you, thought Agatha.
    ‘Where were you on the night he died?’ asked John.
    ‘Silly man. You’re not the police, so I’m not even bothering to answer you. I thought it would be funny to see how you two snoops went about your business, but I’m beginning to find the whole thing rather boring.’
    Agatha stood up. Rage was making her intuitive faculties work overtime. ‘It’s a good act you’re putting on, Peggy, dear . But you were in love with him and somehow he suckered you and I’m going to find out how. Oh, by the way, did you know he was gay? Come along, John.’
    Peggy sat staring after them as they made their exit.
    ‘That last remark of yours hit the old bag hard,’ said John when they were back in the car. ‘How did you guess all that casual jeering was a front?’
    ‘Tristan, it turns out, was a complete rat and a blackmailer,’ said Agatha. ‘But he was glorious and charming. He made me feel fascinating and desirable. That was why he was so dangerous. People who have been conned by him – and to be honest, I could have been – will pretend he had no effect on them. But I can’t imagine any woman being unaffected by Tristan.’
    ‘Except Mrs Bloxby,’ said John. ‘Let’s go and see Mrs Tremp.’
     
Chapter Five
    Mrs Tremp lived in a converted barn outside the village. Agatha remembered seeing her at various village events. She was a small, mousy woman, and when the colonel was alive, the locals reported that he bullied her.
    They bumped down the pot-holed drive leading to her home. As they got out of the car, Agatha slammed the door, and rooks, roosting in a nearby lightning-blasted tree, swirled up to the heavens, cawing in alarm. The harvest was in, and the large field beside the house was full of pheasant pecking among the golden stubble.
    The converted barn looked large and solid. Agatha rang the bell and they waited. The rooks came swirling back to their tree and stared down at Agatha and John with beady eyes. Agatha shivered. ‘I don’t like rooks. Birds of ill omen.’
    ‘You mean ravens,’ said John.
    The door opened and Mrs Tremp stood there, blinking myopically up at them in the sunlight.
    ‘It’s Mrs Raisin and Mr Armitage, is it not?’
    ‘Yes,’ said Agatha. ‘May we come in? We want to talk about Tristan Delon.’
    ‘Oh dear. I was just making jam . . . and . . . I suppose you’d better.’ She turned and walked indoors and they followed her into a huge sitting-room with long French windows. The furnishings were a comfortable mixture of old and new. The air was redolent with the smell of plum jam.
    ‘Do sit down,’ said Mrs Tremp. ‘I hope you don’t mind, I keep the windows closed when I am making jam or I get plagued by wasps. What do you want to know about Mr Delon?’
    ‘We heard you were friendly with him,’ said Agatha.
    ‘Yes, I was, and I was most distressed to hear of his death. And now this other terrible murder. There was never anything like this before you arrived in our village, Mrs Raisin.’
    ‘Nothing to do with me. I don’t go around murdering people. But I’d like to know who is for Mr Bloxby’s sake.’
    ‘He has only himself to blame for being a suspect,’ said Mrs Tremp. ‘He was so jealous of Mr Delon.’
    ‘I suppose Tristan told you that.’
    ‘He did let slip that he was having a difficult time with the vicar, yes.’
    ‘Did you know that he was gay?’ asked John. ‘And that he tried to get women to give him money?’
    She raised a gnarled and veined hand up to her suddenly trembling mouth. ‘I don’t believe it. That’s a wicked thing to say.’
    ‘I’m afraid it’s true,’ said Agatha. ‘Did he try to get you to give him money?’
    ‘He did tell me he had this project to start a club for the youth of the village. He said he would need help. I did offer to support him. In fact, I had a