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

leaned over and said, “I was talking to Fred Griggs and he says they still don’t have a clue who was responsible for wrecking those gardens. I thought you would have tracked down the culprit by now, Mrs Raisin.”
    I’ll maybe get to work on it.” Agatha preened a little. “The police don’t seem to be doing much of a job.”
    “Where’s Mary?” asked James.
    Mr Galloway scratched his thatch of hair.
    “I dunno,” he said. “Maybe herself is prettifying to make an appearance.”
    “It is odd, all the same,” pursued James to Agatha’s distress. “I’m unhappy about this stupid dislike for Mary. To think she had anything to do with wrecking gardens is madness.”
    “Not as if she won any prizes,” commented Agatha maliciously.
    “That was a strange thing,” said Mr Galloway. “We all thought herself would take the first with those dahlias of hers.”
    “I thought no one wanted her to win,” said James.
    “Aye, but Mrs Bloxby was doing the judging and Mrs Bloxby woundnae be fashed by gossip.”
    “Another drink, James? Mr Galloway?” Agatha felt they had talked about Mary for long enough.
    But just as Mr Galloway was beginning to say, “That’s very kind of you,” James rose to his feet. “I think I’ll walk up to Mary’s cottage and see if she’s coming.”
    Agatha rose as well. “I’ll go with you. Get you a drink when I return, Mr Galloway.”
    As they walked together through the still-balmy summer night, Agatha could not help wishing they were walking out together and not going to visit some blonde. The gossip in the village relayed by Doris Simpson was that Mary and James were only casual friends and that he did not visit her cottage or take her out for dinner any more. Agatha began to wonder what she really knew of Mary. Jealousy had coloured her opinion, clouded her judgement. So, she had decided, let’s look at Mary objectively. Take jealous thoughts away, and Agatha had to admit to herself that Mary was a very attractive woman with a certain warmth and charm. And yet sometimes, through that warmth and charm, there sparked little darts of…malice? Uncomfortable remarks. The remark she had made about Bill had been downright bitchy, and it was not like her to slip up like that.
    James looked down at her quizzically. “Not like you to be so quiet.”
    “I was thinking about Mary,” said Agatha. “I was thinking that I don’t really know her very well.”
    “That’s surprising. I thought the pair of you were the best of friends.”
    “Well…” Agatha realized with surprise that she had accepted Mary’s friendship only to look for ways to make sure that the coolness between her and James stayed that way. “What do you really know of her?” she asked.
    “Come to think of it, not much. I know she was married because she’s got a daughter studying at Oxford, St Crispin’s, I think.”
    “I’ve never seen her daughter, and she never talks about her.”
    “The daughter never visits her, even in the holidays. I assumed there was some sort of family rift there, so I didn’t ask any questions. I also assumed that what you saw was what you got – perfect cook, perfect gardener, perfectly turned out. Then she has charm, and charm always stops you from seeing the person underneath.”
    Not like me, thought Agatha. What you see is definitely what you get. And she longed for charm or mysterious depths.
    They were approaching Mary’s cottage. “No lights,” said James. “Maybe she’s gone out, Oxford or somewhere.”
    “That’s another thing,” said Agatha. “She never does leave the village, except perhaps when she is dining with you.”
    “Well, let’s see if she’s at home.”
    Instead of going around the back, as was usual village practice except at homes like Agatha’s, they walked up through the front garden where flowers, bleached by the moonlight, crowded the borders on either side of the lawn. The air was heavy with the scent of the flowers. They walked into