And having delivered herself of that bombshell, Mrs. Bloxby hurried off.

“Snakes and bastards,” muttered Agatha, fleeing upstairs again. “Can’t be anything in it.”

But her anticipation and excitement over the evening ahead had dwindled somewhat. She knew she had the reputation of being a very rich woman. She would see. If George started suggesting that he could remodel her cottage, she would be prepared.

By seven o’clock, Agatha was ready for her visitor dressed in a very short skirt, sheer stockings, white silk blouse and very high heels.

When she opened the door to George, she found to her dismay that he was casually dressed in an open-necked striped shirt, well-worn sports jacket and chinos. She invited him into her sitting room, fixed him the whisky he requested, poured a gin and tonic for herself, and then wondered where to sit. She should never have worn stockings with a short skirt. If she sat on the sofa or armchair, her skirt would ride up, exposing stocking tops. Agatha settled for a seat on a hard upright chair.

George sat on the sofa and cradled his drink in his hands. “This is a bad business,” he said moodily. “Any suspects?”

“At the moment, there’s just one,” said Agatha.

“Who?”

“Sybilla Triast-Perkins.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Sybilla wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“She was in the tent before the exhibition was officially open. Her marmalade was one of the ones we know was laced with LSD.”

“I was in the tent as well. She did not go near the jam.”

“Wait a bit! We’re forgetting the tent was empty. They set it up at six in the morning and then went off for breakfast! Anyone in the village could have sneaked in then. I know they had pinned cloths down over the jam, but it would be so easy to lift the cloths and put the LSD into the jam.”