“It appears as if your plum jam had the most LSD in it,” said Agatha.

“These are gorgeous,” exclaimed Roy, examining a bench laden with coffee cups, bowls and vases, all in beautiful coloured glazes. “You could sell them at the top shops in London.”

“I already do,” said Maggie.

“Really? How much is this bowl?”

“About two hundred pounds.”

“Blimey,” said Roy. “You should have a flat in Kensington instead of living in this poky cottage.”

“We are perfectly happy living in this village, thank you. Or rather, we were before a serpent called Agatha Raisin came into our lives.”

Agatha said loudly, “Can we get to the point? Why had your jam got such a lot of the drug in it?”

“Blessed if I know. Maybe it was the first to hand. I mean, if someone was trying to drug people, they wouldn’t be too careful about delicately measuring out the drops. Now would they?”

All Agatha’s resentment and dislike of Trixie switched to these two women. She suddenly wished the murderer would turn out to be one of them, or both. She felt like throwing some sort of bomb into what she damned as their smug, patronizing lives.

Phyllis, who had been standing behind Agatha, said, “Perhaps you should go back to murder number one.”

Agatha swung round. “Mrs. Andrews?”

“No, Sarah Selby.”

“Why her?”

“Well, dear George was in need of funds, Sarah Selby was heavily insured. Sybilla Triast-Perkins was besotted with George. Work it out.”

“I don’t think it has anything to do with this case,” said Agatha.

“Why?”

“Mr. George Selby seems genuinely to be grieving the death of his wife.”

“That’s what he would like everyone to think.”

Agatha was exasperated. “Have you any proof?”

“Just intuition. I am not dazzled by George’s green eyes the way you seem to be.”

“I am a hard-working detective. I am not dazzled by anyone. I’ve been trying to find out why Maggie’s jam sample seems to have contained the most of the drug.”