by M C Beaton
‘The garden looks lovely. I didn’t realize I had so many flowers,’ said Agatha, who could not remember the name of even one of them. ‘I say, this demands a celebration. Why don’t I take you for lunch today?’
‘That would be nice. I’ll go home and change first. What time?’
‘We’ll leave here at twelve thirty.’
‘Right. I’ll get back to work.’
I must play it cool, thought Agatha. She went indoors and phoned a restaurant in Broadway that she knew had tables outside and made a booking for one o’clock.
Charles Fraith had put off contacting Agatha. He was feeling increasingly drawn to her, and he did not like to be emotionally involved with anyone. That Saturday, he decided it would do no harm just to call in and see her. But in the morning, another former girlfriend called on him and he found himself asking her out for lunch instead. She was called Rosamund and was dainty and pretty, not at all like Agatha. But Agatha always exuded a strong air of sensuality of which she seemed completely unaware.
Agatha was almost ready to leave when the phone rang. It was Mrs Bloxby. ‘I’m in a rush,’ said Agatha. She giggled. ‘I’m taking the new gardener to Russell’s in Broadway for lunch.’
‘How kind of you,’ said Mrs Bloxby, repressing a desire to shriek down the line, ‘Not again! Do be careful.’
She said she would call her later.
James Lacey arrived home and flipped through his accumulated post. He put all the bills and circulars to one side. There was one letter for him with a handwritten address. He opened it up. It was from Roy. ‘Dear James,’ he read, ‘Our Agatha has fallen for her gardener. You know what she’s like and the trouble she’s got into in the past by falling for unsuitable men. She knows nothing about this one. Do check up on her. Your dear friend, Roy.’
James was tempted to forget about it, but Agatha had put herself in danger in the past. He went next door, but Agatha’s cottage was empty. He phoned Mrs Bloxby and asked her if she knew where Agatha was.
‘Mrs Raisin has taken her new gardener for lunch at Russell’s in Broadway,’ said Mrs Bloxby, ‘but she should be back home later today.’
James thanked her and rang off. Then he decided it would do no harm just to go to Broadway and have a look at this fellow.
Agatha was enjoying herself. George did not talk much but seemed amused and interested in Agatha’s highly colourful description of the cases she had worked on.
They had just reached the coffee stage when a long shadow fell across their table.
‘Hello, Agatha.’
‘James!’ cried Agatha. ‘Just passing by?’ she added hopefully.
‘May I join you for a coffee?’
‘All right,’ said Agatha in a voice that meant she did not think it was all right one little bit. She made the introductions.
‘Lacey!’ exclaimed George. ‘Not Colonel Lacey?’
‘I’m retired now,’ said James, sitting down.
‘I read your book on military logistics when I was at Sandhurst,’ said George.
‘I’ve got it. George Marston. Major George Marston. I read about you,’ said James. ‘What a hero. You rescued four of your men before you got your foot blown off. How are you doing?’
‘I had to have a whole prosthetic leg from the knee down,’ said George. ‘I manage. How did you meet Agatha?’
‘I live next door and I’m her ex-husband. I hear you’re doing a bit of gardening.’
‘As much as I can get.’
‘I’m right next door to Agatha. You’re welcome to do mine. I usually do it myself, but I haven’t had the time.’
‘I’ll have a look at yours after lunch,’ said George.
‘Tell me about Afghanistan,’ said James. ‘Are we ever going to get out of there?’
‘I don’t know,’ said George. ‘But I’ll tell you what it was like in Helmand before I left.’
Agatha smoked and watched the passing crowds of tourists, feeling forgotten and outside this masculine world of war. And why did James have to come butting in? Their voices rose and fell, naming names of people Agatha did not know. At last George turned to her apologetically and said, ‘I am so sorry. We must be boring you to death.’
‘Not at all,’ said Agatha. ‘How did you find me, James?’
‘Mrs Bloxby told me where you were. I’ve been reading bits about you in the papers. You must have been having an awful time of it. Why don’t I take you out for dinner tonight and we can talk about it?’
‘Sorry, James,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ve got work to catch up on at home.’
