Agatha Raisin and The Potted Gardener (11 page)

“Miss Fortune?” asked James.

“Yes?” The girl looked at him curiously and then her eyes moved to Agatha.

“This is Mrs Agatha Raisin, a friend of your late mother. I am James Lacey, also a friend. We came to offer our condolences.”

She stood back. “You’d better come in.”

In the living-room, her boyfriend, John Deny, was slouched in an armchair. In the way of modern youth, Beth did not bother introducing them. “Coffee or tea?” she asked.

“Neither,” said Agatha quickly, not wanting a moment to be lost while Beth disappeared into the kitchen. “Have the police found out how your mother died?” she asked.

“Someone poisoned her first with weedkiller and then strung her up,” said Beth. Her eyes were dry and her voice hard and rather impatient, with an underlying faint twang of an American accent.

“Don’t worry,” said James. “The police will soon find out who did it.”

“How?” asked John Deny, speaking for the first time.

“There must be loads of clues,” said James. “There’s the rope which tied her, the weedkiller, surely lots of things.”

“The rope,” said Beth, “was old-fashioned Woolworth’s-type clothes-line, probably bought a long time ago, for all you can get now is the plastic stuff. There were no fingerprints at all apart from those of the two who found the body.” Her eyes widened a fraction. “Oh, that was you two, wasn’t it?”

Agatha nodded. There was something almost intimidating about Beth’s self-possession. “Will your father be arriving for the funeral?” she asked.

“Shouldn’t think so. He hated Mother.”

“So he’s still in America?”

“Yes, Los Angeles.”

“Have you heard from him?”

“He phoned a few days ago and asked if he could help…financially. But Mother left me comfortably off.”

“What does he do for a living?”

“He’s a…” Beth’s eyes narrowed. “Look, it’s kind of you to call, but I am fed up with journalists and their cheeky questions and I don’t have to put up with being grilled in my own living-room.”

“Sorry,” mumbled Agatha.

James began to talk soothingly of Mary’s work for the horticultural society and how much she had been liked by the villagers. Agatha took a covert look around. Mary’s living-room had been altered already. The green wallpaper had been painted over, so that the walls were a uniform white. A lot of the little china ornaments which Mary had displayed on the mantelpiece and side-tables had gone. There were new bookshelves in the corner, or rather planks on bricks holding a great quantity of books. The green fitted carpet had been covered with faded and worn Persian rugs. The green curtains had been taken down and replaced with Venetian blinds. Beth or John Deny had tried to take as much green out of the room as possible.

“And are you a gardener yourself, Miss Fortune?” Agatha realized James was asking.

“No, I can’t be bothered. I took all those plants out of the conservatory and got a friend in Oxford who likes all that sort of tropical junk to take them away. I switched off the heating. The conservatory will make a good study.”

“So you plan on staying here?” asked Agatha.

Beth gave her a hard look. “Why not?”

“I assumed you would have rooms in Oxford,” said Agatha weakly.

“Of course. But these are the university holidays, or had you forgotten?” Beth suddenly rounded on James. “Wait a bit. Did you say your name was James Lacey?”

“Yes.”

“I want a word with you in private. John, show Mrs Raisin out.”

There was nothing Agatha could do but get up and take her leave. Outside in the porch, John looked down at her. “I’ve heard of you,” he said. “You’re the village Nosy Parker. Don’t come round here again.”

Agatha walked off as stiff as an outraged cat.

When she returned home, her cleaner, Doris Simpson, was there. “See, there’s a bit in the newspapers this morning about Mrs Fortune’s husband.”

“Rats!” Agatha seized the papers and sat down at the kitchen table and flicked through them. The American correspondent of the
Daily Mail
had interviewed Barry Fortune, Mary’s ex. He was quoted as saying he was sorry to learn about such a terrible murder. He said he and Mary had separated amicably fifteen years ago. He had married again. He owned a chain of video-rental shops. If I had only checked the newspapers before I went out this morning, thought Agatha, it would have saved me from asking unnecessary questions.

“And here’s your post,” said Doris, putting a small pile of envelopes on the table.

