'Yes.'
'And the sister?'
'In Philadelphia. She's married to a Dr. Bairns.'
'And the doctor vouches for her?'
'He was away at a medical conference in Seattle. But she was staying with a friend, Harriet Temple. Believe me, they were checked out. And Miriam did tell Charles that she was onto something. And before she went to bed on the night she was killed, she phoned the vicar's wife and said she knew who had done it.'
'I didn't know that,' said Agatha excitedly. 'That could mean either Penelope or her husband did it.'
'Of course we thought of that. But Mrs. Timson's cleaner was ill and she phoned her to see how she was getting on and told her what Miriam had said. The cleaner, a Mrs. Radley, promptly got on the phone to a lot of people in the village. We questioned them all. But the ones she called had in their turn called others. Everyone must have known.'
'It's a puzzle.' Agatha sighed. 'The two murders seem so different. The killing of John Sunday almost seems like a spur-of-the-moment thing, whereas the murder of Miriam looks like cold-blooded planning.'
'That's a leap in the dark,' said Bill, 'and it doesn't add up. She tells Charles she's onto something and the next thing, she's dead. Sherry?'
'Please,' said Roy, who had been wondering whether to tell Bill about Agatha's mad idea of how to get him away from the Bulgarians.
Bill went through to the kitchen and reappeared with a little silver tray holding three minuscule glasses of sherry. Roy's face fell. He knew Agatha would not want him to tell Bill about her plans for the Bulgarians but felt that a stiff drink might have given him the necessary courage.
'I think Tom Courtney looks suspicious,' said Roy. 'I mean, the motive is usually money, isn't it?'
'The first thing we thought of, but, like I said, his alibi checks out. And the sister is vouched for by her friend.'
'It's a pity,' mused Agatha, 'that it couldn't be either the son or daughter. I mean, how convenient to already have a murder in the village. The police were bound to think both murders were connected.'
'We still do,' said Bill. 'You're right, though; the murder of Miriam appears to have been carefully planned. Someone passing the manor saw the lights go out and then the flickering light of a candle, as if Miriam was going down the stairs to look at the fuse box. The fire was started because when she was struck down, the candle she might have been holding ended up in a pan of fat.'
'Can they tell all that? The house was a blazing inferno. I didn't think there would be any evidence left.'
'They traced the source of the fire to the stove, analysed the remains of the pan and found evidence of candle grease. The fuse box was nearly intact, being protected by a heavy metal cover. The electricity had definitely been switched off.'
'Who was it who was just passing so late at night?'
'Carrie Brother.'
'And what's her reason for being out so late?'
'She said her little doggie needed to go pee-pee, to quote her words.'
'I think she's barmy,' said Agatha.
Bill shook his head. 'A bit eccentric, that's all. Is it any use, Agatha, telling you yet again to keep out of it?'
'Not in the slightest. I'm employed by Tom Courtney and I need the money.'
'Do you know anything about Bulgarians in London?' asked Roy.
'No, he doesn't,' said Agatha. 'We've got to rush. Come along, Roy.'
Roy quailed before the gimlet gleam in Agatha's bearlike eyes. 'What Bulgarians?' asked Bill as Agatha hustled Roy out of the house.
'Never mind,' Agatha called back.
Back in Carsely, Roy wandered around the cottage moodily while Agatha composed an anonymous letter to the police. Finally she popped the letter in an envelope. 'I'd better not mail this here,' she muttered. 'If they see a Carsely postmark, they'll track me down. Roy!' she called.
'What is it?' he asked nervously.
'I want you to mail this in London. I'll put it in a bigger envelope so you don't get your fingerprints on it. Just take it out and pop it in a pillar box.' She stripped off her gloves and then noticed the look of relief in Roy's eyes. 'And don't think you can tear it up and chuck it away when you get to London. If I don't see anything in the news about a raid, I'll know you've weaselled out. It's for your own good! Now, I would like to have dinner with Tom on my own this evening. I think he rather fancies me and I may get more out of him. He might remember something about his mother that he hasn't told me.'
'He doesn't fancy you a bit,' said Roy crossly. 'I'm your friend. You should be looking after me.'
'Roy, it's work. We're in the middle of a recession and I need this job.'
'Oh, all right,' said Roy. 'I'll maybe go to the pub.'
That evening, after Agatha had departed in a wave of French perfume, Roy, restless, decided to drive over to Odley Cruesis. He fancied himself as a detective. Maybe if he found out something significant, Agatha would offer him a job and he could escape the PR business.
He drove off through the leafy lanes with the car window open, breathing in the scents of the country evening. He noticed there were lights on in the church hall, a square building next to the old Norman church. Roy parked the car and went into the hall. A bingo session was under way. Villagers were crouched over their cards while Penelope Timson read out the numbers in a high, strangulated voice.
Roy took a seat at the back on the hall. When Penelope finally called a break for refreshment and everyone rose to hurry over to a side table where there was a tea urn and plates piled high with sandwiches and cakes, Roy had a brilliant idea. He was addicted to watching the television series
Faces turned towards him. 'I am Roy Silver,' he announced, 'and I am investigating these murders. I know who did it. I shall wait outside. All the guilty person has to do is come to me and confess. I will intercede with the police to help ease the sentence. Thank you.'
Roy left the hall amid a startled silence. As he waited outside, he was very pleased with himself. Of course he didn't expect the murderer to approach him. But he did expect the villagers to crowd round him and discuss the murders. Maybe he could pick up some information that Agatha had missed.
After half an hour, he could hear Penelope's voice inside the hall once more raised as she called out the bingo numbers.
He was beginning to feel silly but decided to wait on. He stood beside his car in the darkness. The village had gone 'green' by opting to have the street lights switched off. The silhouettes of the old cottages crouched around him in the dark, hunched and sinister.
Roy doggedly waited for the bingo session to finish. At last it was over and they all filed out. No one spoke. Not even to each other. They spread out towards their various homes as if he didn't exist. When the last one had gone and he saw Penelope locking up the hall, he approached her. 'Mrs. Timson!' She started and swung round. Penelope looked at him severely. 'That was a silly joke.'
'Wasn't a joke,' protested Roy shrilly.
'Oh, just leave, young man,' said Penelope wearily.
Roy walked slowly back to his car. A small moon was riding high above, casting black shadows across the road in front of him. A breeze had risen and the sounds of it in the leaves of the trees sounded like whispering, menacing voices. He gave himself a shake. The country life was definitely not for him.
A savage blow from behind struck him on the back of the head. He fell forwards. As he fell, his fluorescent phone slipped out of his jacket pocket and lay on the road in front of his dimming eyes. With his last bit of strength, he pressed the number three, where he had Agatha's phone number logged. 'Get help,' he croaked. 'Murdered.' And then he lost consciousness.
