8. A SCURRYING CLERGYMAN

Christie’s Detective Agency Part 8

“Have you plans for this evening, Captain?” asked Jenny towards the end of his first day working at the Christje’s Detective Agency. Despite its unexpected start, it had seemed to be a very full day, and the break they’d taken for lunch hadn’t been much of a break at all.

“To be honest, no,” he replied, “I thought I’d take myself to a nice quiet pub, have a pint and then go home for an early night.”

“Which pub?” she asked, “I like quiet too, and we might bump into each other.”

“Would that be bad?” he asked, alarmed in case she preferred to avoid colleagues once the working day was over.

“No. Far from it. I rather like you, Horace, I bet you’re interesting company and it would be good to have a chat away from work.”

“So socially I’m back to being Horace, am I? But there’s not much interesting about me! I was at school until a couple of weeks ago, had planned to go to Uni but decided not to when I couldn’t find a good reason to study any particular course.”

“What do you mean?”

He shrugged. “I’ve always been interested in old things. I suppose its all the antiques programmes on the television, sort of got into my blood because dad’s always watching them, and I had this notion of working at an auction house for my education rather than go to a college. You know, hands on. And when I saw Christie’s needed an assistant… I thought it might be an offshoot of the big London place, you know, a sort of branch in the Styx! So I applied there, and you know the rest.”

“As you’ll have discovered, we’re not as grand as that. Do you know The King’s Arms?”

“The pub? It’s where I’d go if I feel like a quiet moment to myself. And the bonus is some lasses go there in a group in term time, from the teachers college, you know, and they can be fun.”

“Hmm. And if your flock of damsels isn’t there, what would you say if you found me on my own in a corner?”

“They won’t be. The college is shut for the summer. And you’re nice. You’re okay.”

“Then let’s have a date tonight, Captain. Cap. Since my last divorce I’ve been sort of lonely. I’ve stopped trusting men and although women can be good company, I’m not a lesbian.”

He looked at her, shocked by the implication that lay behind her words.

“I’m only twenty nine,” she added, “not quite old enough to be your mother just yet! And we could, if you liked, discuss the case if you feel uncomfortable about revealing your darkest innermost secrets to an old woman like me.”

“You’re very forthright, Jenny.”

“Oh, am I? I’m sorry.”

He could see by the change in her expression that she had hoped he would leap at the chance of socialising with his boss, and then thought that it might be considered unkind of her to even suggest it. They’d been thrown together for this one day so far, and during that time the only time they’d not been under each other’s feet was when one or the other of them popped to the toilet!

“I’d like it,” he mumbled, half truthfully.

“Eight o’clock then? In the lounge?” she replied, flashing a white-toothed smile at him.

“Okay,” he said.

And so it was he was to be found in The King’s Arms just before eight o’clock that first evening with a foaming pint of beer in front of him, and she came in cautiously.

It was a warm summer’s day and that probably explains why she was wearing so little. Her skirt, flared and probably too short for a woman out of her teens, was a subtle shade of pink, barely covering her thighs and her tee-shirt was plain and a darker matching pink. But what made him gasp was her hair. He’d seen it all day and knew that it was particularly long, but accompanied by so much flesh it was spectacular.

He leapt up. “I’ll get you a drink,” he gabbled.

“It’s all right, Captain,” she said, “I’m earning and you’re not until your first payday. I’ll get my own.”

She bought herself what looked like exactly the same pint as what he was having, and sat next to him. She took one long sip of her beer, and sighed.

“That’s better,” she said, “I was ready for this.”

“You look…” he mumbled. He was going to say that she looked spectacular, but the words and the thought got all twisted in his head and faded into an awestruck silence.

“Comfortable. That’s what I look: comfortable, though maybe at my age I should wear something a bit older,” she smiled at him.

