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“But who else could have had a chance to take the bottle away?”

“Joyce said when she heard Smedley dying, she screamed and screamed and everyone came running. It would be the one place that still has their milk delivered in bottles. The milk comes from an old-fashioned dairy in Gloucester.”

“Did you tell Mrs. Smedley that her husband was having an affair with Joyce?”

“Yes. She says she knew nothing about it.”

There came a hammering from the front door of the house and then the sounds of an angry altercation.

“I’d better go and see what’s happening,” said Bill.

“The food you threw into the neighbour’s garden,” said Agatha. “I bet that’s what it’s about.”

“Let’s run away.”

“We can’t.”

‘Think of the fury of Mrs. Wong.”

They ran down the garden from the conservatory and out into a field at the back.

“My car’s parked a little way down the road,” panted Agatha. “I think we can reach it without Bill seeing us.”

They climbed over a fence at the side of the field and down a lane which led to the front of the houses.

“Right!” said Agatha. “I’ve got the keys ready. Let’s run for it.”

But as they reached the car, Bill Wong emerged from the other side of it and stood with his arms folded.

“You’re a disgrace!” he said. Agatha had never seen him so angry.

“It’s my fault,” said Charles. “I think I’ve got an ulcer. I didn’t want to hurt your mother’s feelings.”

“You have not only hurt her, you’ve humiliated her.”

“We’ll go back and apologize,” said Agatha.

“No, go on your way. I’m sick of the sight of you.”

Agatha drove off. A tear began to roll down her cheek, followed by another.

“Hey!” said Charles. “Stop the car. I’ll drive.”

They changed places and Charles drove off. “He was my first friend,” sobbed Agatha.

“We’ll stop in Mircester and send the old bat some flowers and a note of apology.”

“Won’t work.” Agatha suddenly brightened. “But I know what might. Stop in the main square outside police headquarters. There’s something in a shop down The Shambles which has something that might do the trick.”

“Surely it won’t be open on Sunday.”

“Some of the shops are open. I think this one will be.”

“You mean that?” asked Charles fifteen minutes later as they both stood looking in a shop window.

“She’ll love it,” said Agatha. “Trust me.”

What so horrified Charles was a cylindrical plastic floor lamp in which golden bubbles rose and fell along with tiny plastic sea horses in jewelled colours.

They went into the shop and Agatha explained she wanted to buy it and have it delivered immediately.

“I haven’t anyone to deliver it today,” said the sales assistant.

“I tell you what; just wrap it up and give me a gift card. I’ll send it out in a taxi.”

Agatha paid while Charles wrote a card of apology. They carried the box with the lamp in it over to the taxi rank and paid a driver to take it to Bill’s home.

“I hope you know what you’re doing,” said Charles. “That lamp might turn out to be adding insult to injury.”

“Let’s go and visit Mrs. Bloxby. Haven’t seen her in a while.”

They saw Mrs. Bloxby walking along the main street, stopped the car and hailed her.

“How are you getting on?” asked the vicar’s wife. ‘1 was just going home for a cup of tea. Care to join me?”

“Get in the car,” said Charles cheerfully, “and we’ll all go together.”

In the vicarage sitting room, while Mrs. Bloxby went to fetch tea, Agatha relaxed and looked around her. She could never quite understand why Mrs. Bloxby’s shabby sitting room should have such peaceful charm compared to her own. Everything was worn and parts of the silk cushions on the sofa were showing signs of splitting. There was a small round table by the window holding a blue jug of wildflowers and bits of chipped antique furniture in comers of the room. But somehow it created a harmonious whole.

Mrs. Bloxby came back with the tea things and a plate of shortbread. “How is this business about Mr. Smedley’s murder going?” she asked.

Agatha proceeded to tell her everything they had found