he did not know Agatha, apart from muttering to her that he would call on her sometime. Collins insisted they were all breathalysed before they were pronounced fit to drive home. Miriam and Miss Simms were taken off for questioning, being the only two to have left the room.
To add to all the misery, when Agatha and Mrs. Bloxby left the vicarage, it had warmed up just enough for snow and it was coming down heavily. The cars which had been parked in front and in back of Agatha's had already driven off.
Snow danced hypnotically in front of her and whitened the road in front as she drove along the narrow lanes.
Agatha dropped Mrs. Bloxby at the vicarage in Carsely and then drove home, edging her way through the white wilderness.
Her sleepy cats came to meet her. Agatha glanced at her watch. Five in the morning! She was bone-tired but the palms of her hands were tingling. A murder!
Her last waking thought was that she must get back to the office.
She awoke late the next day to find snow piled against the windows. The central heating did not seem to be coping very well. Huddled in a dressing gown, Agatha went down to her living room and lit the fire that her cleaner, Doris Simpson, had laid ready in the grate. Then she went through to the kitchen to prepare her breakfast--one cup of black coffee. She retreated to the living room and phoned Toni Gilmour, knowing that her young assistant lived around the corner from the office and would be on duty.
'How was your holiday?' asked Toni.
'Foul. I'll tell you about it later. There's been a murder.'
Agatha outlined what had happened, ending with 'John Sunday appears to have made so many enemies around the villages that it's going to be hard to find the culprit. Maybe he made some enemies at work. Could you check with the Mircester Health and Safety Board? And ask Patrick to find out from his old police contacts if there's any news of exactly how he died.'
Patrick Mulligan, a retired policeman, had worked for Agatha for some time along with Phil Marshall, an elderly man from Carsely, Sharon Gold, a bouncy young friend of Toni's, and Mrs. Freedman, the agency's secretary. Paul Kenson and Fred Auster, who had briefly worked for her, had left to work for a security firm in Iraq.
Agatha fretted as she glared out at the still falling snow. She made herself a cheese sandwich and another cup of coffee and switched on the television to BBC news. There was a global warming demonstration in Trafalgar Square with protestors nearly obliterated on the screen by the driving snow. She sat patiently through the whole of the news but there was nothing on the murder of John Sunday.
The day dragged on in its dreary whiteness. Agatha's two cats, Hodge and Boswell, sat patiently by the kitchen door, wondering why Agatha did not let them out.
The phone rang at midday. It was Toni. She said that Patrick had little news other than that the police had said it looked as if Sunday had been stabbed with something like a kitchen knife. He had tried to defend himself and there were cuts on his hands and forearms.
Agatha relapsed into a snowbound torpor. She fell asleep on the sofa in the afternoon, only awakening an hour later at the ringing of her doorbell.
On opening the door, she found Miriam Courtney on her doorstep, unbuckling a pair of skis. 'The snow's stopped and I thought I'd come and see you,' said Miriam. 'The gritters haven't been out on the village roads but the farmers had snowploughed them so I put on my skis and came over. Thank goodness the snow has stopped. Aren't you going to ask me in?'
'Sorry,' said Agatha. 'Come in.'
Miriam propped her skis against the outside wall. 'Come through to the kitchen,' said Agatha. She had taken a dislike to Miriam but decided that any company was preferable to none. 'Coffee?'
'Sure.' Miriam took off her padded coat and woolly hat and sat down at the kitchen table.
'What brings you?' asked Agatha, plugging in the electric coffee percolator.
'I heard you have a detective agency and I want to hire you. I'm prime suspect.'
'Why?'
'Because I was the one person, apart from Miss Simms, who was out of the room for any length of time. Furthermore, I am on record as having called at the offices of the Health and Safety Board in Mircester and threatened to kill Sunday.'
'Why?'
'Because in the summer I open the manor to the public twice a week. It's an old Tudor building. I get a good number of tours. Sunday said the steps up to the front door made it impossible for the disabled to have access. I would have to have a ramp. The ramp they suggested was a great metal thing that seemed to stretch halfway down the drive. I said in the past that the rare visitor in a wheelchair was just wheeled backwards up the very shallow steps. Sunday said that unless I had the ramp, I could no longer open the house to the public. I said I'd kill the stupid bureaucratic bastard. The police turned up this morning at the manor with a search warrant.'
'How did they get through the snow?' asked Agatha, putting down a cup of coffee in front of Miriam.
'They got through somehow in Land Rovers. Took all my kitchen knives away. I want you to find out who really did it. I'm an outsider in that village. The trouble's started already. The two women who clean for me phoned up this morning to say they would no longer work for me.'
'Why do you need to open the manor to the public? Do you need the money?'
'Not a bit of it. But I enjoy showing the place off. I've done an awful lot of restoration.'
'I haven't a contract here but I'll get the office to send you one to sign,' said Agatha. 'Can you think of anyone?'
'He offended so many people, I can't suggest where you should start. Listen! That's the gritter at last.'
'Good,' said Agatha. 'I've been getting cabin fever sitting here.'
'Isn't that someone at your door?'
Agatha went to answer. The muffled figure of Sir Charles Fraith, one of Agatha's closest friends, stood there. 'Gosh, I thought I'd never get here,' he said, stamping snow from his boots. 'I had to borrow the gardener's Land Rover. My drive is like the Cresta run. I heard about the murder on the morning news.'
Charles followed Agatha into the kitchen and she introduced him to Miriam. 'A 'sir,' ' said Miriam. 'How grand!' To Agatha's irritation, she was almost coquettish.
Miriam went on to explain the reason for her visit. 'Oh, Aggie will sort you out,' said Charles, helping himself to coffee.
Charles was a medium-sized man with immaculately barbered hair and neat features. Agatha often thought he was as self-contained as her cats. He came and went in and out of her life, often using her cottage as a sort of hotel.
'You didn't use your keys,' said Agatha. 'Have you lost the keys to my cottage?'
'No, but you got shirty that last time I just walked in.'
Miriam looked from one to the other, her eyes sparkling with interest. 'Are you two an item?'
'No!' said Agatha. 'But no time like the present. I'd like to get back to Odley Cruesis and see what I can dig up.'
'I'll drive you over,' said Charles. 'How did you get here, Miriam?'
'On my skis.'
Charles laughed. 'What a lady. I've got a roof rack for your skis. We can all go together.'
Agatha turned away quickly to hide the scowl on her face. She had few friends and was jealous and possessive of the ones she had. 'I'll just go upstairs and change.'
As Agatha put on warm clothes, she could hear Miriam's peals of laughter followed by appreciative chuckles from Charles.
I bet the fact she's employing me is a blind, thought Agatha. I bet she did it. Please God, let Miriam be the murderer.
'This is my showpiece,' said Miriam proudly, leading them into the main hall of the manor.
