Agatha Raisin and The Potted Gardener (16 page)

Mrs Bloxby’s gentle voice cut across James’s laughter. “You know, I think it might be a nice idea to have tea out here among these lovely flowers and things. I see you have a little garden table and chairs there. I’ll help you get the tea-things.”

Agatha, glad to escape from James’s amusement, went inside with her.

Bill turned to James. “Look, you’re her nearest neighbour. Did you see anyone around this cottage this morning?”

“I saw a few people. Let me think. I was up very early. Mrs Mason has just got herself a dog. She came walking past and called out a good morning. I was tidying up my front garden. Then there was Mrs Bloxby.”

“What would she be doing along Lilac Lane?” asked Bill. “It doesn’t lead anywhere.”

“She often goes for a walk about the village in the early morning. Then along Lilac Lane, away from the village end, I heard a couple, a man and a girl, I think. I heard the girl laugh.” He stood for a moment, looking bewildered. “That’s odd!”

“What’s odd?”

“I just remembered. The night Agatha and I discovered Mary had been murdered, as we were waiting outside her house to see if she would answer the bell, a man and a girl passed behind us on the road. I heard the girl laugh.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” demanded Bill sharply.

“It slipped my mind. It didn’t seem important. Just a village sound. I mean, they weren’t coming away from the house or anything like that.”

Agatha and Mrs Bloxby came into the garden carrying tea-things.

James swung round. “Agatha, do you remember that couple on the road the night we discovered Mary dead?”

“Yes,” said Agatha. “I do now. I’d clean forgotten about them.”

“And now James here says he heard a couple at the end of this road this morning, early.”

“They could have been walkers,” said Mrs Bloxby. “There’s a lot of them about the Cotswolds. Although Lilac Lane doesn’t lead anywhere. I mean, you can’t drive anywhere, there is that footpath across the field at the end of it.”

“You were out early, Mrs Bloxby,” said Bill. “Did you see anyone?”

“I only saw Mr Lacey’s bottom. He was leaning over a flowerbed in his front garden, weeding, I think.”

“Do you think it could have been that Beth Fortune and her boyfriend?” asked Roy eagerly, who had been told all the details of the murder during the night by Agatha.

“I think I’ll pay a call on them,” said Bill.

“Where exactly were Beth and John on the night of the murder?” asked Agatha.

“They were in Beth’s rooms in college, studying.”

“Any witnesses to that?”

“No, but usually only guilty people arrange cast-iron alibis.”

“Come back when you’ve seen them and let us know what they say,” urged Agatha.

When he had gone and James, Agatha, Roy and Mrs Bloxby were seated around the table, James said, “Even if it turns out that John Deny and Beth played a trick on you, Agatha, it’s a far cry from murder.”

“Perhaps not,” said Agatha. “I mean, surely the destruction of the gardens ties up somewhere and somehow with Mary’s death. I wish I had never thought of this silly scheme. Now I have to go and work for Pedmans, the PR firm, in the autumn, and for six months, too.”

“I don’t understand,” said Mrs Bloxby. “How did that come about?”

Roy kicked Agatha under the table. She yelped, rubbed her ankle, and glared at him. “I’m going to tell them,” she said. She explained about the deal.

“You must be very good at your job,” said Mrs Bloxby. She tried to surreptitiously feed Hodge, the cat, with a piece of muffin. Agatha had bought a packet of a product new on the market which promised ‘real American blueberry muffins from your own microwave’. They tasted like wet cardboard. Hodge took it from her fingers and then spat it out on the grass. James crumbled his, so that his plate was covered in muffin crumbs. He hoped Agatha might think he had eaten some of it.

“She is,” said Roy. Somehow Mrs Bloxby, without saying anything, was making him feel guilty about getting Agatha to sign that contract. Away from the world of PR, away from London, things which passed as normal business in the city had a way of appearing, well, shabby in this rural tranquillity.

He gave himself an angry little shake, like a wet dog. People didn’t go about
planting
people in London; mugging, raping, knifing and shooting, but not
planting
.

