Agatha Raisin and The Potted Gardener (8 page)

Mr Spott went on for fifteen minutes, until Mrs Bloxby coughed and pointed to her watch.

“And the second prize,” said Mrs Bloxby, “is to Mr James Lacey for his delphiniums.”

“I thought someone executed the scorched-earth policy on his garden,” said Roy. “Maybe he bought something, only
he
remembered to take the name of the nursery off the pot.”

“Shhh!” admonished Agatha. Surely she would get third prize.

“And the third prize goes to Miss Simms for her Busy Lizzies.”

“Rats,” said Agatha. At least neither James nor Miss Simms felt obliged to make speeches.

“That’s that,” said Roy. “Fun over. Let’s go somewhere for a late lunch.”

“Perhaps James might come to lunch with us?” suggested Agatha.

“Get real, Aggie,” said Roy brutally. “He’s not interested in you.”

Agatha felt old and depressed as she followed Roy out of the hall. Her life stretched before her one long and dusty road to the grave. Nothing would ever happen again to make her happy or excited or interested. She looked back at the villagers and felt like an outsider, a stranger, belonging nowhere except perhaps to the Birmingham slum from which she had sprung. And then Miss Simms, flushed and excited, caught up with her. “You’ve got a special ticket on your roses, Mrs Raisin.”

Surprised, Agatha turned back. There was a little red card in front of her rosebush. Excited, she bent down and read the commendation. “Mrs Agatha Raisin, special commendation for ingenuity.”

Roy read it at the same time. “Oh, wicked Mrs Bloxby, Aggie. Come away. A plate of steak-and-kidney pie will make you feel lots better.”

“You know, Roy,” said Agatha as she drove him into Oxford to catch the train on Sunday evening, “I think you should forget this scam about bringing all those plants down. Just do me a favour and send the workmen back to take the top part of the fence off. I’ll buy some plants from a nursery myself and let everyone see me planting them and I won’t open my garden to the public.”

“Oh, come on. Just because you were stupid enough to leave that nursery label on the pot doesn’t mean you’re going to fail. I’ll be down myself with the truck at two in the morning. Bingo, instant garden. You know yourself nothing moves in Carsely during the night. Besides, I’ve got more news for you. Pedmans is paying for the lot.”

“Why?”

“It’s instead of a golden hello.”

“You mean that little ferret, Wilson, knows I am going to cheat?”

“Of course not. As far as he is concerned, you just want to beautify your garden. He’s mad keen to get you, Aggie. And the stuff is going to be magnificent.”

Agatha felt herself weaken. Nothing could go wrong. And Mrs Bloxby might be forced to think she had made a mistake. She did not want to lose respect in the eyes of Mrs Bloxby.

“Oh, all right,” she said. “But you’d better be there on the great day to help me out.”

The next night found her among a large crowd in the Red Lion. It was the publican’s, John Fletcher’s, birthday, and he was dispensing free drinks all round. With a lift of the heart, Agatha saw James and went to join him. “I didn’t know it was John’s birthday,” she said guiltily, eyeing the pile of presents on the bar. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“They probably thought you knew. You were here last year, after all.”

“Perhaps I should go home and see if I have anything in the house I can give him,” said Agatha, yet not wanting to leave James’s side. She could hardly believe that Mary was not there to monopolize his attention, which she did so well.

“Congratulations on your prize,” she said. “I didn’t think there was anything left in your back garden after the attack on it.”

“Well, you can hardly see into it now,” he said. “Not with that great fence you’ve got around it. Why such a high fence?”

“I’m keeping my plants sheltered.”

He looked puzzled. “I don’t know how you even managed to grow those roses. That must be what Mrs Bloxby meant by ingenuity.”

Agatha did not normally like her conversations with James to be interrupted, but she looked up in relief as Mr Galloway, a large Scotsman who ran a garage in a neighbouring village, leaned over and said, “I was talking to Fred Griggs and he says they still don’t have a clue who was responsible for wrecking those gardens. I thought you would have tracked down the culprit by now, Mrs Raisin.”

I’ll maybe get to work on it.” Agatha preened a little. “The police don’t seem to be doing much of a job.”

