“Mrs. Raisin-”

“Agatha, please.”

“Agatha. I myself was out at dawn checking all the marquees and making sure they were secure. I hoped you might have some hard news, but all this is the same old speculation.”

We forgive beauty such a lot, thought Agatha suddenly. If he was a little balding man with thick glasses, I might get a bit tetchy.

“But this is the way cases are solved!” she said. “You talk and talk and turn it over. The main clues are often in the characters of the suspects. What about Trixie?”

He threw back his head and laughed. “Trixie! Really, Agatha. That is just too far-fetched.”

“Why?” demanded Agatha stubbornly.

“Because she is a charming lady and the vicar’s wife.”

He looked quite cross, so Agatha hurried on. “What about the organizers? Mrs. Glarely and Mrs. Cranton?”

“Innocent ladies. Do a lot of good work in the village. Nothing sinister there.”

Agatha sighed. “Can you think of anyone at all?”

“Somehow, I think it must be one of the outsiders.”

“But none of the visitors had any opportunity.”

“They may have.”

“The thing I must find out,” said Agatha, “is when exactly Mrs. Andrews and Mrs. Jessop sampled the jam. My assistant, Toni, tried to talk to the organizers, but their husbands chased her off. Now if you were to ask them…?”

He suddenly smiled. Agatha blinked at him, dazzled.

“There’s no time like the present. Why don’t we drive over there and I’ll see what I can do.”

Agatha felt elated as they drove off in George’s BMW. As his car purred through the Cotswold lanes, she felt the countryside had never looked more beautiful.

At Comfrey Magna, George drove straight along the main street and parked outside Mrs. Cranton’s home. Mr. Cranton answered the door. He was a small waspish elderly man. “Evening, Mr. Selby. The missus is right upset.”