Agatha Raisin and The Potted Gardener (2 page)

She forced herself to talk brightly about her holidays, wishing she had some amusing stories to tell, but she had hardly talked to anyone and hardly anyone had talked to her.

Mary came back in bearing a tray. “Chocolate cake,” she announced. “Now we shall all get fat.”

“Not you,” said James flirtatiously. “You don’t have to worry.”

Mary smiled at him and James sent her back a shy little smile and bent his head over a slice of chocolate cake.

“I was thinking of joining the horticultural society,” said Agatha. “When do they meet?”

“James and I are going to a meeting tonight, if you would like to come along,” said Mary. “It’s at seven thirty in the school hall.”

“I didn’t know you were interested in gardening, Mrs Raisin,” commented James.

“Why so formal?” Agatha’s bearlike eyes surveyed James. “You always call me Agatha.”

“Well, Agatha, you’ve always just bought fully grown stuff from the nurseries before.”

“I’ve got time on my hands,” said Agatha. “Going to do it properly.”

“We’ll help you,” said Mary with an easy friendliness. “Won’t we, James?”

“Oh, absolutely.”

“Why did you decide to settle in Carsely, Mary?” Agatha felt the waistband of her skirt constricting her and put down her plate of half-eaten chocolate cake and shoved it away.

“I was motoring about the Cotswolds and took a liking to this village,” said Mary. “So peaceful, so quiet. Such darling people.”

“Do you know someone was murdered in this house?” asked Agatha, determined to bring the conversation around to the murder case she had solved.

But Mary said quickly and dismissively, “I heard all about that. It doesn’t matter. These old houses must have seen a lot of deaths.” She turned to James and started talking about gardening. “I’ve been pricking out my seedlings,” she said.

“What you do in the privacy of your home is your own affair,” said Agatha and gave a coarse laugh.

There was a frosty little silence and then Mary and James went on talking, the Latin names of plants Agatha had never heard of flying between them.

Agatha felt diminished and excluded. One part of her longed to get away and the other part was determined to hang on until James left.

At last, almost as if he knew Agatha would not budge until he left, James rose to his feet. “I’ll see you this evening, Mary.”

Mary and Agatha rose as well. “I’ll walk home with you, James,” said Agatha. “See you this evening, Mary.”

Agatha and James went outside. When they had reached the garden gate, James suddenly turned and went back to where Mary was standing on the step. He bent his handsome head and whispered something to her. Mary gave a little laugh and whispered something back. James turned and came back to where Agatha was standing. They walked off together.

“Mary’s an interesting woman,” said James. “She is very well travelled. As a matter of fact, before coming here, she spent some time in California.”

“That would be where she got her face-lift,” said Agatha.

He glanced down at her and then said abruptly; “I’ve just remembered, I must get something in for supper. Don’t try to keep up with me. Must hurry.” And like a car suddenly accelerating, he sped off, leaving Agatha looking bleakly after him.

As she walked back home, Agatha was half inclined to forget about the whole thing. Let Mary have James. If that was the sort of woman who sparked him, then he wasn’t for such as Agatha Raisin.

But competitiveness dies hard, and somehow she found that by the late afternoon she had ordered a small greenhouse complete with heating system and had agreed to pay through the nose to have the whole thing done the following week. She also bought a pile of books on gardening.

Before going to the horticultural society meeting, Agatha went along to the pub, the Red Lion. She wanted to come across just one person who did not like Mary Fortune. John Fletcher, the landlord, gave her a warm welcome and handed her a gin and tonic. “On the house,” he said. “Nice to have you back.”

Agatha fought down tears that threatened to well up in her eyes. It had been hell travelling alone. Single women did not get respect or attention. The little bit of kindness from the landlord took her aback. “Thanks, John,” she said a trifle hoarsely. “You’ve got a newcomer in the village. What do you think of her?”

“Mrs Fortune? Comes in here a lot. Nice lady. Very open-handed. Always buying drinks for everyone. She’s the talk of the village. Bakes the best scones and cakes, best gardener, can do plumbing repairs, and knows all about car engines.”

