Agatha Raisin 03 (1994) - The Potted Gardener Read online

  “We have found,” said Agatha, “that contrary to what we both thought, she was not all that popular.”

  “You amaze me.”

  “It seems she had a way of riling people up. Did you experience any of that?”

  “No.” He looked bewildered. “She was always kind to me.”

  “To go on to another matter,” said James, “have you any idea who poisoned your goldfish?”

  “No, and our police force are inept, to say the least. I wrote to the chief constable to complain about Fred Griggs.”

  “That’s not fair,” protested James. “Fred’s a good man.”

  “Tcha! What crime has he ever had to deal with? Those murders we had here before, it was the CID who solved them.”

  “It was more Agatha here than the CID,” corrected James. “Besides, the CID have been investigating the garden sabotage and they haven’t come up with anything, so it’s not fair to blame Fred.”

  “He knows the people in this village. He should have come up with something,” said Bernard mulishly.

  “So,” said Agatha helplessly, “you have absolutely no idea who might have poisoned your fish or who might have murdered Mary?”

  “No, and if you will both take my advice, you will leave the whole thing to the police.”

  “But you just said the police weren’t doing a good job!”

  He stood up as a sign that he wanted them to leave. “I do not mind being interviewed by the police,” said Bernard. “I accept that as one of the more unpleasant duties of being a British subject. Coming from you, however, it seems like vulgar curiosity.”

  There somehow did not seem to be anything to reply to that.

  As they walked away from the cottage, Agatha said, “I’ll find out what I can, and then I’ll meet you at the Red Lion.”

  As they turned into Lilac Lane, Agatha exclaimed, “There’s Beth waiting on your doorstep.”

  They hurried towards her. She held out a couple of books as they came up to her. “I just remembered my mother saying something to me about your interest in the Napoleonic wars, Mr Lacey, and wondered if these books might interest you.”

  “How very kind.” James glanced at the titles. “Diaries! Where did you get these?”

  “I borrowed them from the college. History is my subject.” She smiled at him suddenly and that smile gave her face something like beauty.

  “Come inside,” said James. “We’ll have coffee.”

  “I’d like that,” said Beth, “but I would like to talk to you in private as well.” She looked at Agatha.

  “See you later, James,” said Agatha and went slowly along to her own house, burning with curiosity.

  She had just fed her cats when her doorbell rang. She was expecting to see James, come to report on Beth’s visit, but it was Bill Wong who stood there.

  “Oh,” said Agatha, that ‘oh’ being a little dying fall of disappointment. She reminded herself about her new-found freedom from emotional involvement with James and invited Bill in.

  “I’ve come to ask you about Mrs Bloxby,” said Bill.

  “Can’t you ask Mrs Bloxby about Mrs Bloxby?”

  “Don’t be defensive, Agatha. I could tell she had told you something.”

  Agatha stared at him for a long moment as she remembered something that Mrs Bloxby had told her, not about Mary’s disparaging remarks or about the horticultural show; something she should have told Bill.

  “I’ve just remembered,” said Agatha.

  “I don’t believe that, but out with it.”

  “Mary got Mr Bloxby, the vicar, to take her confession.”

  “Now that is something. Something must have been troubling her badly. I mean, the vicar doesn’t normally take confessions, does he?”

  “No, but he’ll listen to anyone in trouble.”

  “I’d better go and ask him. I wonder what it was about.”

  It was about making a pass at him, thought Agatha, but there might have been something else there.

  Bill left and Agatha prepared herself an early-evening meal. She wondered how Beth and James were getting along, and the more she wondered, the more she worried. Why had Beth, who had been so rude, done such an about-face as to offer books to her mother’s ex-lover?

  Eight

  Bill Wong drove along to the vicarage. It was, he reflected, not like going to see a Roman Catholic priest. It had not been a formal confessional, surely, and the vicar was not High Church of England.

