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thing.’
    They followed her into the vicarage living-room, which as usual enfolded them in its atmosphere of peace. The vicar, on seeing Agatha, hurriedly put down the newspaper he had been reading,
mumbled something about a sermon to write, and fled to his study.
    ‘Sit down,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘I’ll get some tea.’
    She always looks like a lady, thought Agatha wistfully. Even in that old Liberty dress and with not a scrap of make-up on, she looks like a lady.
    James leaned back in a comfortable leather armchair and closed his eyes. Agatha realized as she looked at him that she had not stopped to think for a minute how he had felt over the aborted
marriage and the wretched murder. He looked tired and older, the lines running down either side of his mouth more prominent.
    Mrs Bloxby came back in carrying the tea-tray. ‘I have some excellent fruit cake, a present from the Mircester Ladies’ Society. And some ham sandwiches. I suppose neither of you has
had much time to eat.’
    James opened his eyes and said wearily, ‘We have both been suspected of this murder, it’s been a long day, and yes, I would love some sandwiches. According to Agatha, we are regarded
by the village as murder suspects.’
    ‘Are you sure, Agatha?’ asked Mrs Bloxby.
    Agatha told her story of trying to find a room at the Red Lion.
    ‘Oh, how sad. We could put you up here. We could . . .’
    There was a warning cough from the doorway. The vicar stood there with a distinctly unChristian light in his eyes.
    ‘That won’t be necessary,’ said James quickly. ‘Agatha’s moving in with me.’
    ‘What did you want to say, Alf?’ Mrs Bloxby asked her husband.
    ‘Er . . . nothing,’ he said and disappeared again.
    ‘You found the body, didn’t you?’ said James. ‘Tell us about it, if it isn’t too painful.’
    ‘It was a shock at the time. I did not recognize him,’ said Mrs Bloxby, pouring tea into thin china cups. ‘Dead people look quite different when the spirit has left. Then he
had been strangled, so his face was not pretty. I had gone out for a walk. I was worried about you, Agatha, and I could not sleep.’
    Agatha’s eyes suddenly filled with weak tears. The idea that anyone could actually lose sleep over her was a novelty.
    ‘At first I thought it was a bundle of old clothes in the ditch, but then, when I took a good look, I saw him. I felt for his pulse and finding none, I ran to the nearest cottage and
phoned the police.’
    ‘Was there anyone else about?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘No, and it must have happened after you reached home, Agatha, or I would have met you on the road or seen whoever killed him. Of course the murderer could have cut across the
fields.’
    ‘We’ll just need to find out who did it ourselves,’ said Agatha.
    ‘Oh, you’re been through so much. Why not leave it to the police?’
    ‘Because we want to know who did it,’ said James. ‘I’ve been thinking – what is the etiquette about wedding presents? I suppose we return them.’
    ‘I would just keep them,’ said the vicar’s wife, ‘and then when you do get married, no one needs to bother giving you anything else.’
    ‘We will not be getting married,’ said James in a flat voice.
    There was a heavy silence. Then Mrs Bloxby said brightly, ‘More tea?’
    Roy Silver had had a sleepless night. Not usually plagued with an uneasy conscience, he found he was actually suffering. The story of the wedding-that-never-was, spiced up by
the murder of Agatha’s husband, was all over the newspapers, and some enterprising reporter had found out that he, Roy Silver, had been the one who had alerted Jimmy Raisin to his
wife’s attempt to marry someone else. The moment he got to his office he phoned Iris Harris, the detective, and asked her to call on him as soon as possible.
    He fretted and fidgeted until she arrived. Ms Harris had read the newspapers and listened calmly as Roy said she must find out more about Jimmy Raisin. If Agatha