Read Online Agatha Raisin and The Potted Gardener by M. C. Beaton - Free Book Online
Authors: M. C. Beaton
Ads: Link
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
“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
Similar Books