Jimmy Page, one of the local farmers, came in and hailed Agatha. “Right good to see you back, Agatha,” he said, hitching his large backside on to the bar stool next to her.

“What’ll you have?” asked Agatha, determined not to be outdone in generosity by Mary.

“Half a pint,” said Jimmy.

“I’ve brought you and your wife a present,” said Agatha. “I’ll bring it along tomorrow.”

“Very good of you. No murders while you’ve been away. Quiet as the grave. That Mary Fortune, she said a funny thing. She says, “Maybe Mrs Raisin is like a sort of vulture, and as long as she’s out of the village, nothing bad’ll happen.””

“That wasn’t a very nice thing to say.” Agatha glared.

“Don’t you go taking it hard-like. Her’s got this jokey way of saying things. Don’t mean no harm. Tell me about your holiday.”

And as more locals came in to join them, Agatha elaborated on her adventures, inventing funny scenes and relishing being the centre of attention until a look at the clock behind the bar told her that she had better get along to the school hall.

In the dimness of the school hall and among what seemed to Agatha’s jaundiced eyes to be the fustiest of the villagers, Mary with her blonde hair and green wool dress clinging to her excellent figure shone like the sun. She was sitting next to James, and as Agatha entered she heard Mary say, “Perhaps we should have gone for dinner before this. I’m starving.”

So he had lied about getting something in for his supper, thought Agatha bleakly.

A Mr Bernard Spott, an elderly gentleman, led the meeting. There were familiar faces in the gloom of the school hall, where two fluorescent lights had failed to function and the remaining one whined and stuttered above their heads. Children’s drawings were pinned up on the walls. There was something depressing about children’s paintings on the walls of a room at an adult gathering, thought Agatha, as if underlining the fact that childhood was long gone and never to return. The Boggles were there, that sour elderly couple who complained about everything. Mrs Mason, who was chairwoman of the Carsely Ladies’ Society, was in the front row beside Mrs Bloxby. Doris Simpson, Agatha’s cleaner, came in and sat beside Agatha, muttering a ‘Welcome back.’ Behind her came Miss Simms, the unmarried mother who was secretary of the Ladies’ Society, tottering on her high heels.

Mr Spott droned on about the annual horticultural show, which was to be held in July. After that, in August, there was the Great Day when the members of the society opened their gardens to the public. Fred Griggs, the local policeman, then read the minutes of the last meeting as if giving evidence in court.

Agatha stifled a yawn. What was the point of all this? James was definitely not interested in her and never would be. She regretted the expense of the greenhouse. She let her mind wander. It was surely wicked to wish for another murder, but that was what she found she was doing. She hated attending things like this where she knew she did not belong. Gardening, mused Agatha, was something one had to grow up doing. Any plant which had shown its head in the Birmingham slum in which she had been brought up had been promptly savaged by the local children.

There was a shuffling of feet as the meeting ended. And there was Mary, very much the hostess with the mostest, presiding over the tea-urn at the end of the hall.

Agatha turned to Doris. “Thanks for keeping my place so clean,” she said. “You into this gardening lark?”

“Just started last year,” said Doris. “It’s good fun.”

“This doesn’t seem much like fun,” commented Agatha, looking sourly down the hall to where James was standing next to Mary, who was pouring tea and handing out plates of cakes.

“It gets better when things start growing.”

“Our newcomer appears highly popular,” said Agatha.

“Not with me.”

Oh, sensible Doris. Oh, treasure beyond compare! “Why?”

“I dunno.” Doris’s pale grey eyes were shrewd behind her glasses. “She does everything right and she’s right nice to everybody, but there’s no warmth there. It’s as if she’s acting.”

“James Lacey seems taken with her.”

“That won’t last.”

Agatha felt a sudden surge of hope. “Why?”

“Because he’s a clever man and she just appears clever. He’s a nice man and she’s only pretending to be nice. That’s the way I see it.”

“I brought you a present,” said Agatha. “You can collect it when you come round tomorrow.”

“Thanks a lot, but you shouldn’t have bothered, really. How’re your cats?”

“Ignoring me. Didn’t like the cattery.”

“Instead of paying that cattery, next time you go off, leave them be and I’ll come round every day and feed them and let them out for a bit. Better in their own home.”

