Vera jumped out of her car and began to run off down one of the lanes leading off the main street. 'It's Mrs. Cummings-Browne. After her,' shouted Bill. Wilkes and Detective Sergeant Friend scrambled out of the car, but Bill ran instead through the pounding rain towards Vera's cottage, cursing under his breath as he saw the fierce red glow of a fire behind the drawn curtains of the living-room.
The kitchen window was to the left of the door. He ran to it to try to force a way in and was just in time to see the white staring face of Agatha Raisin rising above the kitchen sink and disappearing again.
There was a narrow strip of flower-bed outside the cottage, edged with round pieces of marble rock. He seized one of these and threw it straight at the kitchen window, thinking wildly that it was only in films that the whole window shattered, for the rock went straight through, leaving a jagged hole.
He seized another one and hammered furiously at the glass until he had broken a hole big enough to crawl through.
Agatha was lying on the kitchen floor. He tried to pick her up. At first she seemed too heavy. The roar of the fire from the other room was tremendous. He got Agatha up on her feet and shoved her head in the kitchen sink. Then he got hold of her ankles and heaved, so that her heels went over her head and out through the window. He seized her by the hair and, panting and shoving, thrust the whole lot of her `=-81' through the broken glass and out on to the cobbles outside and then dived through the window himself just as the kitchen door fell in and raging tongues of flames scorched through the room.
He lay for a moment on top of Agatha while the rain drummed down on both of them. Doors were opening, people were coming running. He heard a woman shout, 'I phoned the fire brigade.' His hands were bleeding and Agatha's face was cut from where he had shoved her through the broken glass. But she was breathing deeply. She was alive.
Agatha recovered consciousness in hospital and looked groggily around.
There seemed to be flowers everywhere. Her eyes focused on the Asian features of Bill Wong, who was sitting patiently beside the bed.
Then Agatha remembered the horror of the fire. 'What happened?' she asked feebly.
From the other side of the bed came the stern voice of Detective Chief Inspector Wilkes. 'You nearly got burnt to a crisp, that's what,' he said, ' would have been if Bill here hadn't saved your life.'
'You've got to lose weight, Mrs. Raisin,' said Bill with a grin.
'You're a heavy woman. But you'll be pleased to know that Vera Cummings-Browne is under arrest, although whether she'll stand trial is another matter. She went barking mad. But you did a silly and dangerous thing, Mrs. Raisin. I gather you went to accuse her of murder and then you calmly drink a cup of tea which she had made!'
Agatha struggled up against the pillows. 'It's thanks to me you got her. I suppose you found her taped confession on my body.'
'We found a blank tape on your body,' said Bill. 'You had forgotten to switch the damn thing on.'
Agatha groaned. 'So how did you get her to confess?' she said.
'It was like this,' said Bill. T wondered what you were up to seeing this Mr. Jones. I found out about the photograph you had taken, he gave me the negative, I got it developed and found the cow bane in it.
We were heading to her cottage to ask her a few questions when we saw her driving along. I blocked the street. She got out and ran for it, and when Mr. Wilkes caught up with her, she broke down and confessed and said it would be all worth it if you died in the fire. I managed to get you out.'
'What put you on to her in the first place?' asked Wilkes crossly.
'Surely not one piece of cow bane in a photograph?' Agatha thought quickly. She had not switched on the tape. There was no need for them to know that her quiche had come from Devon or anything about Mr. Economides's cousin. So instead, she told them about the school-hall kitchen and the library book.
'You should have brought information like that straight to us,' said Wilkes crossly. 'Bill here got his hands cut badly rescuing you and you were nearly killed. For the last time, leave investigations to the police.'
'Next time I won't be so amateur,' said Agatha huffily.
'Next time?' roared Wilkes. 'There won't be a next time.'
The thing that puzzles me,' said Agatha, ' why didn't I notice the taste of the sleeping pills in the tea? I mean, if she had ground all those pills up, at least it surely would have tasted gritty.'
'She got gelatine capsules of Dormaron, a very powerful sleeping pill, from some quack in Oxford who is being questioned. The stuff's tasteless. She simply cut open the capsules and put the liquid in your tea,' said Wilkes. 'I'll be back when you get home to question you further, Mrs. Raisin, but don't ever try to play detective again. By the way, we got John Cartwright. He was working on a building site in London.'
He stomped out. 'I'd better be going as well,' said Bill. For the first time Agatha noticed his bandaged hands.
'Thank you for saving my life,' she said. 'I'm sorry about your hands.'
'I'm sorry about your face,' he said. Agatha raised her hands to her face and felt strips of sticking plaster. There's a couple of stitches in a cut in your cheek. But the only way I could get you out was by shoving you through the window, and I'm afraid I tore a handful of your hair out as well.'
'I've given up worrying about my appearance,' said Agatha. 'Oh, my kitten. How long have I been here?'
'Just overnight. But I called on your neighbour, Mr. Lacey, and he offered to keep the cat until your return.'
That's good of you. Mr. Lacey? Does he know what happened?'
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'I hadn't time to explain. I simply handed over the cat and said you'd had an accident.'
Agatha's hands flew up to her face again. 'Do I look awful? Did you tear out much hair? Is there a mirror in here?' 'I thought you didn't care about your appearance.'
'And all those flowers? Who are they from?'
'The big one is from the Carsely Ladies' Society, the small bunch of roses is from Doris and Bert Simpson, the elegant gladioli from Mrs. Bloxby, the giant bouquet from the landlord of the Red Lion and the regulars, and that weedy bunch is from me.'
'Thank you so much, Bill. Er ... anything from Mr. Lacey?'
'Now how could there be? You barely know the man.'
'Is my handbag around? I must look a fright. I need powder and lipstick and a comb and I've some French perfume in there.'
'Relax. They're letting you home tomorrow. You can paint your face to your heart's content. Don't forget that dinner invitation.'
'Oh, what? Oh, yes, that. Of course you must come. Next week.
Perhaps I might be able to help you with some of your cases?' 'No,' said Bill firmly. 'Don't ever try to solve a crime again.' Then he relented. 'Not but what you haven't done me a favour.'
'In what way?'
'I confess I'd been following you around on my time off and getting the local bobby to report anything to me. Like you, I never could really believe it to be an accident. But Wilkes is more or less crediting me with solving the case because he would rather die than admit a member of the public could do anything to help. So when's that dinner?'
'Next Wednesday? Seven o'clock, say?'
'Fine. Go back to sleep. I'll see you then.'
'Am I in Moreton-in-Marsh?'
'No, Mircester General Hospital.'
After he had gone, Agatha fished in the locker beside her bed and found her handbag. The pills had been taken out of it, she noticed. She opened her compact and stared at her face in the mirror and let out a squawk of dismay. She looked a wreck.
'Ere!' Agatha looked across at the next bed. It contained an elderly woman who looked remarkably like Mrs. Boggle. 'What you done?' she asked avidly. 'All them police in '.'
'I solved a case for them,' said Agatha grandly.
'Garn,' said the old horror. 'Last one in that bed thought she was Mary Queen of Scots.'
'Shut up,' snarled Agatha, looking in the mirror and wondering whether the sticking plaster did not look, in