  Mrs Bloxby welcomed him. “I always expect to see our Mrs Raisin with you,” she said, ushering him in. “What can I do for you?”

  Bill stood in the shadowy hall of the vicarage. “Actually, it was your husband I came to see.”

  “Alf’s in the church.”

  “What is he doing?”

  Mrs Bloxby looked surprised. “Praying, I suppose. You can step over. He’s never very long.”

  Bill went back out of the vicarage and walked through the cemetery to the church next door. Huge white clouds were moving slowly above over a large summer sky. It was as if, during a good summer, the skies over the Cotswolds expanded in size, giving the impression of limitless horizons. Old gravestones leaned over the smooth cropped grass of the churchyard, the names faded long ago.

  He went to the side door, pushed it open and walked into the warmth of the old church. The foundations were Saxon but the powerful arches were Norman. It was a simple church, with plain wooden pews and plain glass in the windows, Cromwell’s troops having smashed the stained-glass ones. There was an air of benevolence and calm.

  The vicar was kneeling in the front pew before the altar. What was he praying for? wondered Bill. For the murderer to be caught, or simply for his village to return to its usual sleepy calm?

  As if aware of a presence behind him, the vicar rose and turned around.

  “Mr Wong, is it not?” he said, walking down the aisle towards the detective. “May I be of assistance?”

  His scholarly face was gentle and kind.

  “Perhaps we could talk outside?” suggested Bill, thinking obscurely that discussion of a nasty murder should take place outside the church.

  “Very well.” They walked outside and sat down together on a mossy table gravestone, feeling perhaps that the last resting place of someone who had died no doubt respectably in his bed many centuries before was a more suitable place to get down to business. “I suppose you want to ask me about the murder,” said the vicar.

  “I learned that Mrs Fortune had asked you to take her confession.”

  Bill waited nervously for a disclaimer or a demand as to how he had come by such a piece of gossip. But Alf Bloxby had lived long enough in rural villages to know that one has not much private life at all.

  “Yes,” he said simply.

  “You must understand that in view of the circumstances, I must ask you what she said.”

  “I suppose you must. If there had been anything of the real confessional about it, I might refuse to tell you, but the matter is very simple. It amused Mrs Fortune to see if she could lay a priest.”

  “Do you mean…”

  “Oh, yes, what is it they say these days? She came on to me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I am not, I think, a vain man in that respect. We were in my study. She sat down on my lap and wound her arms about my neck and tried to kiss me.”

  “And what did you do?” asked Bill, fascinated.

  “I said, if I remember rightly, ‘Mrs Fortune, your figure belies your weight. You are, in fact, a heavy woman, and your weight is giving me a cramp in my left leg.’ She got up and sat opposite me. I told her I had a great deal to do about the parish and so would she get to the point of her visit. She said she had sinned. I asked her in what way. She said she had been having an affair with Mr Lacey. The only reason I tell you this is because the affair was well known in the village.

  “I pointed out that as Mr Lacey was a bachelor and she a divorced woman, what they did together wa
s no concern of mine. I even ventured to lighten the atmosphere by suggesting she had seen too many old Hollywood movies. You know, where the heroine says, ‘Father, I have sinned.’

  “She became a trifle incoherent in her explanations, but I gathered that I was supposed to talk to James Lacey and suggest he marry her. Perhaps her time in the States had given her a rather naive and old-fashioned view of what goes on in English villages. I said that whether he married her or not was entirely up to Mr Lacey.

  “Mrs Fortune was a fascinating contradiction. On the surface, she appeared a witty and mondaine woman. After talking to her, I came to the conclusion that she was really quite stupid, a trifle common, and possibly mentally unbalanced. ‘Common’ is probably an old-fashioned word. I do not mean she was of low class, rather that there was a streak of coarseness in her.”

  “But would you say,” asked Bill, tilting back his head to look at a flock of pigeons wheeling over the churchyard, “she would be capable of driving anyone hitherto considered normal to commit a brutal and fantastic murder?”

