Agatha Raisin and the Potted Gardener

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘You forget,’ put in James, ‘that if it hadn’t been for me, you wouldn’t have got on to Bernard in the first place.’

  Agatha’s bearlike eyes fastened on him. ‘What had you got to do with it? Yes, you did say it was Bernard and then immediately went back on it and if I hadn’t insisted on going, if I, I repeat, I hadn’t discovered those graves and dug one up, he’d still be at liberty.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Bill. ‘We found a neatly typed and signed confession to the murder in his desk. It was addressed to police headquarters in Mircester. He’d probably have sent it to us soon enough.’

  ‘Well, I think I did brilliantly,’ said Agatha, ‘and if I don’t say so, who else is going to? Oh, here’s Mrs Bloxby. Mrs Bloxby . . .’

  ‘Margaret.’

  ‘Margaret, I mean. I solve this murder and James and Bill are trying to take the credit away from me.’

  Mrs Bloxby sat down. ‘Such a sad affair. And Bernard had been in this village for quite a long time. Who would have thought it? One never really knows what goes on inside people’s brains. I went up to Bernard’s after his fish had been poisoned to sympathize with him and he shrugged and said, “They were only fish. I can get more.” Bernard Spott was one of the fixtures of the village that no one ever really thought much about. He has a sister, a spinster of seventy-five, called Beryl Spott, who has inherited the cottage. I must warn you, Agatha, that she has already visited the vicarage to say she intends to reside here.’

  ‘Why warn me?’

  ‘She is convinced that her brother was innocent and that you, Agatha, hounded him to his death.’

  ‘Just as well I’m going to London.’

  ‘Must you?’ Mrs Bloxby looked at her sympathetically. ‘Have you a copy of the contract? There might be some clause in it letting you off the hook due to illness or something like that. I mean, if you were ill, you could not go.’

  Agatha brightened. ‘I’ll go and get it. Roy sent me a copy.’

  She went into the house and a short time later returned with the contract. She bent over it and scanned every line and then sighed. ‘No let-out that I can see. I’d better just go and get it over with. It might be fun to be back in harness.’

  ‘You could fail miserably and be a rotten PR,’ said Bill, ‘and then they would be glad to send you home.’

  ‘I couldn’t do that,’ exclaimed Agatha. ‘My pride wouldn’t let me. What about my poor cats, Hodge and Boswell, locked up for six months in a London flat?’

  ‘I’ll take them,’ said James suddenly. ‘I like cats. I’ll look after them until you come back.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Agatha. ‘I’d feel better about things knowing they were with you.’ She brightened. If James had her cats, then she would have plenty of excuses to phone him up to ask how they were.

  ‘And you will be able to come down at weekends, surely,’ said Mrs Bloxby.

  Agatha shook her head. ‘They’ll work me to death. It’ll be weekends as well most of the time.’

  ‘I’ll take care of your garden,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘It’s so lovely, and by the time you return, spring will be here again.’

  Agatha had a sudden thought. ‘Did you ever find out about that couple, Bill? You know, the ones we heard out on the road the night Mary was murdered.’

  ‘Oh, them, it’s hard to believe. After we learned about them, we put out an appeal on television for them to come forward, without any success. Then, after the solution to the murder had been reported in yesterday’s papers, they walked into the police headquarters as bold as brass.’

  ‘Who are they?’ asked James. ‘Why didn’t they come forward before?’

  ‘It was a young fellow who lives on the council estate, Harry Trump, and his girlfriend from Evesham, Kylie Taylor. When asked why they hadn’t come forward before, they said that you could never trust the police and we might have pinned the murder on them. I must go. Call in and see me before you leave for London, Agatha.’

  ‘There’s some time to go before then,’ said Mrs Bloxby, getting to her feet as well.

  After they had left, James said, ‘I’d better be getting along. See you in the Red Lion later, Agatha, and don’t forget you owe me dinner.’

  He bent down to kiss her cheek, but at that moment she turned her head and the kiss landed full on her mouth, a mouth which was warm and tingling. As James straightened up, Agatha looked up at him in a dazed way.

  ‘Goodbye,’ he said abruptly and strode out of the garden.

  Agatha could not quite believe those last weeks before her departure for London. It was like the bad old times. James was polite to her when he met her in the pub, but quite distant. She invited him out for dinner several times but he always had an excuse ready. She began to long for her departure as much as she had so recently dreaded it.

  At last the day arrived and she delivered her cats to James. She had already said goodbye to her other friends. She stood in James’s hallway, the cat baskets at her feet, and said awkwardly, ‘I’m off, then.’

  ‘Have a good time,’ he replied.

  ‘I’ll phone.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Well, er, goodbye.’

  ‘Goodbye, Agatha.’ He held open the door for her.

  Agatha went out stiffly to her car and climbed in. She drove off without looking out of the window. James watched her go. He should not have been so cold towards her but that kiss had alarmed him. He wondered if he would ever get over the shame of his affair with Mary Fortune. He did not even want to think of any emotional entanglement. Perhaps once he was feeling better about himself, he might travel up one day and take her out to lunch. He went back in and stared at the computer screen. It was a cold, windy day and leaves were swirling down from the trees outside.

  The horror had left the village and Carsely was settling down for its long winter sleep, safe and calm and untroubled. And boring, he thought dismally, half his mind still occupied with that forlorn figure of Agatha getting into her car.

  Agatha arrived at Pedmans at Cheapside on the Monday. The receptionist took a note of her name and phoned upstairs. Then she smiled at Agatha. ‘Your secretary, Peta, will be down in a minute.’

  But Agatha waited a whole ten minutes before a lank girl in an Armani trouser suit drifted down the stairs.

  ‘Oh, there you are, sweetie,’ Peta said by way of greeting. ‘Follow me and I’ll show you to your sanctum.’

  Agatha grimly followed her. She looked around a small dark office and bared her teeth. ‘Let’s get one thing straight, Peta,’ she said. ‘When you have informed Mr Wilson that this office is an insult and found me a better one, you will remember to never dare call me sweetie again. I am Mrs Raisin to you at all times. And when you’ve finished doing that, get me a cup of coffee.’

  Peta made a brave stand. ‘We all get our own coffee in this firm. Secretaries are not waitresses, you know.’

  ‘Just do it,’ barked Agatha, ‘or find yourself another boss. Jump to it!’

  And Peta jumped.

  A short time afterwards, Agatha was ensconced in a larger office while Peta silently placed a tray of coffee and biscuits in front of her.

  For one brief moment, Agatha thought of James, of Mrs Bloxby, of her cats, her home, her garden, and closed her eyes in pain.

  Then she opened them again and pulled the phone towards her.

  She was back in business and there was work to be done.

  Carsely could wait.