Agatha Raisin and The Potted Gardener (7 page)

Then the doorbell went, and with a little sigh of relief, she went to answer it. James Lacey stood there. His face was pale and his eyes glittered feverishly.

“I’m sorry, Agatha,” he said. “I’ll need to cancel our dinner. I’ve been so ill. I’ve been to the doctor and he is treating me for food poisoning.”

“Perhaps if you had something to eat you would feel better?” asked Agatha, willing him to recover.

“No, no. I just want to go to bed. I feel like hell. Another time.” And he went off.

Agatha retreated indoors and sat down feeling lost and empty. She had become friends with Mary but now she almost hated her. Mary had entertained James earlier. She had probably slipped him something. Her common sense tried to tell her she was being silly, but her emotions were in a turmoil and she felt she could not bear to have anything to do with Mary again.

Four

D
espite Agatha’s determination not to have anything to do with Mary, a village is a small place and one cannot ignore people the way one can in the city. She could not hold out against Mary’s friendliness, and although James had not repeated his dinner invitation, Agatha felt she no longer had any grounds for silly jealousy.

And then a series of crimes happened, which was to initially draw the villagers together and then drive them apart, as suspicion and fear crept into their normally quiet lives.

Mrs Mason found that her prize dahlias had been uprooted and mangled and stamped into the ground. Mrs Bloxby’s roses had been poisoned by weedkiller, and most of James Lacey’s flowers were no more. Some maniac had doused his garden with petrol and set it alight. And the crimes went on. A nasty hole was dug in Miss Simms’s lawn. Even that old couple, the Boggles, had black paint sprayed on their white rosebush, turning all the roses black. Fred Griggs, the local policeman, tried to cope on his own, but as the list of incidents grew, the CID were called in from Mircester, and so Bill Wong was back at work in Carsely again.

At first, when the crimes against gardens had just started, the Red Lion did a roaring trade, as the customers gathered together to discuss the events, all deciding that hooligans from Birmingham had been descending on the village during the night and spitefully wrecking the gardens. Groups of villagers patrolled the streets at night armed with shotguns. There was a wartime feeling of a community working together against a common evil. It was Mrs Boggle, crouched over a pint in the Red Lion one evening, who administered the first blow to this cosy feeling. “Reckon this would never have happened in the old days. In the old days we didn’t have no newcomers.”

Her elderly voice had been loud. There was a sudden silence. Agatha, standing with Mary at the bar and hoping despite all her good resolutions that James Lacey would come in, felt an almost tangible chill creeping into the communal warmth. And then no one wanted to discuss the outrages with them. Not all at once, but gradually, people began to leave and Agatha and Mary were left alone at the bar.

“Oh, dear,” said Mary. “That wretched old woman.”

The next day, Agatha had more to worry about. Bill Wong called, but not for coffee and a chat. “I have to inspect everyone’s gardens, Agatha,” he said apologetically. “You know, to see if anyone’s been using more weedkiller than they ought or got used cans of petrol stacked anywhere.”

“We’re friends,” protested Agatha desperately. “You know me. I wouldn’t do anything like that!”

“But I’m an honest cop, Agatha, and you can’t expect me to lie. Besides, what have you got to hide?”

“But – ”

“Agatha!”

Miserably, Agatha led him through to the kitchen and unlocked the back door. Bill stared in amazement at the bare garden and then up at the high fence.

“What on earth are you doing?” he asked. “I thought you were a member of the horticultural society.”

“Look, don’t put this in your report, Bill. I planted out my seedlings and they were all killed by the frost. That friend of mine, Roy Silver, put a fence around the garden so that no one could see in. Then just before Open Day – you know, when the village gardens are open to the public – he was going to come down with a load of plants.”

“Cheating again? Led to disaster last time,” said Bill, referring to the time when Agatha had bought a quiche instead of baking it for a village competition and one of the judges had dropped dead of cowbane poisoning.

“There’s no prize for Open Day,” said Agatha. “I just wanted the garden to look pretty. And you’re looking for weedkiller and things. You don’t need to put any of this in your report.”