  “Yes, I think she could.”

  “Come, Vicar, do you mean to tell me she gave you murderous thoughts?”

  “No, she embarrassed me considerably. What I have told you is mere speculation. My wife has not discussed her with me and yet I know my wife did not like her, and it is a very rare person whom my wife does not like.”

  “So apart from making a pass at you and then wanting you to emotionally blackmail Lacey into marriage, she had no real confession to make? No darker secrets?”

  “No, had she revealed anything of importance, I would tell you. People here talk about some maniac from Birmingham who might have come to rob her, but I firmly believe that one of the villagers is responsible.”

  Bill smiled. “No doubt our Mrs Raisin will be trying to find out who did it.”

  “No doubt,” said the vicar drily. “A most abrasive female, but there must be good in her, for my wife thinks the world of her.”

  “Oh, there’s a lot of good in our Agatha.” Bill got to his feet. He looked down curiously at the vicar, wondering if this cleric was as mild and gentle as he appeared on the surface.

  “If you hear anything you think might relate to this case, Mr Bloxby, please let me know.” The vicar rose as well.

  “Certainly.” He glanced at his watch. “Time for tea. My wife makes an excellent tea. Perhaps you would care to join us?”

  This last was said with such a reluctant politeness that Bill refused.

  The vicar nodded and strode off in the direction of the vicarage. A man of iron, thought Bill, just like his wife, armoured in goodness against the likes of Mary Fortune.

  Agatha sat down in the vicarage that evening and wished she had not come. The discussion was about gardens open to the public. Some of the villagers evidently made extra money for charity by serving teas. Agatha toyed with that idea and then rejected it. The fee for entry to each garden was twenty pence a head. Agatha had not thought before how much to ask and was depressed that her Great Deception was going to bring so little reward. She quite forgot that she was supposed to be putting out feelers to find out what they all thought of Mary Fortune, and became sunk in gloom. A stupid, childish trick was going to cost her six months of slavery for Pedmans in London.

  By the time she went along to the Red Lion, she began to feel that it was just as well that she had been forced into going to London. There was no elation any more at the thought of seeing James. The more one learned about Mary, the more James became diminished in a way, because he had chosen to have an affair with her. The village in the quiet summer’s evening felt alien and almost threatening. Agatha had that old feeling of being on the outside of life looking in. And what did she really know of the private thoughts and lives of these villagers? If the murderer was someone they knew and respected, would they not all band together to protect that person?

  She would have been surprised could she have known that James’s thoughts were running along roughly the same lines. He was feeling isolated as he stood at the bar, surrounded as usual by the easy friendliness of the locals, that peculiar village friendliness which was all on the surface and never really gave anything away.

  He saw Agatha entering the pub and felt relieved. There was something very reassuring and honest in Agatha’s pugnaciousness. When she went to join him, he bought her a gin and tonic and suggested they take their drinks to a table at the corner of the bar. Before, Agatha would have been highly gratified that he preferred her company away from that of the locals, but she could not get rid of the flat, depressed feeling that was assailing her.

  “So how did you get on with Beth?” she asked.

  “She was very charming. And very helpful with those historical diaries. She is a highly intelligent girl.”

  “Where’s the boyfriend?”

  “He’s gone off for a few days to see friends in Oxford.”

  “Did she talk about her mother?”

  “Only to say that they never got on very well and that she blames Mary for the break-up of the marriage. I invited her out for lunch tomorrow because I thought it might be a good idea to get to know her better and that way find out more about her mother. Care to come along?”

  Suddenly Agatha, who had been so sure that she was free at last from any involvement with him, found her temper snapping. She got to her feet. “Don’t be so bloody naive, James,” she said and turned and walked out of the pub. He sat and watched her go, wondering what on earth he had said to annoy her.