“I think,” said Mrs Bloxby in her quiet voice, “that the full enormity of Mary Fortune’s death is striking me at last. Someone in this village is mad enough and deranged enough to have killed her and left her body in such a dreadful way. What on earth could she have done to engender such hate?”

“So you believe she was a murderee?” asked James. “I mean someone who is going to get murdered because of some flaw in their character?”

How can you talk about Mary with such academic interest when you once made passionate love to her? thought Agatha. Aloud, she said, “If only it would turn out to be an outsider!”

“You sound more like a villager every day, Agatha,” said Mrs Bloxby. “I must go and look at some of the other gardens. Why, James, what about yours?”

“It’s open,” he said easily. “I do what the others do and just leave a box at the gate for the money.”

“Then I’ll have a look. Agatha?” Mrs Bloxby turned to her. “Care for a walk?”

Agatha shook her head. “I couldn’t bear the looks and whispers.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it. Yes, they will most of them be laughing over it, but I think with affection. You are regarded as something of a character.”

“That’s me,” said Agatha. “The village idiot complete with cats. So where do we go from here?”

Bill came back into the garden. “Until this murder is solved, Agatha,” he said, “you should keep your front door locked at all times. Come to think of it, with that expensive security system in your garden, the lights must have been blazing while the men were working. Or did you switch it off?”

“It switched itself off ages ago,” said Agatha. “I’ll phone the security people and get them to fix it. What did Beth and John have to say for themselves?”

“John did it,” said Bill, sitting down. “And he’s quite unrepentant about it.”

“What!” screeched Agatha. “Have you charged him?”

“It’s up to you. But for a schoolboy trick? And have your deception come out in court?”

“But if he did that to me, maybe he did it to the other gardens. What was his reason for switching those labels?”

“He said he went out for a long walk because he couldn’t sleep. He turned along Lilac Lane. As he passed your house, he saw the truck outside leaving. Wondering if it might be a burglary, because it was dawn and no one was about, he started to go up to the front door. He heard voices from the back garden and went to the side path and listened. He heard someone say, “So now we can go and get a bit of sleep. When do the people start coming?””

“Roy,” breathed Agatha.

“And then your voice saying, “Not till ten. How do I tell them what flowers are what? I don’t want to be exposed as a cheat.” And then Roy here replying, “Labels tied on all of them, nicely faded and weathered, but legible. You just bend down and read.” So he thought he would pay you back for ‘meddling in his life’, as he put it, by switching the labels. He went down the lane a little and sat by the hedge and waited until the house became quiet. Then he went into the garden and moved all the labels around. I still can’t think him guilty of anything else. He seems to me typical of a certain type of Oxford University student, boorish and somewhat sulky.”

“Damn him,” muttered Agatha. “I would look a fool if this ever came to court.”

“Thought I’d let you know,” said Bill.

“How did the funeral go?” asked James. “You did go to it, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I was there at the crematorium. Very sad. Only me and two other detectives and Beth and John.”

“Some of us from the village should have gone,” said Agatha, suddenly conscience-stricken because all at once it was hard to think of the Mary who had been exposed since her death. She could only remember Mary’s warmth and charm. Agatha suddenly became more determined than ever to see what she could do about solving Mary’s murder. Whatever Mary had been, she had not deserved such a death.

Nine

A
gatha remembered Bill Wong’s warning when she was putting on make-up in her bedroom and heard her front door open the next day and someone walk into the hall. She was looking wildly at her dressing-table for some sort of weapon and seeing only the nail scissors when James’s voice called up, “Agatha, are you there?”

“Coming,” she yelled, and put some Blush Pink lipstick over her chin, swore dreadfully, wiped it off, and applied it properly.

She ran down the stairs. “What’s the matter?”

“I wondered whether you would fancy a trip into Oxford,” said James. “I remembered this professor friend and phoned him up. He’s at one of the other colleges but he’s got us an introduction to a don at St Crispin’s. I phoned him and asked him to lunch. That way we can find out more about John Deny.”

“And Beth,” said Agatha eagerly. “Wait a minute. I’d better change.”

He looked appraisingly at her flowered blouse and plain skirt. “You’ll do. We’re lunching at Brown’s and no one dresses for that. I’ll drive.”

