It is rare to spend a sunny Saturday afternoon looking at a potential murder scene – well in my life it is.

I went to the local horticultural society’s summer show. The first time I had been as it happens.

Yes it is a village event but runs to rather strict Royal Horticultural Society rules which can cause some upset.

(When I entered a quiche in spring show, I was marked down for my edges not being neatly enough crimped. Just saying.)

Anyway there it was.

An Agatha Christie novel in the making.

The village were all there. New vicar complete with dog collar and firm handshake, and the vicar’s wife. Ladies in their florals talking coyly about their winning dahlias or roses, or floral decorations, or jams.

There was apparently severe annoyance at the disqualification of a bunch of onions because they were tied together with an elastic band, not raffia, allowing someone’s arch rival to steal the gold.

Children eating ice creams, dogs, men in blazers and panama hats, women running the tea stall and tombola.

It was straight out of the 1930s only with serried ranks of four x fours parked round the cricket pitch – yes of course there was a cricket pitch.

A few friends, having a drink a few days later, started plotting the story. That will keep us going every other Tuesday through the winter.