Read Online Agatha Raisin and The Potted Gardener by M. C. Beaton - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: M. C. Beaton
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poking around all our gardens,” said Mary languidly.
Agatha looked at her in irritation. “I sometimes can’t make you out, Mary,” she said. “You’re as nice as anything and then you come out with some rather nasty remark. My friend, Bill Wong, is half Chinese. His mother is from Evesham. I do not like hearing anyone call him a little Chink.”
Mary laughed. “I think you’re sweet on him, Agatha. I think I’ve found the Chink in your armour.” Her glance moved to the approaching Roy. “You do like them young.”
“Don’t bitch me, Mary,” said Agatha, her eyes narrowing. “I’ve been bitched by experts.”
There was a silence as Roy set down the teacups. His eyes darted from one to the other. “Well, aren’t we the jolly party,” he said. “Who do you think is going to win?”
“I’m fed up with the whole thing,” said James Lacey, suddenly angry. “This used to be one of the best villages in Gloucestershire, the friendliest. Now it’s all spoilt!” He left abruptly, slamming the door behind him.
“What was all that about?” asked Mary, her blue eyes at their widest.
“You didn’t help the general atmosphere by your remarks,” retorted Agatha.
Mary suddenly smiled, a warm smile. “I’m sorry, Agatha. You’re right. I was bitchy. I’m just knocked off beam by all the hostility towards me in this village. It’s just so unfair.”
“Why you?” asked Roy.
“I’m an incomer.”
“So’s Aggie here.”
“Well, they’ve singled me out as the mad garden destroyer. After all I’ve done!”
“They’ll get over it,” said Agatha.
“I don’t think I’ll wait around to see it happen.” Mary got to her feet. “I’d better go and make my peace with James.”
“She a friend of yours?” asked Roy when Mary had left.
“Yes, I suppose she is. She was a bit bitchy while you were getting the tea, but I suppose the strain is getting to her.”
“She looks like megabitch-woman to me,” said Roy. “You’re slipping, Aggie. In London, you would have given old plastic face a wide berth.”
But in London, thought Agatha, all those years in London, I didn’t know how to make friends. My work was my friend. So I try to make the best of people.
“It’s different in a village,” she said. “It’s not like London, when you don’t even know your neighbours.” A London, she thought, suddenly and bleakly, that she would be returning to all too soon. Would James miss her? Probably wouldn’t notice she had gone.
The microphone in the hall gave that preparatory whine that it always seems to make at amateur functions, and then Mrs Bloxby’s voice could be heard announcing that she was about to name the prizewinner.
Agatha and Roy hurried into the hall and joined the crowd standing in front of the platform.
Mrs Bloxby picked up the silver cup. I wonder if they will engrave it for me, thought Agatha, or whether I have to get it done myself.
“The first prize,” said Mrs Bloxby, “goes to…”
I should have prepared a little speech, thought Agatha.
“…Mr Bernard Spott for his roses. Come up, Mr Spott.”
Probably poisoned his goldfish himself to make him look innocent, Agatha decided in a sudden rush of bile. Probably damaged all those other gardens to put everyone else out of the running.
But as elderly Mr Spott, his face pink with gratification, went up to the platform, her new better nature took over and she began to applaud, and everyone else followed suit.
Mr Spott took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and went up to the microphone.
“Friends,” he began, and then droned on about how grateful he was.
“The old bugger had a speech prepared,” marvelled Roy.
Mr Spott went on for fifteen minutes, until Mrs Bloxby coughed and pointed to her watch.
“And the second prize,” said Mrs Bloxby, “is to Mr James Lacey for his delphiniums.”
“I thought someone executed the scorched-earth policy on his garden,” said Roy. “Maybe he bought
Agatha looked at her in irritation. “I sometimes can’t make you out, Mary,” she said. “You’re as nice as anything and then you come out with some rather nasty remark. My friend, Bill Wong, is half Chinese. His mother is from Evesham. I do not like hearing anyone call him a little Chink.”
Mary laughed. “I think you’re sweet on him, Agatha. I think I’ve found the Chink in your armour.” Her glance moved to the approaching Roy. “You do like them young.”
“Don’t bitch me, Mary,” said Agatha, her eyes narrowing. “I’ve been bitched by experts.”
There was a silence as Roy set down the teacups. His eyes darted from one to the other. “Well, aren’t we the jolly party,” he said. “Who do you think is going to win?”
“I’m fed up with the whole thing,” said James Lacey, suddenly angry. “This used to be one of the best villages in Gloucestershire, the friendliest. Now it’s all spoilt!” He left abruptly, slamming the door behind him.
“What was all that about?” asked Mary, her blue eyes at their widest.
“You didn’t help the general atmosphere by your remarks,” retorted Agatha.
Mary suddenly smiled, a warm smile. “I’m sorry, Agatha. You’re right. I was bitchy. I’m just knocked off beam by all the hostility towards me in this village. It’s just so unfair.”
“Why you?” asked Roy.
“I’m an incomer.”
“So’s Aggie here.”
“Well, they’ve singled me out as the mad garden destroyer. After all I’ve done!”
“They’ll get over it,” said Agatha.
“I don’t think I’ll wait around to see it happen.” Mary got to her feet. “I’d better go and make my peace with James.”
“She a friend of yours?” asked Roy when Mary had left.
“Yes, I suppose she is. She was a bit bitchy while you were getting the tea, but I suppose the strain is getting to her.”
“She looks like megabitch-woman to me,” said Roy. “You’re slipping, Aggie. In London, you would have given old plastic face a wide berth.”
But in London, thought Agatha, all those years in London, I didn’t know how to make friends. My work was my friend. So I try to make the best of people.
“It’s different in a village,” she said. “It’s not like London, when you don’t even know your neighbours.” A London, she thought, suddenly and bleakly, that she would be returning to all too soon. Would James miss her? Probably wouldn’t notice she had gone.
The microphone in the hall gave that preparatory whine that it always seems to make at amateur functions, and then Mrs Bloxby’s voice could be heard announcing that she was about to name the prizewinner.
Agatha and Roy hurried into the hall and joined the crowd standing in front of the platform.
Mrs Bloxby picked up the silver cup. I wonder if they will engrave it for me, thought Agatha, or whether I have to get it done myself.
“The first prize,” said Mrs Bloxby, “goes to…”
I should have prepared a little speech, thought Agatha.
“…Mr Bernard Spott for his roses. Come up, Mr Spott.”
Probably poisoned his goldfish himself to make him look innocent, Agatha decided in a sudden rush of bile. Probably damaged all those other gardens to put everyone else out of the running.
But as elderly Mr Spott, his face pink with gratification, went up to the platform, her new better nature took over and she began to applaud, and everyone else followed suit.
Mr Spott took a folded piece of paper out of his pocket and went up to the microphone.
“Friends,” he began, and then droned on about how grateful he was.
“The old bugger had a speech prepared,” marvelled Roy.
Mr Spott went on for fifteen minutes, until Mrs Bloxby coughed and pointed to her watch.
“And the second prize,” said Mrs Bloxby, “is to Mr James Lacey for his delphiniums.”
“I thought someone executed the scorched-earth policy on his garden,” said Roy. “Maybe he bought
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