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said. ‘Upstairs with me. I’m going to make your face up.’
    ‘But I never wear make-up. Jerry doesn’t like me wearing make-up.’
    ‘I think your trouble is you always do what Jerry wants. Upstairs.’
    Agatha deftly worked on Polly’s face – foundation cream, powder, blusher, mascara, eyeshadow and lipstick. ‘There!’ she said at last. ‘You look more like a human being.’
    She jerked open her wardrobe door and took out a black dress. ‘Pop this on. What size of shoes do you wear?’
    ‘Fives. But –’
    ‘You need heels. Nothing like heels to give you confidence. Get a move on.’
    Amy, used to bending to any will stronger than her own, meekly put on the little black dress and a pair of high-heeled shoes. Agatha put some gold jewellery round her neck. ‘Now, straighten your shoulders. Right. Great. Forward march!’
    Harriet and Polly were waiting outside the pub. ‘You look glamorous, Amy,’ said Harriet. This was a wild exaggeration, but had the effect of making Amy smile with delight.
    ‘Here we go,’ said Agatha Raisin and pushed open the door.
    Behind the bar, in the low, smoky room full of men, Rosie Wilden glowed like a jewel. She was wearing a soft white chiffon blouse with a plunging neckline.
    Agatha found a table in a corner for her new friends. Silence had fallen at their entrance and the silence continued as Agatha walked to the bar and said to Rosie Wilden, ‘Have you any champagne?’
    ‘I do indeed, Mrs Raisin.’
    ‘Two bottles,’ ordered Agatha. ‘That’s for starters.’
    ‘Big occasion?’
    ‘Yes, my birthday,’ lied Agatha.
    She returned through the still silent men to the table. ‘Our husbands are glaring at us,’ whispered Amy. ‘That’s the three of them, over at the bar.’
    ‘Good,’ said Agatha. ‘Now when the champagne arrives, I want you all to sing “Happy Birthday to You”.’
    ‘Is it your birthday?’ asked Polly.
    ‘No, but they don’t know that and you don’t want to look as if you’ve come in to check on them.’
    Rosie Wilden came round the bar with a tray of glasses. Then she turned and shouted, ‘Barry, could you be a love and bring the bottles and ice bucket over here?’
    Agatha’s gardener came up with the bottles and ice bucket. He was not overwhelmingly handsome, but, decided Agatha, he was the best-looking man in the pub. ‘Barry,’ cried Agatha. ‘Do join us. It’s my birthday.’
    Barry grinned and shuffled his feet. ‘I’m with me two mates.’
    ‘Bring them over. We’d better have two more bottles, Mrs Wilden.’
    Barry returned with his two friends and they crammed in round the table. Rosie deftly opened the first bottle. To Agatha’s delight, Barry, unprompted, began to sing ‘Happy Birthday to You’ in a strong baritone. He was joined by his friends, and then Harriet, Polly and Amy joined in.
    ‘You have a lovely voice, Barry,’ said Agatha. ‘Know anything else?’
    Barry, who had been already well oiled before he started on the champagne, got to his feet and proceeded to give them an Elvis Presley impersonation, ‘Jailhouse Rock’, complete with gyrating hips and pretend guitar.
    The three women, aware of their glaring husbands over by the bar, laughed and cheered. One of Barry’s friends, Mark, a weedy youth with a rolled-up cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth, said, ‘Don’t half cheer the place up, a bit of a song. What about one of you ladies?’
    To Agatha’s amusement, Polly, slightly red about the nose – must have had a few to bolster her, thought Agatha – rose to her feet and belted out ‘The Fishermen of England’, while they all drank steadily and more champagne appeared. The locals, hungry for a free drink, began to crowd round the table until the errant husbands were left isolated at the bar.
    ‘Why don’t those three join the party?’ shouted Agatha.
    ‘That’s our husbands,’ said Harriet.
    ‘Your husbands! ’ Agatha affected amazement. ‘What on earth are they