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

the front porch. James rang the bell, which echoed off into the dark silence of the house.
    Down in the road behind them, a young couple walked home. The girl laughed, a high, shrill giggle. Their footsteps and voices died away, leaving night silence behind.
    “That’s that,” said Agatha cheerfully. “We’ve done our bit for community life. Now back to the pub.” With any luck, she thought, the crowd might have thinned out and she could have James to herself.
    He hesitated. He tried the door handle. It turned easily and the door swung open. “She might be ill.” He walked inside and Agatha reluctantly followed him. He fumbled around for the light switch in the hall. With a little click the small hall became flooded with light, intensifying the odd feeling of emptiness, of loneliness, in the house. They walked through the rooms, switching on the lights. No one in either the living-room, dining-room or kitchen.
    James ran up the stairs, calling, “Mary! Mary!” Agatha stood in the hall, waiting uneasily. She had never considered herself a fey or even a sensitive person, but as she stood there she began to feel a creeping unease.
    “Not home,” said James, coming back down the narrow staircase.
    “There’s her conservatory at the back,” said Agatha. “We may as well make a proper job of it.” Afterwards she was to wonder at her sudden persistence when a moment before all she had wanted to do was forget about the whole thing and return to the pub with James. After a brief and sharp struggle with the planning authorities, Mary had gained permission to have a small conservatory attached to the back of the house.
    They walked through the kitchen and James opened the conservatory door and switched on the light. A wave of steamy moist air greeted them. Mary grew tropical plants. They walked into the middle of the conservatory and stood still, shoulder to shoulder. All was still. “Let’s go,” said James.
    And then Agatha said in a choked voice, “Look! Look over there!”
    And James looked.
    Someone had planted Mary Fortune.
    Her head was not visible; it was covered in earth. Someone had hung her upside down by her ankles and buried her head in earth in a large earthenware pot. There were hooks on the ceiling beams for hanging plant pots. Someone had tied her ankles with rope and slung her up on to one of these hooks. She was dressed in that inevitable colour of green; green sandals, green blouse, and green shorts.
    “Cut her down!” Agatha’s voice was harsh with horror.
    But James was bending over Mary and feeling for any life in the pulse at her neck and in her wrist.
    He straightened up. “Leave everything as it is for the police. She’s been murdered and she’s stone-dead.”
    “Murder!”
    “Pull yourself together, Agatha,” he said sharply. “She didn’t plant herself. I’ll phone.”
    He left the conservatory. Agatha gave one last horrified look at the body and scrambled out after him on shaky legs.
    James was in the living-room. He called Fred Griggs and then sat down heavily on the sofa and clutched his thick hair with both hands. “It’s terrible…terrible,” he said. “I slept with her, you know.”
    Agatha, already overset, sat down and began to cry weakly. “Don’t cry,” he said gruffly. “She cannot feel anything now.”
    But Agatha was crying from a mixture of shock and shame. All her feelings for James now seemed like some sort of dismal schoolgirl crush. She had always thought that he led a monkish life, shy of women, always unattached, and because she herself had not indulged in an affair for some time, she had found it easier to dream about him as romantically as a schoolgirl. She had been jealous of his friendship with Mary, but she had considered it just that – friendship, with a bit of light flirtation, nothing more. But he had lain in Mary’s bed and in Mary’s arms. Her mind writhed under the weight of her miserable thoughts.
    PC Griggs lumbered in. He looked