George Selby had to admit to himself that it looked as if the day was going to be a success. Betsy Wilson was a rare pop singer in that she appealed to families as well as teenagers. He also had to admit that had she not arrived to open the fête, only a few people would have attended. What was considered the height of the fête was the tasting to find the best home-made jam. Little dishes of jam were laid out, and people tasted each and then dropped a note of their favourite in a ballot box.
The sun shone from a cloudless sky on the beauty of spring. It had been a cold, damp early spring, and now, with the sudden heat and good weather, it seemed as if everything had blossomed at once: cherry and lilac, wisteria and hawthorn and all the glory of the fruit trees in the orchards around the village.
Betsy Wilson, in a gauzy dress decorated with roses, made a short speech, clasped her hands and sang her latest hit, “Every Other Sunday.” It was a haunting ballad. Her clear young voice floated up to the Cotswold hills. Even the hardened pressmen stood silently.
She sang two more ballads, finished by singing “Amazing Grace,” and then was hustled into a stretch limo by her personal security guard. The band which had accompanied her packed up and left, to be replaced by the village band.
Then Toni, who was with Agatha, tugged her sleeve and said, “That’s odd.”
“What’s odd?” asked Agatha.
“Look at all those teenagers queuing outside the jam tent.”
“Really? If I thought it was going to be such a popular event, I’d have charged an extra admission fee.”
“Could someone be peddling drugs inside that tent?” asked Toni.
“Why?”
“Some of the people coming out look stoned.”
Agatha was about to walk towards the tent when she heard screams and commotion coming from over by the church. People were pointing upwards. A woman was standing at the top of the square Norman tower, her arms outstretched. As Agatha ran over to the church, followed by Toni, she heard someone say, “It’s old Mrs. Andrews. Her said something about how her could fly.”