Next call. “I want to speak to Betsy Wilson.”

Toni stood frozen. Betsy Wilson was a famous pop singer. “Tell her it’s Agatha Raisin. Hullo, Betsy, dear, remember me? I want you to open a village fête next Saturday. I know you have a busy schedule, but I also happen to know you are between gigs. The press will all be there. Good for your image. Lady-of-the-manor bit. Large hat, floaty dress, gracious-come on, girl, by the time I’m finished with you I’ll have you engaged to Prince William. Yes, you come along and I’ll see if I can get the prince.” Agatha then charged on to tell Betsy to arrive at two o’clock and to give her directions to Comfrey Magna.

“Thick as two planks,” muttered Agatha, “but she’s coming.”

“But she’s famous!” gasped Toni. “Why should she come?”

“Her career was sinking after that drugs bust,” said Agatha. “I did a freelance job and got her going again.”

She picked up the phone again. “News desk? Forget about the healthy food. Better story. Fête is to be opened by Betsy Wilson. Yes. I thought that would make you sit up.”

Toni waited until Agatha had finished the call and asked, “Can you really get Prince William?”

“Of course not, but that dumb cow thinks I’m capable of anything.”

At dinner on the Wednesday night, only Trixie Chance greeted Agatha’s news that Betsy Wilson was to open the fête with delight. George Selby said anxiously, “But the village will be overrun by teenagers and press. It’ll be a disaster.”

Agatha felt panicky. She now had the nationals coming as well as the local newspapers.