“You’ll need to ask the organizers who was there. I went off to walk round the other displays.”

“Where do Mrs. Cranton and Mrs. Glarely live?”

“On either side of the pub in the main street. Mrs. Glarely on the near side and Mrs. Cranton on the far side.”

“If you can think of anything at all that might help, please phone me,” said Agatha, handing over her card.

Outside, Toni asked, “Why all the questions about George?”

“He was in the tent at the beginning,” said Agatha defensively.

“I’ve been thinking,” said Toni, “it wouldn’t take much effort to slide some LSD into the jam. It’s a clear liquid. Instead of tabs of the stuff, someone could have had a small flask concealed in the palm of their hand. There are too many suspects. How are we ever going to find out who did it?”

“We’ll just need to push on.” Agatha took the wheel this time, but as they were approaching the vicarage, she saw George going in and slammed on the brakes.

“Toni, I think it would be a good idea if you could go ahead and interview these ladies on your own. I want to check something with the vicar.”

And she’s just seen George going in to the vicarage, thought Toni. She really is in pursuit of that man. Aloud, she said cheerfully, “Just park the car. I’ll walk.”

When Toni had left, Agatha got a bag of make-up out of the glove compartment and repaired her face and brushed her hair.

The vicarage door was open. She walked in, hearing the sound of voices coming from the back of the house. Through the kitchen window she saw, to her dismay, not only George and the vicar and his wife but Charles Fraith. They were sitting round a garden table under the shade of a cedar tree, chatting animatedly. Trixie Chance had turned into a blonde. Her long hair fell in golden waves to her shoulders. Where the hell did she get a dye job like that done on a Sunday? wondered Agatha. And blast and damn Charles.