which the television stations and national newspapers had heard about too late to film or photograph. Agatha hinted darkly at fears of an almighty punch-up on the day of the fgte, painting an alarming picture of sweet little children sent flying by protesters, and village ladies screaming in fright. Interest in the fete was reanimated to such an extent that Agatha thought at times it might be a good idea to pay the protesters herself to turn up.
By the end of her week, she felt she had done very well, only to receive a set-back just as she was preparing to leave. Jane Harris, the film star who was to open the fete, would not attend. Her agent phoned to say that Ms Harris had read the reports of the murder at Ancombe and the demonstrations and she sympathized with the demonstrators, as she considered English rural life should be protected.
'The silly bitch lives between Chelsea and L.A.,' howled Agatha.
The agent hung up on her.
I'm losing my touch, thought Agatha miserably. Now who do I get? It had better be someone good or the Freemonts will be cancelling my contract.
The phone rang. It was Mrs Bloxby, the vicar's wife. 'How did you get my number?' asked Agatha.
'You left it with me, don't you remember? How are things?'
'Not very well. I have to stay on. Jane Harris has cancelled. I haven't told the water company yet. I need to get a replacement.'
There was a long silence.
'Are you still there?' Agatha demanded.
'I'm thinking.'
Agatha sighed. She was very fond of the vicar's wife, but how on earth could she help?
'I have it,' said Mrs Bloxby.
'What?' asked Agatha.
'The Pretty Girls.'
'Who are they when they're at home?'
Mrs Bloxby laughed. 'I never expected to be more up in the world than you. They are a pop group. Number one on the hit parade. They are a new type of pop singer. Very pretty, and wear old-fashioned clothes. They do a lot for charity. Who gets the money from the rete?'
'The water company, I suppose.'
'If you say the money is going to help AIDS--The Pretty Girls support that--I think if they are free, they would do it. They would be a big crowd-puller. They also support animal liberation, so their presence at the fete will give it respectability with environmental groups.'
'You're a genius,' said Agatha. 'I'll get on to it right away.'
Some hard phoning later and Agatha to her delight had secured the presence of The Pretty Girls. She then phoned the water company in Mir-cester and was put through to Peter Freemont.
'I don't think Jane Harris is the right person,' said Agatha, proceeding to lie. She felt that Jane Harris turning down the fete reflected badly on her business abilities. 'So I secured The Pretty Girls.'
'You're brilliant, Agatha. How on earth did you get them to come?'
'We'll contribute the money from the fete to AIDS.'
'After deductions for the costs?'
'Of course.'
'I just don't know how you do it. They're number one on the hit parade.'
'I know.' Agatha felt uncomfortable at not giving Mrs Bloxby any credit for the idea, but it was a hard world and she did not want to admit she had never heard of the pop group, Agatha's interest in pop groups having stopped when she retired and gave up representing some of them.
She found out afterwards that The Pretty Girls had risen to fame in one meteoric month and felt better about being so behind the times. She then stayed on in London anyway to make the rounds with this new information, this time choosing journalists from the entertainment pages.
Agatha had also secured the attendance of old Lord Pendlebury, a local peer, to give away the prizes at a children's talent competition.
By the time she travelled back to Carsely, she felt she was on the brink of pulling off the biggest public relations coup of her career.
The weather in July was perfect, one sunny day following another. Agatha kept herself busy. She had resolved to end the affair with Guy, but each cold, hard look from James, when she crossed his path, sent her straight back into Guy's ever-ready company. She hated the age difference. She had completed her delayed appointments with the beautician, and still felt all the strain of keeping up appearances. She found she kept studying women of her own age, anxious to avoid wearing the sort of clothes that middle-aged women wore, such as the aforementioned velvet trouser suits. In fact, decided Agatha, unless the middle-aged figure was slim and youthful-looking, all trouser suits were out. And those striped French sailor sweaters. Sign of a skittish, middle-aged woman. Noel Coward's Mrs Wentworth-Brewster.
But at least all the worries about ageing and all the arrangements for the fete kept her very busy and James was centred somewhere deep inside her, a little dark ache, but nothing more.
The golden days moved into August. Murder and the non-existence of a white Persian cat were forgotten. There were no more anti-spring demonstrations.
Finally it was the eve of the fete. Agatha returned with Roy from patrolling the site, checking the marquees, going over all the arrangements. The weather forecast was doubtful. Showers were expected but not due to arrive until the following evening, when the fete would be all over.
Agatha and Roy sat out in the garden of her cottage with tall, cold drinks. 'Anyone been trying to get hold of you?' asked Roy lazily.
'I'd better go in and check the Call Minder,' said Agatha. 'In a minute,'
'So you and James are definitely finished?'
'It was all over a long time ago. I don't want to talk about it. I'll go and check for messages.'
Agatha went in and dialled her code. How many times had she dialled those digits, hoping to hear a message from James. 'You have three messages,' said the prissy voice. 'Do you want to hear them?'
'Yes,' said Agatha. It was no use shouting, 'Of course I want to hear them, you stupid bitch,' because the computer rejected insults.
The first message was from Robina Toynbee. She sounded strained. 'Please phone me, Mrs Raisin. It is very important.'
The second message was from Portia, the Freemonts's elegant secretary. She did not like Agatha and her voice was thin and cold. 'Please liaise with Mr Peter at the management tent at nine a.m.'
The third message was from The Pretty Girls' agent. 'Disaster, isn't it? Of course they won't be there. Can you believe it? How could they destroy success just like that?'
Agatha looked up the agent's office number, but got the 'engaged' signal. She called to Roy. 'I can't make head or tail of a message from Carol, The Pretty Girls' agent, and her line's engaged. She says they won't be there and they've destroyed their success.'
'Put on the television. It's near the hour.'.
Agatha put on Sky, and they sat down in front of it, both of them with their backs rigid and their eyes staring at the screen.
It was the very first news item. Police had raided a house in Fulham where The Pretty Girls had been giving a party and had seized large quantities of Ecstasy, heroin, uppers and pot. Pretty Girl Sue, the leader of the group, had been found stuffed in a cupboard, unconscious from an overdose. Then followed a brief history of the pop group, whose fame had been built up on their clean family image.
'What'll we do?' said Agatha, her face white. 'We can't get anyone else at this late date.'
'We're stuck with Lord Pendlebury,' said Roy.
'But don't you see what this means?' howled Agatha. 'The press will not turn up, not the nationals, only the locals. I didn't bother a last-minute chase-up of the press because of The Pretty Girls. We'd better start now. What do I say?'
'Christ knows,' said Roy. 'Hint at another murder. Hint at a demonstration.'
Agatha began to phone up every newspaper and television station. She said things like, 'I hope those
