“That’s different. Everyone likes Mrs. Bloxby.”

The door was opened by Trixie. She was wearing a white-lace vintage morning dress. Agatha’s expert eye, honed by working in the past for various couture houses, estimated it was genuine and must have cost a mint.

“Lovely dress,” said Agatha. “Your husband at home?”

“Yes, go through to the garden.”

They followed her. Trixie’s blonde hair flowed down her back. She’s really rather sexy in a feral way, thought Agatha. Without that dress and hair, she wouldn’t get far in the attraction stakes with her mean features.

The vicar was seated at a garden table under the shade of a cedar tree with the accountant, Arnold Birntweather. Mr. Chance looked up and saw Agatha. The sun flashed on his thick glasses as Agatha and Roy approached, giving him a blind look.

“Welcome!” he cried. “We’re just going over the accounts.”

Agatha introduced Roy. “Sit down,” urged the vicar. “We are just deciding who gets what out of the money. We cannot take it all for the church when there are so many needy charities.”

Trixie appeared, carrying a tray with a jug of lemonade and glasses.

Agatha said, “I forgot to introduce Roy to you, Trixie. This is a friend of mine, Roy Silver.”

Trixie cast Roy an amused look. Agatha could only be glad that Roy had changed into a conservative shirt and trousers. She had already put Trixie down as a bitch.

Trixie set down the tray and then put an arm around Arnold’s bent shoulders. “Stop fussing over the accounts on such a lovely day,” she cooed.

Arnold smiled but said, “They’ve got to be done.”

“Oh, nonsense, have some lemonade.”

Arnold let out a cry as Trixie poured lemonade over the account papers.

“I’m so very sorry,” said Trixie. “Here. I’ll take them away and dry them.”

Agatha noticed a washing line at the end of the garden. “We could peg them up on the washing line,” she said. “They’d be dry in no time. Has the writing been washed away?”