'It might have looked like that.'
'The salads would be laid out in the kitchen before tea. Fran could have nipped in and grated hemlock into Phyllis's salad.'
'How would she know which salad Phyllis would take?'
'Got to phone Alison.'
'Oh,' wailed Alison, 'they're already getting suspicious. You're lucky I'm in my room. What is it now?'
'Did Phyllis have a favourite bowl for salad?'
'Yes, it was the blue one. Blue with yellow flowers.'
'But I remember the others were blue with yellow flowers.'
'The bowl Phyllis had was a deep blue. She got the set cheap because they were supposed to be matching in colour but one of the bowls had come out a darker blue than the others. So she knocked the price down. What's this about?'
'Talk to you later.'
Agatha said to Roy, 'She did have a favourite bowl.'
'Yes, but Fran didn't have time to get back into the kitchen and look for a hemlock root,' said Roy.
'She might have been in the habit of carrying bits of vegetables round in her pocket with her. Don't spoil my theory,' snapped Agatha.
'But how on earth are you going to prove it?'
'I'll confront her. Help me to put these books back.'
'Aggie, tell the police.'
'Won't do. Fran knows there's no proof but she might drop her guard to me. I'll wait until they get back here and phone. I mean, I didn't see any press around.'
'So if you can't get her now,' pleaded Roy, 'why don't we just spend the rest of the time having a lazy weekend?'
'After I see how Toni is getting on. I don't even know when the funeral is or was. I shouldn't have left everything to George Pyson. He's got designs on that young girl and he's too old.'
'How old?'
'Early thirties.'
'That's not old. Why interfere?'
The answer to that was, 'Because I don't want to lose a very good detective,' but Agatha said instead, 'Hurry up with these books.'
Toni was sitting in her flat with her friend Maggie when Agatha and Roy arrived. She thanked them for coming, struggling with her accent, which had reverted to the local speech, so that when speaking to Agatha it was her new 'posh' one and to Maggie, the sing-song voice of Mircester.
'The funeral is tomorrow,' said Toni. 'George has been a saint. The house is all scrubbed and cleaned and my mother is putting it up for sale.'
'And he's ever so handsome,' breathed Maggie.
She was a plump friendly girl with her black hair gelled into spikes, large chocolate-brown eyes, and a snub nose.
'You must regard him as a sort of father figure by now,' Agatha said hopefully to Toni.
'No, just as a good friend.'
'How are you coping?'
'Now I've got over the shock, all I feel is a sort of guilty relief. Is that terrible?'
'No, just human,' said Agatha. 'Where is your mother?'
'Showing people the house. Her friend is with her. I'll be back at the office on Tuesday afternoon. I want to start working again. Oh, Charles was very kind. He sent the most beautiful wreath.'
'I forgot about flowers. I am so sorry,' said Agatha, narrowing her small eyes and wondering whether it was Toni's looks which had prompted the normally mean Charles to open his wallet.
She felt old as she left with Roy, after promising to attend the funeral.
Agatha tried to phone Charles but got the usual rebuff from his butler, who seemed to delight in telling her that Charles was 'not at home'.
She did not want to subject Phil to any more danger, and Patrick, good and solid though he was, could be intimidating, as he looked like the policeman he used to be before he retired.
Agatha also felt she could no longer enlist Alison's help. After the funeral of Toni's brother, Agatha wrote to Fran saying that she was sure she had discovered the identity of the murderer and would Fran please get in touch to make an appointment. Agatha suggested that Fran should not communicate this news to any of the others as it might unnecessarily upset them.
Feeling lonely and depressed by the funeral, which had taken place in a cold driving rain, Agatha decided that evening to call in on Mrs Bloxby. She felt she should really break the habit of calling at the vicarage any time she felt like it, just as if the vicar's wife did not have a life of her own. But if she phoned and the vicar answered, he would put her off because he did not like her.
Hoping the vicar would not answer the door, she made her way to the vicarage, comforting herself with the thought of the glorious Christmas dinner she meant to arrange, for the days were dark and dreary and the trouble with living in the countryside, thought Agatha, was that one was terribly aware of everything dying or settling down for a winter hibernation. In the city, with its lights and bustle, it was hard to notice the changing of the seasons.
To her relief, Mrs Bloxby answered the door. 'Am I interrupting anything?' asked Agatha.
'No, come in, Mrs Raisin, and take off your wet coat. Alf has gone to a meeting over in Evesham. Would you like coffee or a sherry?'
'A sherry would be nice,' said Agatha. Sherry was the only alcoholic drink served in the vicarage.
When they were settled, Mrs Bloxby said, 'You look worried.'
'I've just thought of something,' said Agatha. 'I thought I had found out who murdered Phyllis Tamworthy and it seemed as clear as day. Now, I have doubts.'
'Tell me about it.'
So Agatha outlined all the facts that made her suspicious of Fran.
'I really don't like the idea of you asking her to call on you,' said Mrs Bloxby. 'Wouldn't it be a good idea to tell the police?'
'Do you think they'd listen to my suppositions?'
'Maybe not. But I am sure Bill Wong would.'
'He'd feel duty-bound to pass it on. Oh, well, it'll work or it won't.'
'Don't drink anything when she's around!'
'No, I won't. I wish this case was all solved and I could get back to the more pedestrian work of the agency. Still, I've got Christmas to look forward to.'
Mrs Bloxby sighed. 'It should be a happy festival, but no one these days looks forward to Christmas. So many people going bankrupt with those wretched shop credit cards. They hand them out to people who can't possibly afford the sums they run up.' She clasped her hands nervously. 'Mrs Raisin, please do not build up too many expectations of Christmas.'
'It'll be fun,' said Agatha. 'Just you wait and see.'
Agatha returned to her cottage, deciding to go through her notes on the case. She always wrote up each of her cases and put them on disk in the fond hope that after she was dead, someone would write a book from them.
She found a missing capital A in the middle of a sentence and decided to add it. But instead of pressing the cap key, by mistake she pressed the control button, capital A, and, for some mad reason, delete. She watched in horror as all her notes disappeared, leaving her with a blank page. In the panic induced in someone who suffered from techno fear, she scrolled through the computer in a desperate bid to find the missing file. The phone rang. Agatha switched off her computer and went to answer it. There was nothing but silence at the other end and then
