Chapter Thirteen

The Greek restaurant looked inviting enough, though there were no other customers when Felicity and Ellie arrived and took a table at the back. The menu was daunting, but at least someone had taken the trouble to translate the Greek dishes into English.

Ellie smiled at the dark-haired middle-aged man who came to enquire if they’d like a drink first. ‘What do you recommend? This is our first visit, you see.’

He poked his pen at an item at the top of the list. ‘Why not try Meze, which is a bit of everything? And for wine . . .’

‘Why not? But no wine,’ said Felicity. ‘I’m driving.’

‘Meze, and a glass of water,’ agreed Ellie. ‘I’ve lived here for years but this is my first visit. It’s been a Greek restaurant for a long time, hasn’t it? I think I was introduced to the manager at one time. A Mr Alexis. Did you know him?’

He smiled, removed the menus. ‘Perhaps before my time? Under new management, you know.’

‘How long have you been here, then?’

‘One month, only.’ He departed.

Felicity bent closer to Ellie. ‘It’s no good. Nobody will know anything.’

‘Wait and see. When people start up restaurants in London, they usually recruit from among their own families. Perhaps someone will remember a friend or relative who can give us some background on Mr Alexis.’

The first of many small dishes arrived. With identically wary expressions, Ellie and Felicity tasted, looked relieved, and polished off their first course. The little dishes kept coming . . . and coming . . . and coming.

More customers came in. Ellie recognized moussaka when it was wafted past her, and some kind of kebab, but for the rest, she tasted and ate and enjoyed without always being able to identify what she was eating.

‘I don’t think I can manage another mouthful,’ said Felicity, easing her waistband.

‘Madam enjoyed?’ An older waiter this time, coming to remove the last of their dishes.

‘Very much,’ said Ellie, and tried again. ‘Were you here before the change in management? I was wondering if anyone knew a past manager here, a Mr Alexis.’

He shook his head. ‘Maybe my brother knew him, one time. My brother is chef in daytime at café next door. He lives here seven eight years now.’

Felicity sighed. Not long enough.

Ellie smiled, and asked for the bill. ‘Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.’

‘Wish they had. Been more helpful, I mean,’ said Felicity.

‘We had to eat.’ Ellie, too, eased her waistband. ‘Do you think he means that little café that’s tucked on at the side of this place? I thought it was a greasy spoon. I’ve never been in there, either. Perhaps I’ll try it tomorrow.’

‘What’s the use if the chef’s only been here for seven or eight years?’

‘You never know till you’ve tried. Come on, Felicity. They need our table.’

Felicity pulled out her mobile, made a face and deleted whatever message flashed up. ‘I wish he’d take a hint.’

‘Roy?’

Felicity didn’t reply, but held the door open for Ellie to leave. They walked back to the car in silence. It was a fine evening, and Felicity’s front garden looked a picture, but Felicity hesitated when she turned the car off the road. Was she going to suggest leaving the car out on the driveway so that she wouldn’t have to use the garage? No. She faced her fear and conquered it, tightening her lips as she drove into the garage. She helped Ellie out, and got the door shut.

There was a sheaf of flowers in the porch. Red roses. From Roy?

Felicity opened the front door and walked into the house, ignoring the flowers. Ellie picked them up, took them through into the kitchen, found a vase and put them in it. It wasn’t possible for her to let flowers die for lack of water.

Felicity didn’t comment, even when Ellie carried the vase into the pleasant sitting-room and placed them on the coffee table.

‘It’s only half past seven. Is there anything on the box?’ Felicity leafed through the Radio Times, without giving it her attention.

‘We could try next door. Not Maisie, but the other side.’

‘I was thinking,’ said Felicity, twisting a lock of hair around her fingers, ‘that when Maisie gives up and they go into a home or something, maybe I’ll buy their house, modernize it and rent it out. Or sell it.’

‘Spoken like a true entrepreneur. Come on, let’s pay a visit next door.’

Felicity swept the red roses out of the vase. ‘I don’t suppose they’ll know anything, but we’ll take the roses as a peace offering, shall we?’

‘What did you do with the ones Roy sent you yesterday?’

Felicity shrugged. ‘In the compost. He’ll get the message soon, I suppose.’

They pulled the front door to behind them, and walked down to the road, turned right and went up a very different front garden path.

This neighbour’s house was brightly painted in pale blue and white. The architect had been influenced both by Swiss cottages sporting lots of gingerbread around the eaves, and by an Edwardian liking for comfortable bay windows below. It was somewhat larger than Felicity’s. So far, so 1920s.

