“Odd name.”
“Probably was the Green Man at one time.”
“Where have all the press gone?” asked Agatha.
“The police decided they were interfering with the investigation and banished them from the village and they have stopped any more entering.”
_____________
Toni had failed to get anything out of either Mrs. Glarely or Mrs. Cranton. At both addresses she was told by their husbands to “get lost.” She wandered back down the village street in the sunshine.
Men were dismantling the marquees which had held the exhibits. She stood watching as they took down the jam tent. As the canvas collapsed, something small and glittering in the sunlight rolled out from the folds and lay on the grass. Toni ran forward. It was a small glass phial.
“Stop!” she screamed at the workers. “Evidence. Stop! Get the police.”
The door of the mobile police unit opened and Bill Wong came out. “Over here, Bill,” yelled Toni.
Bill ran to join her and Toni pointed to the phial on the grass. Bill put on a pair of latex gloves, took out an evidence bag, carefully lifted up the phial and popped it in the bag.
“Why didn’t we see that before?” he asked.
“It fell out of the canvas when they were taking the marquee down,” said Toni.
“You’d best come back with me and make a statement. Don’t let Collins fluster you. She’ll probably suggest you put it there yourself!”
Chapter Three
TRIXIE’S QUITE ATTRACTIVE,” commented Charles as he and Agatha walked along the village street.
“If you like ageing hippies,” said Agatha waspishly.
“She has beautiful hair, you must admit that. Like Rapunzel?”
“Who?” demanded Agatha. Fairy stories had not been part of her deprived childhood.
“Never mind. Who’s this George character?”
“Just some villager who was helping out with the fete,” said Agatha casually, aware of Charles’s searching eyes on her face.
“Single?”
“Widower.”
“Aha!”
“Aha what?”
“You’re off again.”
“I don’t know what you mean. There’s the pub. It looks like a converted shop. No wonder I didn’t notice it before.”
“And here’s Rose Cottage. Ring the bell.”
“There isn’t one.”
“So knock the knocker.”
Agatha seized the brass knocker in the shape of a lion’s head with a ring in its mouth and rapped hard.
A lace curtain beside the left-hand window twitched. Agatha waited impatiently for what she envisaged as a couple of elderly spinsters.
The door opened and a young woman stood there, hands thrust into a pair of worn jeans. She had a round rosy face and glasses and short hair in a gamine cut.
“Yes?”
“I’m looking for Miss Tubby and Miss Tolling,” said Agatha.
“I’m Maggie Tubby. What do you want?”
“My name is Agatha Raisin. This is Sir Charles Fraith. I am a private detective who has been asked by your vicar to investigate what happened at the fete. I would like to ask you a few questions.”
“You’d better come in. We’re in the garden.”
She led the way through the small cottage to a long garden at the back where a woman was weeding. “Phyllis!” called Maggie. “Visitors.”
Phyllis straightened up and stood wiping her hands. Agatha guessed she was in her thirties. She was tall with prematurely grey hair and a catlike face. What a lot of grey hair there is around this place, thought Agatha. Do they never think of getting their hair tinted?
Maggie explained the reason for the visit. Phyllis indicated a garden table and chairs. “Let’s sit down,” she said.
“I gather you both contributed jam to the tasting,” said Agatha.
“Yes, plum jam. It’s our speciality.”