Mrs Bloxby came up to them, followed by Miss Simms. She was wearing the new scarf. “So pretty,” she said. “I couldn’t wait until Sunday to wear it.”

Agatha turned to Miss Simms. “I have a present for you as well.”

“That’s ever so nice of you,” said Miss. Simms. “But you haven’t had any tea, Agatha, and Mary makes such good cakes.”

“Maybe next time,” replied Agatha, who had no intention of making herself suffer further by going and joining James and Mary.

Mary Fortune looked down the room at the ever growing group around Agatha Raisin. She began to pack up the tea things, putting the few cakes left in a plastic box.

“I’ll carry that home for you,” said James. He could not help noticing as he left with Mary that the group about Agatha were laughing at something she was saying and no one turned to watch them go, but it would have amazed him to know that Agatha, although she never turned round, was aware, with every fibre of her being, of every step he took towards the door.

The night was crisp and cold and frosty. Great stars burnt overhead. James felt content with the world.

“That Agatha Raisin is a peculiarly vulgar type of woman,” he realized Mary was saying.

“Agatha can be a bit abrupt at times,” he said defensively, “but she is actually very good-hearted.”

“Watch out, James,” teased Mary. “Our repressed village spinster has her eye on you.”

“As far as I know, Agatha is a divorcee like yourself,” said James stiffly. Loyalty made him forget all the times he had avoided Agatha when she was pursuing him. “I don’t want to discuss her.”

She gave a little laugh. “Poor James. Of course you don’t.”

She began to talk about gardening and James walked beside her and tried to bring back the feelings of warmth and elation he usually felt in her company. But he had not liked her snide remark about Agatha. He admired bravery, and there was no doubt there was a certain gallantry about Agatha Raisin which appealed to him.

He saw Mary to her door and handed over the cake box, and to her obvious surprise refused her invitation for the usual cup of coffee.

Agatha, too preoccupied with the James-Mary business, had failed to notice her own popularity at the horticultural society. But Agatha had never been popular in her life before. She had been the successful owner of a public relations company, having only recently sold up and retired to move to Carsely. Hitherto, her work had been her life and her identity. The people in her life had been her staff, and the journalists whom she had bullied into giving space to whomever or whatever she happened to be promoting.

When she opened the door and the phone began to ring, she looked at it almost in surprise.

“Hello?” she asked tentatively.

“Aggie? How’s life in Peasantville?” came the mincing tones of her ex-assistant, Roy Silver.

“Oh, Roy. How are you?” said Agatha.

“Working as usual, and feeling bored. Any hope of an invitation?”

Agatha hesitated. She wondered if she really liked Roy any more, or, for that matter, had ever liked him. She had invited him before when she was desperate for company. Still, it would be nice to talk PR for a change and find out what was going on in London.

“You can come this weekend,” she said. “I’ll pick you up in Moreton-in-Marsh. Got a girl?”

“No, just little me, sweetie. Still microwaving everything?”

“I’m a proper cook now,” said Agatha severely.

“I’ll get the train that gets in about eleven thirty,” said Roy. “See you then. Any murders?”

Agatha thought bitterly of Mary Fortune.

“Not yet,” she said. “Not yet.”

Two

A
gatha was surprised to receive a handwritten invitation to drinks at Mary’s for Friday evening. It had been pushed through the letter-box the day after the horticultural society meeting.

She stared down at it as if it were some species of poisonous insect. She then walked up to her bedroom and surveyed herself in the mirror. Her figure had thickened with all the food she had eaten on her travels, comfort food to combat the loneliness. She looked decidedly matronly. She put the invitation down on the dressing-table and took one of her best dresses out of the wardrobe and, quickly slipping off the old sweater and trousers she was wearing, tried it on. To her relief it seemed to
look
the same, although it felt tight, but when she twisted round and surveyed her back, it was to see with dismay two rolls of fat above the line of her knickers. How could she go to Mary’s and compete with her in any way? That was the trouble about being in one’s fifties.

Unless one’s figure was firmly kept in check at all times, it suddenly began to sag alarmingly and develop nasty rolls of fat.