Read Online Agatha Raisin and The Potted Gardener by M. C. Beaton - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: M. C. Beaton
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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
“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
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