'Probably kids,' she muttered. But she went back inside and picked up a powerful torch. She went out again and shone the torch round and about, in case any children were hiding in the bushes on either side of the drive. An owl hooted mournfully.
Miriam went back inside. She reset the alarm and made her way back to bed. She was about to pick up her book and resume her reading when the light went out. Miriam groped her way to the bedroom door and pressed down the switch of the overhead light. Nothing.
Odley Cruesis had suffered from occasional power cuts in the past. But she decided she'd better go downstairs to the fuse box and make sure the trip switch was on. Wishing she had brought her torch upstairs with her, she groped her way down to the hall where she had left the torch but could not find it. There were candles in the kitchen. She made her way there. Moonlight was flooding the kitchen. She opened the drawer where she kept candles and matches and lit one of the candles. Holding the candle in one hand, she reached up and opened the fuse box. A heavy blow struck her on the back of the head. The candle flew out of her hand and landed in a pan of fat on the stove.
The maid saw the glow in the sky as she drove down into Odley Cruesis. A fire engine raced past her and then another. When she turned into the manor drive, she could see the house was in flames from top to bottom. Natasha did a U-turn and sped off. She had planned to tell Miriam in the morning that she was leaving. She was an illegal alien from Albania and she knew the police would soon ferret out that fact. They had not seemed to be much interested in her after the murder of John Sunday, but she knew they would focus on her now. She had all her belongings packed up in the battered old Ford Miriam had bought for her. Her real name was Blerta, but Miriam had said, 'I suppose you're called Natasha,' and Blerta had agreed. As she was sure Miriam suspected her of being an illegal alien, she had agreed to low wages and to wearing a maid's uniform. Blerta decided to head back to Birmingham to stay with friends.
In her panic, she did not realise that her running away would make her an arson suspect.
Toni worked at cleaning up her flat after Sharon had left. She guiltily wished Agatha had not been so high- handed. Toni was fond of Sharon. Sharon was everything Toni was not--bold and brassy and confident, moving gaily from one boyfriend to another while Toni read books and dreamed of romance.
She felt uneasy. She had visited a club a week before with Sharon, and Sharon had been flirting with a group of bikers. They swore a lot and drank a lot and Toni had left early. She hoped Sharon hadn't been getting into bad company.
_______
Agatha was not pleased when she got home to find Charles waiting for her. She was tired and wanted to eat something and go to bed. She brightened up only when Charles told her the full story of his dinner. 'Serves you right,' she said heartlessly. 'You met your match in that cheapskate.'
'There's another thing,' said Charles. 'I've just let the cats out in the garden and there's a glow in the sky from the direction of Odley Cruesis.'
Agatha opened the garden door and went out. Yes, there was a red glow in the sky.
She went back into the kitchen. 'Something's up. I'd better get over there.'
'I'll drive,' said Charles.
As Agatha was about to get into his car, he removed a foil-covered package from the passenger seat.
'You never did!' exclaimed Agatha, smelling fish.
'Oh, yes I did. I paid for it and I wasn't going to let a plate of turbot go to waste.'
They arrived at the manor just in time to see the roof fall in from their vantage point on top of a wall bordering the grounds of the manor.
They couldn't get any nearer because of police and firemen. 'She told me she knew something,' said Charles. 'She told me she had something. She said it seemed impossible, and then she said she was going to cancel your services.'
'I wonder if she escaped the fire. And what about the maid?'
'She's gone,' said a voice below them. Agatha got down from the wall, registering that her hip felt fine although she had been warned that she could not have any more injections and would soon need to have an operation on her arthritic hip.
The vicar's wife, Penelope, stood there, huddled in an old tweed coat. 'I was coming along the road when her car went past me speeding in the opposite direction. I've told the police. They've set up roadblocks. But I told them she couldn't have anything to do with the fire because as I was walking along, I saw her drive up before she turned around and drove away again.'
'I wonder who benefits from her death, if she's dead,' said Charles. 'She'd been married three times.'
'I think she mentioned a son and daughter.'
'That's right,' said Carrie Brother, joining them. 'Said they were both in America.'
Charles stifled a yawn. 'Come on, Aggie. They're not going to let us get nearer or give us any information tonight.'
Agatha, who liked watching fictional forensic programmes on the television, was often amazed at how slow the real-life forensic process was. Christmas came and went. She spent a solitary Christmas persuading herself that it was just another day. Then came a blustery January, an icy February and so into March and the timid beginning of the English spring.
In January, she had endured that long overdue hip operation. Thanks to her active life, she made a speedy recovery, but then put the whole business of the operation out of her mind. She did not want to admit, even to herself, that she had needed it. The very words 'hip operation' screamed
Patrick Mulligan reported from his sources that Miriam had been killed by a blow to the head with something like a hammer. The fire investigators found that the electricity had been switched off. The fire had started at the Aga cooker in the kitchen.
There was no sign of forced entry. The maid had been found, questioned, cleared of suspicion and deported. Agatha had been very busy with other cases and her interest in the case had died, mainly for monetary reasons. No one was paying her to investigate, Britain was in a recession, and the agency needed all the paying cases it could get.
On a blustery Sunday in late March when the Cotswolds were full of more daffodils than anyone could remember having seen before, she opened her door and found a tall, handsome man standing on her doorstep. Agatha was immediately aware of the fact that she hadn't a bit of make-up on.
'Mrs. Raisin?'
'Yes. You are . . . ?'
'I'm Tom Courtney, Miriam's son.'
'Do come in.' Agatha stood aside to let him past. 'Go straight through to the kitchen.' Agatha did not want to put her guest in the living room because the chairs were soft and she found it awkward to struggle out of them.
'You have a charming cottage,' he said.
He was tall with a lightly tanned face, black hair and brown eyes. Agatha guessed his age to be somewhere in his early forties.
'Do sit down,' said Agatha. 'I am sorry for your loss.'
'Don't be. I was very close to my father, but I didn't see much of my mother.'
'You live in the States now?'
'Yes, in New York.'
'I believe you have a sister.'
'Amy. She's still in the States. She's married to a doctor in Philadelphia.'
'I didn't see either of you at the funeral,' said Agatha.
'I couldn't bring myself to come over. I paid for it, of course, and made the arrangements long distance.'
