“You’ve really got your knife into the vicar’s wife. Why?”
Agatha shrugged. “I can’t help feeling she deliberately poured lemonade over those papers.”
“Well, let’s call at the vicarage and find out.”
At the vicarage, Arthur Chance greeted them with surprise, and to their questions he answered that, yes, the papers had dried quickly and George Selby had just left to take them to the accountant.
“So there you are,” said Roy cheerfully as they walked back through the village. “Who’s George Selby?”
“Just one of the parishioners. Here we are. Brace yourself to meet Maggie Tubby and Phyllis Tolling.”
Phyllis answered the door. “Oh, it’s you again,” she said. “Who’s this? The office boy?”
“Roy Silver is a friend of mine,” snapped Agatha. “We want to talk to Maggie.”
“Come in and get it over with. She’s in her shed in the garden.”
They followed her through the cottage into the garden and to a large shed at the end. The door was open and Maggie could be seen working at a potter’s wheel. When she saw them, Maggie switched off the wheel, leaving an as yet unshaped lump of clay on it.
She looked amused. “What now?”
“It appears as if your plum jam had the most LSD in it,” said Agatha.
“These are gorgeous,” exclaimed Roy, examining a bench laden with coffee cups, bowls and vases, all in beautiful coloured glazes. “You could sell them at the top shops in London.”
“I already do,” said Maggie.
“Really? How much is this bowl?”
“About two hundred pounds.”
“Blimey,” said Roy. “You should have a flat in Kensington instead of living in this poky cottage.”
“We are perfectly happy living in this village, thank you. Or rather, we were before a serpent called Agatha Raisin came into our lives.”
Agatha said loudly, “Can we get to the point? Why had your jam got such a lot of the drug in it?”
“Blessed if I know. Maybe it was the first to hand. I mean, if someone was trying to drug people, they wouldn’t be too careful about delicately measuring out the drops. Now would they?”
All Agatha’s resentment and dislike of Trixie switched to these two women. She suddenly wished the murderer would turn out to be one of them, or both. She felt like throwing some sort of bomb into what she damned as their smug, patronizing lives.
Phyllis, who had been standing behind Agatha, said, “Perhaps you should go back to murder number one.”
Agatha swung round. “Mrs. Andrews?”
“No, Sarah Selby.”
“Why her?”
“Well, dear George was in need of funds, Sarah Selby was heavily insured. Sybilla Triast-Perkins was besotted with George. Work it out.”
“I don’t think it has anything to do with this case,” said Agatha.
“Why?”
“Mr. George Selby seems genuinely to be grieving the death of his wife.”
“That’s what he would like everyone to think.”
Agatha was exasperated. “Have you any proof?”
“Just intuition. I am not dazzled by George’s green eyes the way you seem to be.”
“I am a hard-working detective. I am not dazzled by anyone. I’ve been trying to find out why Maggie’s jam sample seems to have contained the most of the drug.”
“Then find out who did it and you’ll get your answer. Please leave.”
Toni was at that moment walking slowly home, feeling that at her age she ought to have a date for Saturday evening.
She heard herself being hailed and swung round. Harry Beam, Agatha’s former young detective, came running up to meet her. “How are things?” he asked.
“I suppose they’re pretty much what they were when you were working for Agatha,” said Toni, “except for the village drugging case.”
“I’d like to hear about that. Got time for a drink?”
“Sure. There’s a pub over there. But it’ll be noisy. I tell you what, come up to my place. We could buy some beer at the corner shop.”
Soon they were ensconced in Toni’s flat. After throwing out the shabby bits of furniture that had come with the flat, Toni had set about buying her own. It was a pleasant mixture of cheap assemble-it-yourself pieces and two Victorian and Edwardian ones that Toni had picked up at junk shops. A Victorian wide-seated chair was covered in chintz to disguise the fact that it had only three legs, with a sawed-down broom handle making up the missing fourth. The Edwardian bureau had water damage but had been polished to a high shine to hide its deficiencies. The only new item was a small two-seater sofa, sold cheap because it was in a brilliant shade of purple.
“This is nice,” said Harry, looking around.