And Agatha was happy as they drove off. She tried to persuade herself that she was happy because the day was sunny, because she was getting out of the village and ahead with the investigation. She did not want to admit that James’s company was beginning to exert its old magic.

He took the road through Chipping Norton and Woodstock. “Do you think anything will come out of this lunch?” asked Agatha.

“It might. I don’t think either Beth or John Deny had anything to do with the murder, but we may as well try everything.”

“I wonder what he’ll be like, this don. What’s his name?”

“Timothy Barnstaple.”

Perhaps he’ll be attractive, thought Agatha.

James parked in the underground car-park at Gloucester Green and they walked back along St Giles and so to Brown’s Restaurant on the Woodstock Road.

“This is silly,” said James. “I forgot to ask what he looked like.”

“Did you book a table?”

“No. We’re meeting him now, at twelve, so it won’t be too crowded, and it is the university holidays.”

They entered the restaurant and looked about. A thin middle-aged man got up as they walked in. He was leaning on a stick. He was dressed in a black jacket and black trousers. His black hair was greased back from a tired lined face. Porter from one of the hotels, thought Agatha and turned her eyes elsewhere.

But the man called out, “Are you Mr Lacey?”

This, then, was Timothy Barnstaple.

“I took the liberty of ordering a drink while I waited for you,” he said. His voice was beautiful. In these days of the cult of the common accent, it was a pleasure to hear a well-spoken, well-modulated voice.

“I didn’t know you were bringing Mrs Lacey,” said Timothy, leering at Agatha, “but the pleasure is all mine.”

“Mrs Raisin is my neighbour and friend,” said James.

“And where is Mr Raisin?”

“I don’t know,” said Agatha truthfully. “I walked out on him years ago. I suppose he’s dead.”

“Sit beside me, Mrs Raisin. But why are we so formal? What is your first name?”

“Agatha.”

“A good old name, Agatha. So sad the way they name girls these days. I have a student called Tootsy. That is her real name. She was christened that. A most scholarly girl. But how will she succeed in life? Her full name is Tootsy McWhirter, and she is a Thatcherite. Could not her parents write down, say, the Right Honourable Tootsy McWhirter and see how strange it might look? But we digress. I am very hungry. I will just order another drink while we look at the menu.”

The don ordered another double whisky and water and then peered over the menu. When they had ordered their food and Timothy had ordered a bottle of claret – ’We’ll start with one bottle and then see how we get on’ – he leaned his elbows on the table, pressed his knee against Agatha’s and asked, “How can I help?”

James told him briefly about the murder.

“Ah,” said Timothy, “I read about that.”

“The thing is,” said James, “we’re just blundering about, finding out what we can about the characters of all the people close to Mary Fortune. What do you think of John Deny?”

“The college,” said Timothy, “started to discriminate against the public schools, you know, Eton, Marlborough, Westminster, some time ago. Help the underprivileged and all that stuff. Down with elitism. The sad fact is that we have quite a lot of John Derrys, beer-swilling, loud-mouthed, at a loss at university, diligent enough swot at his comprehensive school, but not university material. Sort of chap who gets a bad degree if he gets one at all and then blames the capitalist system. Subsequently can’t get a job and refuses to believe that turning up for interviews in torn jeans and a boorish manner has anything to do with failure. He latched on to Beth in their first year.

“Beth, on the other hand, is a highly intelligent girl.”

“So why get tied up with John Deny?” asked Agatha.

“The brighter the girl, the more sexually naive. They think they are being feminist and liberated when they enter into a sexual relationship with some man at college, not aware that by funding him, washing his socks and making his meals, they are more in chains than their mothers. It’s all sex.”

He pressed his knee harder against Agatha’s. It was a small table. She moved her legs away and found them pressed against James’s, apologized and moved them away again, where Timothy’s insistent knee was waiting under the table to welcome her leg back.

The food arrived, solid English food. “Do you think either of them could have committed a murder?” asked Agatha.

He held up a hand ornamented with dirty fingernails for silence and then attacked his food. He ate very rapidly, washing the meal down with great gulps of wine. “Perhaps another bottle?” he said, breaking his silence at last.