Agatha’s hair-style was much admired. “ Where did you go?” asked Mrs. Friendly, a plump, cheerful woman who usually lived up to her name. She was a relative newcomer to the village and hailed as an antidote to that other relative newcomer, Mrs. Dairy, who was nibbling a piece of cake with rabbitlike concentration.

“Mr. John in Evesham,” said Agatha.

To her surprise, Mrs. Friendly’s face creased up like that of a hurt baby. “I wouldn’t go there,” she said, lowering her voice to a whisper.

“Why?” Agatha stared rudely at Mrs. Friendly’s hair, which was a mousy brown and hanging in damp wisps round her hot face.

“Nothing,” muttered Mr. Friendly. “One hears stories.”

“About Mr. John?”

“Yes.”

“What stories?”

“Must talk to Mrs. Bloxby.” Mrs. Friendly moved away.

Agatha stared after her and then shrugged. She was joined by Miss Simms, Carsely’s unmarried mother and secretary of the society. “You look drop-dead gorgeous, Mrs. Raisin.” Agatha had long ago given up asking other members to call her by her first name. They all seemed to enjoy the old-fashioned formality of second names. Miss Simms was wearing a brief pair of shorts with a halter-top and her usual spiked heels. “Where did you go?”

“Mr. John in Evesham.”

“Oh, I went there once to get my hair done. I was bridesmaid at my sister Glad’s wedding. He did it ever so pretty, but I didn’t like him.”

“Why?”

“Awful patronizing, he was. Gushed around the richer customers.”

Agatha shrugged. “It doesn’t really matter what a hairdresser’s like, does it?”

“To me it does. I mean to say, I don’t like anyone I don’t like touching me.”

The meeting was called to order. They were to give one of their concerts over at Ancombe. Agatha’s heart sank. Ladies’ Society concerts were truly awful, long evenings of shrill singing and bad sketches.

Mrs. Dairy piped up, her eyes gleaming in her ferrety face. She was wearing a tweed skirt, blouse and tweed jacket but seemed unaffected by the heat. “Why doesn’t Mrs. Raisin ever volunteer to do anything?”