The garden had obviously had a make-over from someone who’d charged an enormous sum to cover the place with decking, rocks, pebbles and clumps of grass. There wasn’t a flower in sight.

‘Truly awe-inspiring,’ said Ellie, ringing the doorbell, which produced a tune which she couldn’t for the moment identify. ‘What sort of terms are you on with these people?’

‘Smiling and nodding. They were away most of the winter in South Africa or New Zealand, perhaps both.’

The door opened on a woman who was perhaps in her fifties, but who, with the aid of expert help, was defying the years with some success. ‘Lady Kingsley, what a nice surprise! Do come in. Are those flowers for me? How thoughtful. I’ll get my housekeeper to put them in water for me.’

Their hostess ushered them through into a cavernous sitting-room furnished in minimalist fashion, which didn’t really suit the style of the house but was clearly to their hostess’s taste. White everywhere, walls, floors, shag rugs, upholstery. A trickle of water running down a sheet of metal — stainless steel? — along one wall. No books. Magazines, of course, and the biggest TV Ellie had ever seen, tuned in to a game show.

Their hostess was bronzed, rail thin, the cords of her neck standing out, her head looking too big for her body. Her nails were long and manicured. Ellie wanted to sit on her own hands, which showed signs of hard wear from the gardening she did.

‘Suzie, this is my good friend, Mrs Quicke,’ said Felicity, trying a low chair. ‘She’s staying with me while we try to work out what to do with my back garden. I couldn’t begin even to think about it till I got my neighbour to agree to have her hedge cut back, but at last she’s agreed, so we can make a start. I wanted to warn you, and apologize in advance, because we’ll probably be making a bit of noise, tearing up the old and putting in the new.’

Their hostess pointed the remote at the television to mute the sound. ‘I must give you the name of the little man who did ours. He’s hideously expensive, of course, but right up to the minute.’

She picked up the glass from which she’d been drinking, only to realize she hadn’t offered her guests anything. ‘Do you fancy a little something?’ She gestured to a fully fitted bar which made an incongruous note in one corner. ‘I’m into red, myself.’

‘No, thank you,’ said Felicity.

‘Well, just a small one,’ said Ellie, thinking their hostess might be more comfortable if they joined her in a drink.

Suzie refreshed her own drink and issued Ellie with a large glass of red wine. ‘My husband’s out, I’m afraid. I’m the typical golf widow. As to what you do in your garden, well, it won’t make any difference to us as we’re off to Mauritius again soon. A bit too hot at this time of year, of course, but my husband has business interests out there, and beggars can’t be choosers.’

‘Delightful,’ murmured Ellie, assessing the rings on their hostess’s fingers as being worth a king’s ransom. Well, a princely one, anyway. ‘The thing is that although Felicity has done wonders with the house and front garden, she does find it a little . . . well, almost spooky . . . looking at the back garden. It reminds her so much of the previous owner.’

Suzie raised both hands in horror. ‘Say no more. I said to my hubby only the other day, what a let-down for the neighbourhood that garden is, when it could be made well, really quite delightful. It’s not as large as ours, of course, and you won’t want to put in a swimming pool as we did, but a good garden designer can work wonders. I do so know what you mean about Mrs Alexis. It was a positive disgrace, how she let that place get so run down.’

Ellie sipped wine. ‘We gather she couldn’t really help herself, after her husband died?’

Suzie folded her lips, and shook her head. ‘My lips are sealed.’

Felicity’s voice trembled. It was probably left-over emotion from all that had happened that day, but it did sound as if she was genuinely upset. ‘You’ll laugh, but I honestly feel, sometimes, as if she’s haunting the place, still. I keep looking over my shoulder, thinking she’s staring at me from the park.’

‘My dear!’ Suzie was delighted. ‘Well, of course, in this day and age . . . but I do understand what . . . she was the most extraordinary . . . I said to my dearest one — this would be way back last summer — that I understood what people said about witches casting the evil eye . . .’

‘You think she was a witch?’ said Ellie, interested.

‘Well, I suppose not, not really. But when she looked at you with those pale eyes of hers . . .’ Suzie shuddered. ‘My mother felt the same way, before she passed on, of course.’

‘Your mother didn’t like her?’ Ellie tried not to sound eager.

‘She liked the old man, all right, Mrs Alexis’ father. We didn’t have anything to do with them while he — the husband — was alive. I mean, perfectly polite, of course, but they weren’t exactly the sort of people you invite to play bridge with, were they? I suppose he’d made the journey from Cyprus to London when he was a young man, and I think she was a Londoner born and bred, but they never went anywhere to broaden their horizons. So parochial!’

