Free Agatha Raisin and The Potted Gardener by M. C. Beaton

something, only he remembered to take the name of the nursery off the pot.”
    “Shhh!” admonished Agatha. Surely she would get third prize.
    “And the third prize goes to Miss Simms for her Busy Lizzies.”
    “Rats,” said Agatha. At least neither James nor Miss Simms felt obliged to make speeches.
    “That’s that,” said Roy. “Fun over. Let’s go somewhere for a late lunch.”
    “Perhaps James might come to lunch with us?” suggested Agatha.
    “Get real, Aggie,” said Roy brutally. “He’s not interested in you.”
    Agatha felt old and depressed as she followed Roy out of the hall. Her life stretched before her one long and dusty road to the grave. Nothing would ever happen again to make her happy or excited or interested. She looked back at the villagers and felt like an outsider, a stranger, belonging nowhere except perhaps to the Birmingham slum from which she had sprung. And then Miss Simms, flushed and excited, caught up with her. “You’ve got a special ticket on your roses, Mrs Raisin.”
    Surprised, Agatha turned back. There was a little red card in front of her rosebush. Excited, she bent down and read the commendation. “Mrs Agatha Raisin, special commendation for ingenuity.”
    Roy read it at the same time. “Oh, wicked Mrs Bloxby, Aggie. Come away. A plate of steak-and-kidney pie will make you feel lots better.”

    “You know, Roy,” said Agatha as she drove him into Oxford to catch the train on Sunday evening, “I think you should forget this scam about bringing all those plants down. Just do me a favour and send the workmen back to take the top part of the fence off. I’ll buy some plants from a nursery myself and let everyone see me planting them and I won’t open my garden to the public.”
    “Oh, come on. Just because you were stupid enough to leave that nursery label on the pot doesn’t mean you’re going to fail. I’ll be down myself with the truck at two in the morning. Bingo, instant garden. You know yourself nothing moves in Carsely during the night. Besides, I’ve got more news for you. Pedmans is paying for the lot.”
    “Why?”
    “It’s instead of a golden hello.”
    “You mean that little ferret, Wilson, knows I am going to cheat?”
    “Of course not. As far as he is concerned, you just want to beautify your garden. He’s mad keen to get you, Aggie. And the stuff is going to be magnificent.”
    Agatha felt herself weaken. Nothing could go wrong. And Mrs Bloxby might be forced to think she had made a mistake. She did not want to lose respect in the eyes of Mrs Bloxby.
    “Oh, all right,” she said. “But you’d better be there on the great day to help me out.”

    The next night found her among a large crowd in the Red Lion. It was the publican’s, John Fletcher’s, birthday, and he was dispensing free drinks all round. With a lift of the heart, Agatha saw James and went to join him. “I didn’t know it was John’s birthday,” she said guiltily, eyeing the pile of presents on the bar. “Why didn’t anyone tell me?”
    “They probably thought you knew. You were here last year, after all.”
    “Perhaps I should go home and see if I have anything in the house I can give him,” said Agatha, yet not wanting to leave James’s side. She could hardly believe that Mary was not there to monopolize his attention, which she did so well.
    “Congratulations on your prize,” she said. “I didn’t think there was anything left in your back garden after the attack on it.”
    “Well, you can hardly see into it now,” he said. “Not with that great fence you’ve got around it. Why such a high fence?”
    “I’m keeping my plants sheltered.”
    He looked puzzled. “I don’t know how you even managed to grow those roses. That must be what Mrs Bloxby meant by ingenuity.”
    Agatha did not normally like her conversations with James to be interrupted, but she looked up in relief as Mr Galloway, a large Scotsman who ran a garage in a neighbouring village,