  Agatha found the following day dragging slowly along. She could not think of anyone else to call on to ask questions about Mary Fortune. She had caught a glimpse of Bill Wong in the village the day before and she hoped he might call and give her some fresh ideas.

  She made herself a microwaved lunch out of a packet of frozen curry, reverting to her old cooking habits, washed it down with a glass of beer, and had two cigarettes and a strong cup of black coffee for dessert. She could imagine James and Beth cosily ensconced in some pub or restaurant, talking about early nineteenth-century history, getting to know each other better. The girl was a pill, but James had been tricked by Mary Fortune, so who was to say he was not going to be seduced by the daughter?

  The doorbell rang after she had spent half an hour amusing herself by playing with the cats in the garden. She glanced at the clock. Only two. Still, James might, with luck, have cut the lunch short.

  But it was John Deny, Beth’s boyfriend, who stood on the step.

  “Oh, come in,” said Agatha, falling back a pace. “What can I do for you?” He followed her into the living-room and slumped down in an armchair. He was wearing torn jeans and Doc Martens. There was something heavy and threatening about him.

  “I thought you had gone away for a few days,” said Agatha.

  “Obviously that friend of yours, Lacey, thought so too,” said John.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I met a smelly old woman in Harvey’s, that post-office place, and she said something about us outsiders having no morals at all and that Lacey, having screwed the mother, was now out to screw the daughter.”

  “I cannot imagine,” said Agatha, correctly identifying the culprit, “that old Mrs Boggle would use that sort of language.”

  “That’s what it amounted to. What gives?”

  “Beth and James share a common interest in history.”

  “Is that what it is?” he sneered. “I don’t think your friend Lacey has any interest in Beth’s knowledge of history. I think, along with you, he’s the village snoop. Beth’s got enough on her plate without being manipulated by a couple of middle-aged Miss Marples, Leave her alone.”

  “Whatever happened to the modern woman?” asked Agatha sweetly. “Is Beth not allowed to make up her own mind about who she sees?”

  “She can’t make up her mind about anything, the state she’s in. Also, she’s rich now, and I don’t want any middle-aged Lothario chasing her to get his hands on her money
or, for that matter, his hands up her skirt.”

  “Bugger off, pillock,” said Agatha wearily.

  He stared at her in amazement.

  “You heard,” snarled Agatha. “You probably murdered Mary Fortune yourself, come to think of it.” She stood up. He stood up as well and loomed over her threateningly.

  “This is a nasty village full of nasty people,” he said. “And an old wrinkly like you is one of the nastiest. Tell Lacey to keep away from her.”

  “Tell him yourself,” said Agatha. “Now get out.”

  The doorbell rang. Agatha went to answer it, but he blocked her way.

  “I haven’t finished with you yet,” he said.

  The front door, which Agatha had not locked, opened, and to her relief Bill Wong walked in. He saw Agatha standing with her eyes blazing and her hands clenched. He saw John Deny glaring down at her.

  “Trouble, Agatha?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Agatha. “Mr Deny has just been threatening me.”

  “Indeed? Well, Mr Deny, you come with me and we’ll have a talk about this. Come along.”

  John shouldered his way past Agatha. “I’ll get you for this, you old trout,” he said.

  Agatha sat down weakly when they had gone. She then began to worry about her burglar-alarm system. It had gone on the blink while she had been away on holiday and she had done nothing about phoning up the security people. But part of the security system was that outside lights went on all around the cottage when anybody approached and she did not want her back garden floodlit when Roy and his men arrived to put in the plants. But right after that, she would get it fixed.

  She turned on the television set and stared blankly at a movie, the kind which tried to make up for lack of script with exploding cars and blasting guns.

  At first she did not hear the doorbell above the noise and then a sudden cessation in the shooting and screaming brought it to her ears and she scrambled to her feet and went to answer it.

  “Why didn’t you just walk in like last time?” she asked Bill Wong, who stood there grinning at her.