‘How did your mother get to know Mrs Alexis’ father?’

‘My mother was something of a goer in her day, bless her. Been all over, married three times, and still got the men looking at her legs. My beloved husband used to joke that if I ever let myself go, he’d divorce me and marry my mother . . . ha, ha, ha.’

Felicity and Ellie smiled and hoped they’d made the smile convincing.

‘And then,’ said Suzie, draining her glass and refilling it, ‘Mr Brand — Charlie — came to stay with his daughter next door for a while, and my mother — who’d said she was only going to come for a week — ending up staying for a whole month. Cancelled a cruise, would you believe, just to enjoy a little romance with Charlie. Oh, a right pair they were, strutting around, throwing their money about — not that I grudged my mother a penny, because she’d earned it . . . from her three husbands, you know. Charlie had his little bit saved, too, and they were out morning, noon and night, till you’d have thought they were teenagers instead of in their seventies as they were.’

‘What a lovely time they must have had,’ said Ellie, sipping wine. ‘Did they think of marriage at all?’

‘Charlie did, but my mother wouldn’t consider it. Not after three goes at it. Said she couldn’t bear nursing another old codger to the grave. She was very loyal, you know. Never let another man put his arm around her waist till the last husband was in his grave.’ Suzie gave a great sigh. ‘We won’t see her like again, as my dearest one says.’

‘So what happened to spoil the dream?’

‘Charlie died. Got a flux. Mother was beside herself, didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Mostly cry. She was very fond of Charlie, you know. He seemed to get better, and then he got worse and he was fretting to be back in his own place, where his other daughter could look after him. He was dead within the week, so sad.

‘Mother was heart-broken, but . . . well, she’d been through it all before, hadn’t she? She said she was going to pick herself up, dust herself down and start all over again. She went back to her place, but before she could even fetch her cat from the kennels, she had a stroke and died. Right as rain on the Friday, dead on Saturday. It was a good way to go. I hope I get taken the same way.’

‘What a shame,’ said Felicity.

‘No heel-taps,’ said Suzie, downing the last mouthful.

Ellie set her own glass down, half finished. ‘Where did Mr Brand come from?’

‘North London somewhere, I believe. Edmonton? No, Chalk Farm, I think. Quite pleasant, of course, but not Ealing.’

‘No, indeed.’ Felicity got to her feet. ‘Well, thank you so much for . . .’

‘A pleasure. Do you have to go so soon? My husband won’t be back for hours.’

‘I’m afraid we must. I do hope you have a wonderful time in . . . where was it? Mauritius? Maybe by the time you get back, the garden will be transformed.’

‘Banishing all ghostly shades, what?’ Suzie laughed rather too loudly as she showed them out.

‘Phew,’ said Ellie, under her breath, as she led the way back. ‘Chalk Farm. Charlie Brand. And a sister. It’s something to go on.’

Felicity wasn’t listening. ‘How long do you think he’s been sitting there? No, don’t look now. It’s Roy, in his car on the other side of the road. Do you think he’s going to come over now he’s seen us? I don’t want to talk to him, Ellie.’

‘Perhaps you ought to, to clear the air.’

Roy was on their heels as they reached the front door. ‘Felicity . . . Ellie. Are you all right? I’ve been so worried about you.’

‘We’re fine,’ said Felicity, letting them into the hall.

‘Did you get my roses? I left them in the porch. I wondered if you’d like to come out for supper? You like Graham’s Grill, don’t you, where we were the other evening?’

Felicity shook her head. ‘Thanks, Roy, but we’ve already eaten. Is your mother all right?’

‘Yes, but . . . look, could we just talk? We’ve always been such good friends.’

Ellie said, ‘Don’t mind me. I’m just going next door to have another word with Maisie for a moment. Won’t be long.’

So saying, she shot out of the front door before Felicity could grab for her, and almost ran down the front garden. There was Roy’s car parked on the other side of the road. How many times had he parked there this last couple of days, trying to catch sight of Felicity? Ellie wondered if Felicity had noticed the car each time and perhaps subliminally had been aware that he was watching out for her. Perhaps that was why she’d said she felt spooked in the house.

Ellie looked away, and then — was that a flicker of movement behind it? — looked back at the car. There was someone standing on the far side of it, almost hidden. Not a tall person. No. A brown little person, who was staring at her with unblinking pale eyes.

