“We were there earlier,” said Agatha.

“Was Mrs. Chance wearing a lace gown?”

“Yes, she was.”

“Now that is too bad of her. That was one of my grandmother’s gowns. I lent it to her for amateur theatricals, to be worn carefully onstage but not around the house. I shall go and get it back now. I should never have lent it to her.”

Miss Triast-Perkins tottered off on a pair on unsuitable high-heeled sandals.

“Now, what have I done?” said Agatha gloomily.

“Maybe it’s the vicar.”

“Maybe it’s just Arnold’s eyesight,” said Agatha. “I should have gone over the books with him. I wonder if those papers have been collected off the washing line, or Trixie’s found some way to destroy them.”

“You’ve really got your knife into the vicar’s wife. Why?”

Agatha shrugged. “I can’t help feeling she deliberately poured lemonade over those papers.”

“Well, let’s call at the vicarage and find out.”

At the vicarage, Arthur Chance greeted them with surprise, and to their questions he answered that, yes, the papers had dried quickly and George Selby had just left to take them to the accountant.

“So there you are,” said Roy cheerfully as they walked back through the village. “Who’s George Selby?”

“Just one of the parishioners. Here we are. Brace yourself to meet Maggie Tubby and Phyllis Tolling.”

Phyllis answered the door. “Oh, it’s you again,” she said. “Who’s this? The office boy?”

“Roy Silver is a friend of mine,” snapped Agatha. “We want to talk to Maggie.”

“Come in and get it over with. She’s in her shed in the garden.”

They followed her through the cottage into the garden and to a large shed at the end. The door was open and Maggie could be seen working at a potter’s wheel. When she saw them, Maggie switched off the wheel, leaving an as yet unshaped lump of clay on it.

She looked amused. “What now?”