“Where’s Mary?” asked James.

Mr Galloway scratched his thatch of hair.

“I dunno,” he said. “Maybe herself is prettifying to make an appearance.”

“It is odd, all the same,” pursued James to Agatha’s distress. “I’m unhappy about this stupid dislike for Mary. To think she had anything to do with wrecking gardens is madness.”

“Not as if
she
won any prizes,” commented Agatha maliciously.

“That was a strange thing,” said Mr Galloway. “We all thought herself would take the first with those dahlias of hers.”

“I thought no one wanted her to win,” said James.

“Aye, but Mrs Bloxby was doing the judging and Mrs Bloxby woundnae be fashed by gossip.”

“Another drink, James? Mr Galloway?” Agatha felt they had talked about Mary for long enough.

But just as Mr Galloway was beginning to say, “That’s very kind of you,” James rose to his feet. “I think I’ll walk up to Mary’s cottage and see if she’s coming.”

Agatha rose as well. “I’ll go with you. Get you a drink when I return, Mr Galloway.”

As they walked together through the still-balmy summer night, Agatha could not help wishing they were walking out together and not going to visit some blonde. The gossip in the village relayed by Doris Simpson was that Mary and James were only casual friends and that he did not visit her cottage or take her out for dinner any more. Agatha began to wonder what she really knew of Mary. Jealousy had coloured her opinion, clouded her judgement. So, she had decided, let’s look at Mary objectively. Take jealous thoughts away, and Agatha had to admit to herself that Mary was a very attractive woman with a certain warmth and charm. And yet sometimes, through that warmth and charm, there sparked little darts of…malice? Uncomfortable remarks. The remark she had made about Bill had been downright bitchy, and it was not like her to slip up like that.

James looked down at her quizzically. “Not like you to be so quiet.”

“I was thinking about Mary,” said Agatha. “I was thinking that I don’t really know her very well.”

“That’s surprising. I thought the pair of you were the best of friends.”

“Well…” Agatha realized with surprise that she had accepted Mary’s friendship only to look for ways to make sure that the coolness between her and James stayed that way. “What do you really know of her?” she asked.

“Come to think of it, not much. I know she was married because she’s got a daughter studying at Oxford, St Crispin’s, I think.”

“I’ve never seen her daughter, and she never talks about her.”

“The daughter never visits her, even in the holidays. I assumed there was some sort of family rift there, so I didn’t ask any questions. I also assumed that what you saw was what you got – perfect cook, perfect gardener, perfectly turned out. Then she has charm, and charm always stops you from seeing the person underneath.”

Not like me, thought Agatha. What you see is definitely what you get. And she longed for charm or mysterious depths.

They were approaching Mary’s cottage. “No lights,” said James. “Maybe she’s gone out, Oxford or somewhere.”

“That’s another thing,” said Agatha. “She never does leave the village, except perhaps when she is dining with you.”

“Well, let’s see if she’s at home.”

Instead of going around the back, as was usual village practice except at homes like Agatha’s, they walked up through the front garden where flowers, bleached by the moonlight, crowded the borders on either side of the lawn. The air was heavy with the scent of the flowers. They walked into the front porch. James rang the bell, which echoed off into the dark silence of the house.

Down in the road behind them, a young couple walked home. The girl laughed, a high, shrill giggle. Their footsteps and voices died away, leaving night silence behind.

“That’s that,” said Agatha cheerfully. “We’ve done our bit for community life. Now back to the pub.” With any luck, she thought, the crowd might have thinned out and she could have James to herself.

He hesitated. He tried the door handle. It turned easily and the door swung open. “She might be ill.” He walked inside and Agatha reluctantly followed him. He fumbled around for the light switch in the hall. With a little click the small hall became flooded with light, intensifying the odd feeling of emptiness, of loneliness, in the house. They walked through the rooms, switching on the lights. No one in either the living-room, dining-room or kitchen.

James ran up the stairs, calling, “Mary! Mary!” Agatha stood in the hall, waiting uneasily. She had never considered herself a fey or even a sensitive person, but as she stood there she began to feel a creeping unease.

“Not home,” said James, coming back down the narrow staircase.