Ellie found she’d shifted her hands to her heart, which was beating rather too fast for comfort.

She knew that face, that woman. Mrs Alexis, who had once lived in this house. Mrs Alexis, who was probably responsible for the delivery of suspect bread rolls to Felicity’s house. A woman who might or might not have assisted her husband and, possibly, her father into the next world.

A woman who had a grudge against Felicity that was leading her to haunt the place?

Mrs Alexis was no longer staring at the house but at Ellie, who felt a chill pass down her back. Mrs Alexis was not just noticing Ellie, but taking notice of her.

Her stare was flat, like that of a toad. There was no emotion behind it.

It was almost as if she were a machine, recording information about someone — something — that stood in her way.

Ellie found herself short of breath. How did the woman do it? She was a titchy little thing, even compared to Ellie, who was not tall. Yet there was a quality of concentrated menace emanating from her that caused Ellie to feel afraid.

At once, Ellie scolded herself. She wasn’t afraid of Mrs Alexis. Surely not! Ridiculous!

The sun had gone behind a cloud, that was why she’d shivered.

Except that the sun was shining as brightly as ever.

And still the woman stood there, looking at her.

Ellie wondered if the woman knew who she was, and where she lived . . . and told herself that she was being absurd. How could the woman know her name or where she lived?

Except that . . . somewhere recently . . . now where was it? . . . Ellie had caught sight of this woman in another context. She pummelled her brain, but couldn’t come up with the answer.

Roy came out of the house behind her. ‘Can’t you make her see sense, Ellie?’

She took her eyes off Mrs Alexis for a moment to register that Roy looked wretched, and when she looked back the woman was cycling off down the road.

‘What sort of sense do you want her to see, Roy?’

‘I can’t work. I’m worrying myself sick about her. I don’t know what’s the matter with me. Usually, if a girl says she’s had enough, I’m only too happy to look elsewhere, but Felicity’s such a . . . so vulnerable, and yet so determined . . . I want to pick her up and run off with her to some uninhabited island where nothing could ever upset her again.’

‘You want to marry her,’ said Ellie, in a matter-of-fact voice.

Roy stared at her. ‘God help me, I rather think I do. But . . .’ He swung round to look back at the house. He passed his hand over the back of his neck. ‘I don’t suppose she’s ever thought of me that way. I mean, older than her, and a bit shop-worn, wouldn’t you say?’

‘It’s more than possible that she can’t have children.’

‘Ah, poor kid. Does she think that would make a difference to me?’

‘She might. And Arthur’s legacy . . . he was a foul husband.’

‘The poor, poor kid. How can I get through to her, Ellie?’ He didn’t seem to expect an answer, but continued to stare at the house.

Ellie meanwhile was trying to follow another line of thought. Mrs Alexis had been watching — or at least studying — the house where Felicity lived, which added weight to the suspicion that it was she who’d been trying to pass off some nasty product of her own baking on to Felicity. No one knew where she was now living so couldn’t ask her what she was up to.

‘Roy!’ She grabbed his sleeve. ‘Follow that bike.’

‘What?’ Roy was still looking back at the house.

Ellie shook his arm. ‘It’s important, Roy. I just saw Mrs Alexis cycle off, and if we hurry we can catch up with her, find out where she lives. Come on!’

‘Mm? What? We can’t leave Felicity on her own.’

‘Roy, please! Just for once, don’t argue!’

‘Yes, but . . . I can’t see that . . . oh, very well. I’ll just pop in and tell Felicity that . . .’

Ellie felt like screaming. ‘Roy, she’ll be miles off by now! Will you please . . . !’

‘Oh, very well. But if she’s miles off, I can’t see that . . . where are my keys? Did I leave them in the car . . . no, here they are. Are you sure that you don’t just want to tell Felicity . . . she’ll wonder what’s happened if we both suddenly . . . oh, all right! I’m coming!’

Ellie tried not to worry as Roy fumbled the key in the lock, looking back at the house. No Felicity came to the windows. Ellie fastened her seat-belt, while he sighed and pulled at his, finally realizing he’d trapped it in the door and having to reopen the door and pull it free.

Ellie closed her eyes and prayed for patience.

He started the car at last, and said, ‘Where to?’

‘Just drive along, pause at the next road off to the right, see if you can spot a cyclist.’

‘What? Any old cyclist? Keep your hair on, I’m looking, I’m looking. I suppose it wouldn’t be a bad idea to . . . is that her? No it’s a man on a motorbike. Drive on to the next? How’s your eyesight?’

