Bill knew Agatha’s baking was bad, to say the least. He looked doubtful. “Go on,” urged Agatha. “They’re awfully good.”

“All right.”

Agatha put a scone on a plate and then put butter and jam in front of him.

Bill bit into it cautiously. It was delicious, as light as a feather. “You’ve really excelled yourself, Agatha,” he said.

And Agatha, who had received the scones as a gift from Mrs. Bloxby, smiled sweetly at him. “You’ll never believe how domesticated I’ve become. Oh, there’s the doorbell.”

She hurried to open the door, hoping it would not be Paul Chatterton who might start talking about their planned vigil at the haunted house. But it was Mrs. Bloxby.

“Come in,” said Agatha. “Bill’s here.” She hoped Bill had finished that scone.

But to her horror, as she entered the kitchen with Mrs. Bloxby, Bill said, “I wouldn’t mind another of those scones, Agatha.”

“Oh, do you like them?” asked Mrs. Bloxby. “I gave Mrs. Raisin some this morning because I’d made too many.”

“Coffee?” Agatha asked the vicar’s wife.

“Not for me. The attendance at the ladies’ society is not very good, so I called round to make sure you would be at it this evening.”

“I can’t,” said Agatha, aware of Bill’s amused eyes on her face.

“Why not?”

“I’ve got to see a man about some PR work.”

“Working again so soon? I thought you wanted a quiet summer.”

“Oh, well, it’s just a little job.”

“What is it this time? Fashion?”

“It’s a new anti-wrinkle face cream.”

“Really? Do you think those creams work?”

“I don’t know,” said Agatha loudly. “It’s all too boring. Can we talk about something else?”

There was a silence. Agatha felt her face turning red.

“You’re getting quite a name for yourself in the village,” teased Mrs. Bloxby. “It’s all over the place that you and Paul Chatterton are an item.”

“Nonsense.”