“No, so long as you don’t have anything incriminating. But I thought you had grown out of this sort of behaviour.” Bill looked at her severely, and although he was only in his twenties he made Agatha feel like a guilty child.

“Don’t moralize. Just get on with your search.”

“I’ll look in the greenhouse because I can see there’s nothing else in the garden.”

Bill searched the greenhouse and then came back. He snapped his notebook shut. “That’s all, then.”

“Stay for a coffee.”

“No, I don’t think so. I’m disappointed in you, Agatha.”

“But I could help you find out who’s been doing this.”

“Just keep out of it and leave it to the police.”

Bill marched through the house and let himself out by the front door without saying goodbye.

Sod him, thought Agatha, hurt and angry. I’ll show him. I’ll find out who’s been doing this. Two murder cases he couldn’t have solved without my help, and this is all the thanks I get. A tear rolled down one cheek and she scrubbed it away with her sleeve.

The atmosphere in the village grew sourer as suspicion began to centre on Mary Fortune, of all people. Although Agatha and James Lacey were also incomers, for some reason Mary became the target, a fact that puzzled Agatha Raisin, for Mary had initially endeared herself to the villagers. The fact that Mary was a superb gardener and that
her
garden had not been touched added fuel to the suspicions. Doris Simpson, Agatha’s excellent cleaner, had been sworn to secrecy about the fenced garden and Bill Wong had not said anything; still, suspicion should have centred on this incomer, who had a garden that nobody saw, yet it was Mary who was the target.

“I don’t understand it,” said Mary plaintively one morning when she called on Agatha. “After all I’ve done for this village!” And Agatha, despite her simmering jealousy of Mary, could not understand it either. And yet, when she went with Mary to the pub, the hostility towards Mary was evident. “I’m sick of this,” said Mary. “As soon as the horticultural show is over, I’m leaving.”

“Surely they won’t be having one now,” said Agatha. “It’s not fair on the ones who have had their gardens destroyed.”

“Oh, all of them, even James, claim they have salvaged enough to at least put one bloom in for the show. What about you, Agatha? What are you submitting?”

“I won’t bother,” said Agatha, thinking guiltily of her bare garden. She had been going to buy something and put it in as her own, but the memory of Bill Wong’s disappointment in her still rankled.

There was a final crime just before the competition which was out of line with the rest. Mr Bernard Spott, the chairman of the horticultural society, that elderly and scholarly gentleman, had his magnificent goldfish poisoned. They were found floating belly-up in the garden pond, as dead as doornails.

As the show approached, the sourness in the village increased but then abated somewhat when it was announced that Mrs Bloxby was to be judge and present the prize for the best. No one could suspect Mrs Bloxby of being anything but fair.

Agatha invited Roy Silver down for the weekend. She did not want to go to the show without any support. James talked to her frequently and even called around for the occasional coffee, but he always seemed preoccupied and somewhat distant and never issued any more invitations to dinner.

Despite her good intentions, Agatha cracked before the show and drove to a nursery in Oxfordshire and bought a magnificent rosebush, almost blue roses, called Blue Moon. She did not even have to take it out of the pot because other contestants had potted their exhibits.

“You’re learning, or getting back your old evil ways,” said Roy. “Love it, love it. You’ll be a credit to Pedmans.”

And that made Agatha suddenly wish she had not decided to cheat. But old habits die hard and she forgot about her guilt as she walked along to the competition with Roy. The day was sunny and warm. “Do you know,” she said, “I think whoever was playing these nasty tricks was doing it to put other people out of the running. I’ve a feeling that when this show is over, the village will return to its normal calm.” She had told Roy about the attacks on the gardens.

The band was playing, the hall was full of villagers, and the air was heavy with the scent of flowers. There were also stands of home-made cakes and jam and the tea-room at the side of the hall was doing a brisk business. Roses of all kinds seemed to be the favourite flower. To Agatha’s delight, the prize was to be a silver cup. It would look good on her mantelpiece.

Mrs Bloxby began the judging. She walked from exhibit to exhibit, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on the end of her nose. She stopped before Agatha’s and stood very silent for a moment. Then she looked directly at Agatha with her mild questioning eyes. To Agatha’s horror, she felt herself beginning to blush all over. The blush started somewhere at her toes and worked its way up to her face in a great surging tide of red.