James looked surprised and taken aback, remembering the days when Agatha would have jumped at an invitation from him. It was a good thing George had turned out to be all right. Agatha was obviously in the grip of one of her obsessions.
‘Are you still working on Agatha’s jungle?’ he asked.
‘Just about finished,’ said George, ‘apart from a bit of maintenance.’
‘Finished your lunch?’ said James. ‘I’ll follow you back and show you my garden.’
At James’s cottage, Agatha longed to follow them in but did not want to appear too pushy. Men could smell needy across two continents, she thought bitterly.
Charles turned up on her doorstep in the early evening.
‘You can’t stay,’ said Agatha quickly.
‘Why?’
‘I’ve brought a lot of work home from the office and I don’t want to be disturbed.’
‘May I have a drink before you push me out?’
‘Okay. What?’
‘Whisky and water.’
‘Right. Take a seat in the garden.’
Agatha realized as she returned with the drinks that she should never have allowed Charles into the garden.
‘The place looks beautiful,’ he said. ‘Got a new gardener?’
‘Yes.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘Oh, the usual. Grumpy and old, but he does good work.’
Charles found Agatha’s conversation practically monosyllabic and finally got up to leave. ‘See you soon,’ he said.
‘Phone first!’ said Agatha sharply.
‘Come on, Aggie. Who is he?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘It’s Saturday. You’re perfectly made up and that must be the shortest skirt in your wardrobe, not to mention the highest heels.’
‘You’re being silly. Just go.’
Charles was getting into his car when he noticed James standing talking to an extremely handsome man. He strolled over. James made the introductions. ‘We’re both old army men,’ said James, ‘and we’ve been talking most of the day. George has moved into the village. He’s done Agatha’s garden and he’s going to do mine.’
‘Really?’ said Charles. ‘Now, that is interesting.’
‘Why?’ asked George.
‘Oh, nothing.’ But Charles exchanged a sneaking glance with James. It looked as if Agatha was heading for one of her obsessions.
As soon as he had gone, Agatha kicked off her high heels and wriggled her toes. She must make more work for George. He said he did carpentry.
She went upstairs and put on a pair of sneakers, shorts and an old shirt blouse. Then she went downstairs and out into the garden, her cats scampering after her. In the shed, she took out a heavy sledgehammer and a saw and then returned to her sitting room, leaving the cats shut out in the garden.
In her sitting room, along one wall, was a set of wooden bookshelves. She carefully began to take down all the books and pile them on the floor. Then she attacked the shelves with the sledgehammer. They had been well made and she was exhausted by the time she had reduced only half of them to splintered piles of timber.
A ring at the doorbell made her start guiltily. She firmly shut the sitting-room door and answered the front door. ‘Oh, Mrs Bloxby,’ said Agatha. ‘What’s up?’
‘Just a social call. You look all hot and dusty.’
‘Just
clearing out some old books. Come in. Go through to the garden and I’ll bring you a sherry.’
‘It’s turned a bit cold,’ said Mrs Bloxby.
‘Then go to the kitchen,’ snapped Agatha, wishing she hadn’t let her friend in. But her car was outside, and if Mrs Bloxby had not received any reply, she would have started to worry.
Agatha came back with a glass of sherry. ‘I’ll be back in a moment. I’ve got to wash my hands. Sorry. Should have done that before I served you sherry, but it’s just paper dust.’
Mrs Bloxby waited until Agatha had gone upstairs. She looked through the open door of the kitchen to the firmly closed door of the sitting room. Why had Mrs Raisin looked so furtive?
On impulse, she moved quietly across the hall and opened the sitting-room door. She gazed in horror at the mess, at the splintered and shattered bookshelves, before retreating quickly to the kitchen.
She remembered that George Marston had put up a notice in the local shop announcing he did carpentry as well as gardening.
Oh, Mrs Raisin, thought Mrs Bloxby sadly, the things you do for love. And where is this obsession going to lead?
FB2 document info
Document ID: 69d35987-5d31-49af-bc7c-7a4d207c8568
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 7.10.2012
Created using: calibre 0.9.1, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
M.C. Beaton
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