He found himself truly well at ease after half an hour of her company. And during that half hour she never mentioned the case once. It was as if she needed a break from the problems involved in detection. Instead she told him little snippets about herself and he responded by telling her about his own life.

“I reckon I’m still young, but I’ve been twice married,” she said, “I’m lousy when it comes to men. I guess I look for security rather than character in a man!”

He didn’t really understand, but nodded anyway.

Slowly the lounge bar filled up until there was a comfortable hum of conversation in the air, accompanied by the odd burst of laughter.

“When it comes to the Agency I hope you last longer than your predecessors did,” she said eventually. “I’ve never been much good at judging the characters of applicants for the job but you seem to be quite good at it.”

“I’ve not done anything yet!” he protested.

“Ah, but you have,” she told him, “you’ve used your brain, and that’s above three quarters of detection. Look at the last lad I hired. He didn’t seem to have a brain cell, but he’s at university now. But show him a body with a dagger sticking out of it and he’d be likely to ask where the gun was!”

“And he’s really at university? What’s he studying? Pot holes?” grinned Horace.

She laughed. “Nothing as normal. No, he’s into astrophysics and his course is said to be one of the best. But at ordinary things he was about as useful as a chocolate tea-pot!”

The lounge door swung open for what must have been the twentieth time and Horace stiffened.

“Well I never,” he whispered, “look who’s come in.”

Jennifer looked up. “Goodness me,” she sighed, “the Reverend gentleman, Mr Pyke!”

And it was the same Reverend Rolf Pyke who had ordered them away from the vicarage earlier in the day. But this time he was smiling and holding a collecting tin that bore the inscription SAVE OUR CHURCH ROOF in bold capitals on it.

He moved towards a table round which half a dozen people sat, and they looked uncomfortably towards him as he shook his tin in front of them.

“I hope you don’t mind,” he said in a sepulchral pulpit voice, “but your church is in need. The roof is on the verge of collapsing and we have lost a promised large donation, and urgently need to make it up. Even pennies are welcome!”

He rattled the tin again, and one of the people sitting at the table fumbled in a purse and produced a five pound note, which he pushed into the tin.

“The Lord will thank you in Heaven,” boomed the Reverend Pyke.

Two other people searched pockets and handbags and produced low denomination coins, which they added to the tin, but there was no reference to the Lord thanking them in Heaven. Obviously it took paper money to guarantee celestial gratitude. The good Lord wasn’t interested in copper.

Having exhausted that one table he turned to find another, and looked towards Jenny and the Captain, still smiling as if the grin had been stuck onto his face.

But when the vicar caught sight of the two of them and it registered who they were, he started, the smile that had seemed to be permanently on his face flickered out of existence, and he turned to leave.

“Hey!” called a voice, “I’ve got a couple of bob for you!”

“Later. Yes, later,” replied the vicar, “nature calls,” he added, and he scuttled for the door.

“Well,” muttered Jennifer.

“Yes,” whispered Horace, “that tells us a lot, if only I knew what jt was…”

“Exactly,” breathed Jennifer, looking at him. “You know what,” she added, I need a breath of fresh air. And I’ve finished my drink. How about you?”

Horace understood. “Then I’ll be Captain again and call it overtime. I’m with you,” he said, and the two of them followed the reverend Pyke out of the door.

The sun was still shining as they peered around and then caught sight of his lanky figure as he opened a car door and climbed in.

“He’s in a hurry,” whispered Captain.

“And I wonder why,” mused Jenny as the car almost raced off with a howl of rubber on tarmac. “Tell you what, Captain, I live not so far away. How would you like to reconvene in my front room where there’s not likely to be a single vicar. And I’ve got beer in the fridge! Then we can discuss what we’ve just seen and draw some conclusions … if we’re lucky.”

“That’d be nice,” replied Horace or Captain or even Shorty, and he didn’t have to think twice. His brain was whirling around the sight of a clergyman behaving like a formula one driver.

© Peter Rogerson 17.09.21

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