Mr. Glarely was a tall thin man with an old face marred by a lifetime of discontent. “S’pose you’d better talk to the wife,” he said reluctantly.

Another front parlour. Mrs. Glarely was drinking a clear liquid, which, from the smell, Agatha judged to be neat gin. She gave them a bleary glance. She looked like a twin of Mrs. Cranton-grey hair, tightly permed, wrinkled face, pale eyes.

George explained what they had learned from her friend and then asked, “So when you were both leaving after setting up the exhibits, did you see anyone about?”

But Mrs. Glarely had only seen Miss Corrie at the tombola stand.

“I suppose we’d better call on Fred Corrie,” said George when they left the Glarelys’ cottage.

“I thought she was a Miss Corrie.”

“Oh, Fred’s her name. Short for Frederica. Great sport.”

Agatha groaned inwardly. She pictured a sturdy, hearty woman with a tweedy brain. “Just a few doors along,” said George.

But the woman who answered the door was elfin, something straight out of The Lord of the Rings. She had long silvery straight hair, a sweet face and a perfect figure shown off to advantage in a clinging dress of white Indian muslin.

She stood on tiptoe and kissed George on the cheek. “Do come in. Who is this?”

George introduced Agatha. Fred led them through her cottage to where a large conservatory had been built on the back. It was furnished with cane-backed chairs and sofas with plump cushions. A few exotic-looking plants rose up out of ceramic pots.

It was very quiet except for the evening song of a blackbird perched on a lilac tree in the garden outside.

“I wonder if you can help us,” said George. “Mrs. Raisin here is trying to find out who doctored the jam. You were up very early setting up the tombola stand. Did you see anyone?”