“There’s her conservatory at the back,” said Agatha. “We may as well make a proper job of it.” Afterwards she was to wonder at her sudden persistence when a moment before all she had wanted to do was forget about the whole thing and return to the pub with James. After a brief and sharp struggle with the planning authorities, Mary had gained permission to have a small conservatory attached to the back of the house.

They walked through the kitchen and James opened the conservatory door and switched on the light. A wave of steamy moist air greeted them. Mary grew tropical plants. They walked into the middle of the conservatory and stood still, shoulder to shoulder. All was still. “Let’s go,” said James.

And then Agatha said in a choked voice, “Look! Look over there!”

And James looked.

Someone had planted Mary Fortune.

Her head was not visible; it was covered in earth. Someone had hung her upside down by her ankles and buried her head in earth in a large earthenware pot. There were hooks on the ceiling beams for hanging plant pots. Someone had tied her ankles with rope and slung her up on to one of these hooks. She was dressed in that inevitable colour of green; green sandals, green blouse, and green shorts.

“Cut her down!” Agatha’s voice was harsh with horror.

But James was bending over Mary and feeling for any life in the pulse at her neck and in her wrist.

He straightened up. “Leave everything as it is for the police. She’s been murdered and she’s stone-dead.”

“Murder!”

“Pull yourself together, Agatha,” he said sharply. “She didn’t plant herself. I’ll phone.”

He left the conservatory. Agatha gave one last horrified look at the body and scrambled out after him on shaky legs.

James was in the living-room. He called Fred Griggs and then sat down heavily on the sofa and clutched his thick hair with both hands. “It’s terrible…terrible,” he said. “I slept with her, you know.”

Agatha, already overset, sat down and began to cry weakly. “Don’t cry,” he said gruffly. “She cannot feel anything now.”

But Agatha was crying from a mixture of shock and shame. All her feelings for James now seemed like some sort of dismal schoolgirl crush. She had always thought that he led a monkish life, shy of women, always unattached, and because she herself had not indulged in an affair for some time, she had found it easier to dream about him as romantically as a schoolgirl. She had been jealous of his friendship with Mary, but she had considered it just that – friendship, with a bit of light flirtation, nothing more. But he had lain in Mary’s bed and in Mary’s arms. Her mind writhed under the weight of her miserable thoughts.

PC Griggs lumbered in. He looked like a village policeman, stolid, red-faced. One almost expected him to say, “Ello, ‘ello, ‘ello. What ‘ave we ‘ere?” But he was a shrewd and clever man in his slow way.

“Where’s the body?” he asked.

James unfolded his length from the sofa. “I’ll show you.”

Agatha looked longingly at the drinks trolley in the corner. She felt a stiff brandy might help her to pull herself together. Just as she was wondering whether she could risk pouring one by wrapping a handkerchief around the bottle, the CID arrived. Detective Sergeant Bill Wong was part of the group. Behind them came more cars. Pathologist, doctor, forensic team, police cameraman, and the press from the local newspaper, whose enterprising editor listened in on the police radio.

Bill Wong looked at Agatha’s tear-stained face and, thinking she was mourning Mary, said with quick compassion, “You go on home, Agatha. We’ll be along to take a statement later. You found the body?”

“Yes, me and James Lacey.”

“Is he here?”

“Yes, with the body.”

“Right. He’ll do for now. I’ll get one of my men to take you home.”

And Agatha was at such a low point that she let a policeman put a strong arm about her and lead her away.

Five

A
gatha sat nursing a glass of brandy in one hand and a lighted cigarette in the other. She noticed with a numb clinical interest that her hands were shaking slightly. She wished now she had stayed at Mary’s. Her home was so quiet under its heavy thatched roof, unusually quiet. Mostly the old house creaked comfortably as it settled down for the night.

Who could have done such a thing? What had she ever known of Mary? What had she ever really known of James Lacey, for that matter? He was intelligent, handsome, in his mid-fifties, a retired colonel who had settled in the country to write military history. They had investigated a previous murder together. She knew he could be resourceful and quite ruthless in dangerous circumstances. They had talked together quite a lot then, but about books and plays, about the murder case, about people in the village. What really made him tick? Would
he
be capable of murder?