Agatha flicked through it. There was one from a lawyer’s office in Mircester. The name was in prim black letters on the outside of the envelope, Carter, Bung and Desmond. Agatha opened it and her eyebrows rose in surprise. It concerned the late Mrs Mary Fortune’s will. If she would call at their offices, she would learn something to her advantage.

“Come back, Doris,” she called.

The cleaner came back into the kitchen. “I’m sorry for those kitties of yours, Agatha,” she said. “Not much fun playing in that Gulag you’ve got out there.”

“Open Day’s not far off,” said Agatha. “The fence will be lowered then. You haven’t told anyone about it?”

“Course not! What do you want to see me about?”

“This.” Agatha held out the letter.

Doris read it slowly. “There’s a surprise.”

“I wouldn’t have thought she would have left me anything either.”

“That’s not what surprises me.”

“What, then?”

“She didn’t know you that long. I would think she would have already made out a will. Why change it to put in something in your favour? I mean, did she know she was going-to die?”

“That’s a thought.”

The doorbell rang. “That’ll be James,” said Agatha, still looking at the letter. “Could you get it, Doris?”

The cleaner glanced at her quizzically. Normally Agatha would have rushed upstairs to put on fresh make-up or a clean dress.

When James came into the kitchen, Agatha handed him the letter. “Oh, that,” he said, sitting down next to her. “I got one of those this morning.”

“You might have told me.”

“I felt awkward about it, under the circumstances.”

“Anyway, what did Beth want to talk to you about?”

He stood up and closed the kitchen door and then returned to the table and sat down again. “Mary had telephoned Beth earlier this year and said she was going to get married again…to me.”

“Ouch!”

“Yes, exactly…ouch. I have a feeling Beth regards me as prime suspect. Let’s get out of the village and go to the lawyers’. By the way, why do you have the lights on in this kitchen and the blind down over the window? It’s a lovely day.”

“Never mind that,” said Agatha hurriedly. “Let’s go.”

And so here I am again, she thought ruefully, running about the countryside with James, only this time it all seems rather…ordinary. And she congratulated herself on her new-found detachment.

The lawyers’ office was down a cobbled side-street leading off the main square, where old buildings leaned towards each other, cutting out the sun. There was a faded lady behind an ancient typewriter in the outer office. They gave their names and were told to take a seat and wait. She retreated into an inner room. Dust-motes floated in shafts of sunlight that streamed through the window behind the desk. They were seated side by side on a horsehair sofa, a relic of the ‘Victorian Age, like everything else in the musty office.

They were ushered in after a ten-minute wait. The fact that the lawyer who rose to greet them was comparatively young came as a surprise. Agatha had begun to expect an elderly gentleman with pince-nez and side-whiskers. “Jonathan Carter,” he said. “Please be seated. You are both beneficiaries under the late Mrs Mary Fortune’s will. It is very simple and straightforward. I will not take up much of your time.” He picked up several pieces of stiff paper and flicked through them. “I will only read the bit that concerns you both. I think you will not be surprised to learn that apart from a few bequests, the bulk of her estate goes to her daughter.”

Agatha felt a pang of guilt. Poor Mary. She really did like me. And I haven’t even mourned her. All I could think of after we found her dead in that terrible way was to feel shattered because James confessed to having had an affair with her.

“Mr Lacey,” said the lawyer, “you must understand that what is written here is in the words of Mrs Fortune.

To Mr James Lacey of 8 Lilac Lane, Carsely, Gloucestershire, I leave the sum of five thousand pounds in payment for services rendered, although said services were not really worth much.

James said, “Thank you,” in a stifled voice.

To Mrs Agatha Raisin of 10 Lilac Lane, Carsely, Gloucestershire, I leave five thousand pounds so that she may take herself to a reputable health farm to reduce her middle-aged bulk.

“Bitch,” commented Agatha briefly.

“You will both be receiving the money in due course,” said the lawyer.

“I don’t want it.” James’s voice was harsh.

“Take your time,” said the lawyer. “It is, I admit, a rather spiteful bequest. But do not reject it out of hand. We all need money.”

“Are you accepting yours?” asked James as they walked up to the square.

“Oh, yes. She’s not alive, is she? I mean, money’s money. You know, James, if she really was as bitchy as it now seems she was, it’s not surprising someone bumped her off.”