‘Good enough. She hasn’t kept on the road round the park, I don’t think. Somehow I thought she must live the other side of the Avenue, though I really don’t know why. Yes, I do. My dentist said she didn’t live nearby. Or, to be accurate, he said he had a client who rides a bike and who lives a little way off. He didn’t even say what her name was. It could be another person altogether.’

Roy paused at the next intersection, looked, and drove on again. ‘Why don’t you ask him where she lives, then? Though, come to think of it, he probably wouldn’t want to tell you. Ethics and all that.’

They had come to the end of the park and could turn either right or left — or go straight on. ‘Turn left,’ said Ellie. ‘If she’s on the other side of the Avenue, then this is the way she’ll have gone.’

Roy went slowly on, pausing at each little intersection. There was a fair amount of traffic on the roads for mid-evening. They spotted a couple of cyclists: one was a woman with a small child on a carrier on the back, one a young man with racing goggles on. Ellie reflected that it was like buses; you waited ages for one, and then several came along at once. Why hadn’t she noticed before that there were so many people riding bicycles on the road?

Ellie began to worry about having left Felicity on her own. Roy had been right; they ought to have gone back to tell her where they were going.

‘Coming up to the Avenue,’ said Roy. ‘The traffic lights are against us. Do you want to go on?’

‘Yes,’ said Ellie, crossing her fingers. ‘Please.’

They drove up and down a grid of roads, pausing for intersections as before. A lot of cars were parked in these roads. Commuter land. People driving back from work. They moved into an area of larger, detached houses with their own drive-ways.

‘Nothing,’ said Roy. ‘Give up?’

Ellie nodded. ‘Yes. Thanks, Roy. I know you thought it a wild goose chase, but it seemed to me that if only we could find out where she lives, we could talk to her, get her to stop this persecution.’

‘I wouldn’t call it persecution exactly, Ellie. I understand that you think she might have bumped off her old man, and I agree that just recently she’s played a nasty trick or two with the bread rolls, but you’ve really no grounds for saying that she killed that handyman, Paddy or whatever his name was. I can see why Felicity is getting a bit edgy about it, but you can’t really call it persecution.’

‘You don’t know what we found out since yesterday. After her husband died, she struggled to keep up the payments on the house and was bailed out by her father’s death — just as he was on the point of getting hitched again. She also came into money from her sister’s death rather conveniently, although I don’t know whether she was on the scene at the time or not.’

‘Circumstantial evidence.’

‘I know, I know. But if I were Felicity, I’d be screaming for protection, too.’

He turned the car round. ‘We’d best get back. I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about, but . . . surely, we can leave it to the police to sort out? They’ll analyse those rolls and if they find anything toxic, then they’ll get on to it, and find her in no time. Even if it’s just laxatives in the rolls, they’ll have a chat with her, make her stop it.’

‘If it is her we saw watching the house,’ said Ellie, feeling depressed. ‘And if it’s not too late to stop her trying again.’

Roy was magnanimous. ‘I’m sure it’s her. You’re usually right, Ellie.’

Ellie felt like crying, but didn’t. Now she worried that in their absence, something might have happened to Felicity. But at least Roy was wasting no time in driving straight back.

They reached Felicity’s. In their absence, she’d drawn the curtains. Roy looked longingly at the house. ‘Will you tell her, from me, that . . . you’ll know what to say.’

‘Tell her yourself.’

‘She won’t even pick up the phone when I ring.’

‘You didn’t know what to say, before. Now, you do.’

He got out of the car and walked across the road to Felicity’s front door, leaving Ellie to get out, slam the door and hope it was self-locking. Hadn’t he ever heard of locking car doors after people got out?

The door opened on the chain. Ellie was close enough to hear Roy say, ‘Marry me?’ And then the door slammed shut again.

Ellie cast her eyes up to the evening sky. What sort of proposal was that?

Roy stood there with a sick look on his face. Ellie rang the doorbell three times, and said, ‘Open up, Felicity. It’s me, Ellie. I’ll tell this big oaf to make himself scarce, shall I?’

The door opened fully. Felicity grabbed Ellie and drew her inside before slamming the door shut in Roy’s face.

Felicity was crying. Had been crying for some time. She threw herself at Ellie, sobbing. ‘She’s out there, watching me, I know it! I can’t do anything without her seeing me. Tell me what to do.’