Roy suddenly muttered under his breath as Mrs Bloxby moved on and he leaned past Agatha and whipped something off the pot. “What are you doing?” whispered Agatha.

“There was a little label there with the name of the nursery,” hissed Roy.

“Oh, God. Do you think Mrs Bloxby saw anything?”

“Probably not. But you’re slipping, dearie. The crafty old Aggie would never have done anything stupid like that.”

“Let’s get a cup of tea,” said Agatha. “It’s too agonizing waiting for a decision.”

In the tea-room, James and Mary were sitting side by side. They saw Agatha and Roy and called them over.

“At least nothing awful has happened,” said Agatha as she sat down and Roy went up to the counter to buy them both tea. “I almost expected some maniac with a flame-thrower to burst into the hall,”

“That little Chink friend of yours has been poking around all our gardens,” said Mary languidly.

Agatha looked at her in irritation. “I sometimes can’t make you out, Mary,” she said. “You’re as nice as anything and then you come out with some rather nasty remark. My friend, Bill Wong, is half Chinese. His mother is from Evesham. I do not like hearing anyone call him a little Chink.”

Mary laughed. “I think you’re sweet on him, Agatha. I think I’ve found the Chink in your armour.” Her glance moved to the approaching Roy. “You do like them young.”

“Don’t bitch me, Mary,” said Agatha, her eyes narrowing. “I’ve been bitched by experts.”

There was a silence as Roy set down the teacups. His eyes darted from one to the other. “Well, aren’t we the jolly party,” he said. “Who do you think is going to win?”

“I’m fed up with the whole thing,” said James Lacey, suddenly angry. “This used to be one of the best villages in Gloucestershire, the friendliest. Now it’s all spoilt!” He left abruptly, slamming the door behind him.

“What was all that about?” asked Mary, her blue eyes at their widest.

“You didn’t help the general atmosphere by your remarks,” retorted Agatha.

Mary suddenly smiled, a warm smile. “I’m sorry, Agatha. You’re right. I was bitchy. I’m just knocked off beam by all the hostility towards me in this village. It’s just so unfair.”

“Why you?” asked Roy.

“I’m an incomer.”

“So’s Aggie here.”

“Well, they’ve singled me out as the mad garden destroyer. After all I’ve done!”

“They’ll get over it,” said Agatha.

“I don’t think I’ll wait around to see it happen.” Mary got to her feet. “I’d better go and make my peace with James.”

“She a friend of yours?” asked Roy when Mary had left.

“Yes, I suppose she is. She was a bit bitchy while you were getting the tea, but I suppose the strain is getting to her.”

“She looks like megabitch-woman to me,” said Roy. “You’re slipping, Aggie. In London, you would have given old plastic face a wide berth.”

But in London, thought Agatha, all those years in London, I didn’t know how to make friends. My work was my friend. So I try to make the best of people.

“It’s different in a village,” she said. “It’s not like London, when you don’t even know your neighbours.” A London, she thought, suddenly and bleakly, that she would be returning to all too soon. Would James miss her? Probably wouldn’t notice she had gone.

The microphone in the hall gave that preparatory whine that it always seems to make at amateur functions, and then Mrs Bloxby’s voice could be heard announcing that she was about to name the prizewinner.

Agatha and Roy hurried into the hall and joined the crowd standing in front of the platform.

Mrs Bloxby picked up the silver cup. I wonder if they will engrave it for me, thought Agatha, or whether I have to get it done myself.

“The first prize,” said Mrs Bloxby, “goes to…”

I should have prepared a little speech, thought Agatha.

“…Mr Bernard Spott for his roses. Come up, Mr Spott.”

Probably poisoned his goldfish himself to make him look innocent, Agatha decided in a sudden rush of bile. Probably damaged all those other gardens to put everyone else out of the running.

But as elderly Mr Spott, his face pink with gratification, went up to the platform, her new better nature took over and she began to applaud, and everyone else followed suit.

Mr Spott took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and went up to the microphone.

“Friends,” he began, and then droned on about how grateful he was.

“The old bugger had a speech prepared,” marvelled Roy.