“The world is full of bitches,” said James, lengthening his stride so that Agatha had to hurry to keep up with him. “But no one goes about murdering them.”

“Let’s go and see Bill Wong,” panted Agatha. “And do slow down a bit.”

He stopped so suddenly, she almost cannoned into him. “Why Bill Wong? He’s told you to keep out of it.”

“But if we tell him about Mary’s will, we might be able to ferret some information out of
him
.”

“I don’t want to tell him about the will.”

“Don’t you see, the police will know the contents of the will already. I’ll tell him my bit. You don’t need to come if you don’t want to.”

He stood for a moment, his hands thrust in his pockets, rocking slightly on his heels, looking at his feet. “All right,” he said abruptly.

They walked to police headquarters and asked at the desk for Bill Wong. He came down the stairs after only a short wait, a smile of welcome on his face. “Just at my lunch-hour,” he said cheerfully.

“If you’ve got the time, lunch is on me,” said Agatha. “We’ve something to tell you.”

“I hope you haven’t been stirring things up with any amateur detective work,” said Bill.

“No, no. Do you want to hear our news or not?”

“I’d like lunch,” said Bill with a grin.

“We’ll go to that restaurant James took me to the other day,” said Agatha briskly.

In the restaurant, she ordered a sirloin steak with sautéed potatoes, grilled tomatoes and peas. “What happened to your diet?” asked James.

“Sod the diet,” retorted Agatha. She privately thought there was no need to go on suffering. She had no one to compete with and she was no longer romantically interested in James Lacey. Of course, she had read endless articles in women’s magazines about how one should slim for oneself, one should feel good about oneself. But it had never worked that way for Agatha and she doubted if it ever would.

When they were served, Bill asked, “Now what was it you wanted to tell me?”

“I’m a beneficiary in Mary’s will,” said Agatha.

“I know that,” said Bill. “And Mr Lacey here as well.”

“James,” he corrected. “A very rude bequest it was, too.”

“Come to think of it, she must have hated us,” said Agatha. “And why make such a recent will? She must have expected to live a long time.”

“Not necessarily,” said Bill.

“Why?”

“I don’t want you getting involved.”

Agatha reached, out a hand. “I’ll take that plate of steak-and-kidney pudding away from you, Bill Wong, unless you explain yourself.”

“Leave it alone. I’m hungry. Oh, I suppose the press will get hold of it. When her husband asked for a divorce way back when, she tried to commit suicide.”

“Emotional blackmail,” said James. “Probably didn’t mean to go through with it.”

“She would have done the job all right – bottle of barbiturates, bottle of vodka – but for one little miracle. A neighbour whose flat overlooked hers passed his day in watching the women opposite through binoculars, although he subsequently swore to the police that he was bird-watching. So he saw Mary swallowing pills and drinking vodka and swallowing pills until she slumped over the table and he called for an ambulance and the police. She was rushed to hospital and her stomach was pumped out. She was subsequently treated several times for depression, the last being when she was living in New York. She moved there after the divorce to a flat in Washington Square in the Village.”

“My cleaner, Doris Simpson, was about the only person who didn’t like her when everyone else seemed to,” said Agatha. “She said something like, “No warmth there. It’s as if she’s acting.” Do you think that? Why come to the Cotswolds?”

“She is English,” pointed out Bill.

“Where from?”

“Newcastle originally. Her parents are dead. A lot of outsiders move to the Cotswolds. Take you two, for example,” said Bill.

“But don’t you see,” said Agatha, pursuing her theme, “she was acting being the perfect village lady, baking and gardening and so on. If she had lived, she might have tired of the act, moved somewhere else and adopted another role.”

“Speculation,” said Bill, shaking his head. “I need more solid facts. I may as well make use of you while you’re here. Let’s start with the people who had their gardens ruined. Mrs Bloxby? Who would have a spite against Mrs Bloxby, of all people?”

Mary, thought Agatha suddenly, but could not voice her suspicions without betraying the confidences of the vicar’s wife.

But another idea struck her. She said, “James, do you remember when you were supposed to take me out for dinner in Evesham?”

“Very well indeed. That was the day I got food poisoning.”

“And that was the day you visited Mary!”