* * *

Betty Alexis cycled back home, thinking furiously. Who was that woman in Felicity’s garden? She’d seen her before somewhere . . . ah, she had it. She’d visited Milady at the home once or twice with Felicity, keeping her company. Yesterday, too. Staying with Felicity, someone had said.

Surely she’d seen her before somewhere? Hadn’t the woman come round to view the house months ago, before the move? Calling herself . . . no, it had gone. She’d said she was looking for a house for her mother. Obviously she’d been spying the house out on behalf of Felicity. Lying and cheating, like all her cronies. They all deserved to die.

The question was: how?

It had been easy enough to kill that monster, her husband. He’d only married her to get a British passport and it hadn’t taken long for him to show his true colours, whoring and tippling . . . some sleeping pills in his bottle of wine when he went out to potter with the car had been almost enough to kill him, heavy drinker that he was. She’d waited till there was no more movement to be heard in the garage, then gone out to turn on the ignition in the car and bring down the door, jamming it shut with a couple of wedges she’d bought to keep the kitchen door from flying open.

She hadn’t expected him to move after that, but apparently he’d half come to and tried to open the door from the inside . . . and failed, luckily. She’d slept soundly that night, and removed the wedges in the morning when she went out to find him. The car had run out of fuel by that time and he was quite, quite dead. Misadventure.

She couldn’t try that again, not in the same house.

His money had lasted her a good while, though. Then she’d had to think about how to get some more, and invited her father to stay, in spite of what he’d tried to do to her after her mother died . . . well, best not think about that now.

She’d asked him to move in with her, share expenses. That way she could keep the house on. But he’d refused. Said he was settled with her younger sister, who was also a widow. Then he’d shown his true colours, taking up with the woman next door, old enough to be his mother, and three times a widow to boot. He’d even talked of marriage.

Well, she’d had to put a stop to that, hadn’t she?

It hadn’t taken much laxative to set him off with a bout of gastritis. Then his ulcer had perforated. Finish. Just as well that he’d gone back home to be nursed by his beloved Daisy before he copped it. A pity he only left Betty half his money, though, because it hadn’t lasted that long.

She couldn’t bear to lose the house, but couldn’t earn enough money to keep it. Then she’d had a stroke of luck; Daisy had a nasty fall down the stairs and Betty had gone to stay with her for a few days to look after her. She’d given Daisy every opportunity to save herself. If only Daisy had agreed to move in with her . . . but there; it was not to be. And really, sleeping pills dissolved very well in a night-time drink, didn’t they? Daisy had been so disorientated when Betty got her up in the night, saying she thought she heard a burglar . . . one little push had been all it had taken . . . arse over tip . . . screaming her head off till she lay in the hall, legs and arms all over the place, with her head at a strange angle. Dead.

Betty had screamed, too, of course. And run out into the street in her nightie, screaming that her sister had fallen down the stairs. Misadventure.

And that was where the luck had run out, because Daisy had made a will after their father died . . . could she have suspected something? . . . and left almost everything to charity. Betty had never understood how Daisy could have done that. Wasn’t blood thicker than water? What Betty did get kept her going for a while . . . and then . . . and then Sir Arthur had turned nasty and wrecked the garden and she’d made a solemn vow, with her hand on her Bible, to serve him out for what he’d done to her.

She’d tried, hadn’t she?

More sleeping pills in the pizza which the dog ate.

And the very last of them in the rolls which Paddy had eaten.

She’d thought the laburnum seeds would do the trick. The cat had died, but still Felicity lived! And what about that companion of hers, that older woman who’d stood and stared at her in the garden just now?

What was she to do about them? Answer; she must change her method, try something else. Watching the old man’s telly while she fed him the other night had given her an idea.

All it took was a waste rag, some paraffin and a couple of matches. Fire in the night. Lift the letterbox, light the rag and thrust it through into the house. Down drops the fiery rag and ignites the flooring inside. Swiftly the flames travel along the floor, up the legs of the furniture, reaching the mats, the carpets, the upholstered furniture . . . and blocking the stairs so that Felicity would not be able to escape . . . and she’d scream and scream and scream . . . and die!

If workmen had still been at the house, a fire could pass off as an accidental spark starting a blaze. As it was, a blazing rag through the letterbox could be set down to youths larking around, especially if she faked a call first to the police to complain about a fictitious gang of youngsters up to no good in the park opposite. No one would suspect her. No one knew where she lived. No one would ever connect her to a fatal fire on that side of the park.

Very well. Fire it was to be. She thought there might be a can of paraffin in the gardener’s shed. She must look it out tomorrow.