Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘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 pe
ace 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.

  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 o
ut 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.’