Free Pushing Up Daisies by M. C. Beaton

shining down on the huddle of houses that made up the village of Harby.
    Lime Cottage was thatched, and brooded beside the village pond, its two small-paned windows at the front like two eyes. Agatha rapped on the brass knocker.
    The door opened.
    â€œIs Mrs. Feathers at home?” asked Agatha.
    â€œI am Mrs. Feathers.”
    She had two wings of jet black hair tied behind her head. Her perfect face was serene and her eyes fringed with heavy lashes, wide and black. She was wearing a green cashmere sweater over a black velvet skirt. Mrs. Feathers did not look at all like the sort of woman to head an allotment committee.
    Agatha explained who they were and why they had called. “Oh, you’d better come in,” she said.
    She ushered them into a front parlour where a log fire was crackling cheerfully on the hearth. Three of the walls were lined with bookcases. The room was furnished with a comfortable sofa and two wing-backed chairs.
    Agatha was surprised. This was hardly a horny-handed daughter of the soil. In fact, Mary’s hands were soft and white.
    â€œWe want to ask you about the villagers on the allotments,” began Agatha. Charles raised his eyebrows at her because Agatha’s voice had a hectoring note. The fact was that Agatha was feeling diminished by the calm beauty in front of her. She was suddenly aware that she had not repaired her make-up and that the band of her skirt was too tight.
    â€œI can’t think of any of us who would do such a dreadful thing to Mrs. Bull,” she said.
    Her Gloucestershire accent was soft and caressing.
    â€œCertainly not you,” said Charles with a smile, and Agatha glared at him.
    â€œDid Mrs. Bull have an allotment?” asked Agatha.
    â€œNo, but she would often visit and buy vegetables. On Saturdays, various allotment holders set up stands by the road.”
    â€œWas Mrs. Bull disliked?”
    â€œTo be honest, she wasn’t popular. She liked finding out nasty gossip about people.”
    â€œWhere is Mr. Feathers?” asked Charles.
    â€œI am afraid poor Roger died three years ago. Heart attack. Very sudden. But you were asking about Mrs. Bull. The trouble is that she annoyed most of the people in the village. But I cannot think of anyone who would murder her. Besides, it surely took more than one person to take her to the well and throw her down,” said Gloria. “Now, Mr. Sanders at Pear Tree Cottage spends most of his time in his shed on his allotment, Charles. I mean, Sir Charles…”
    â€œCharles, please.”
    â€œWell, Charles, the poor woman must have been screaming her head off.”
    â€œI’ve tried Mr. Sanders,” said Agatha. “He slammed the door. Anyone else?”
    â€œLet me see. Oh, I haven’t offered you anything. Can I get you something?”
    Charles opened his mouth to accept, but Agatha said quickly, “I’m afraid we haven’t time.”
    â€œYou could ask old Mrs. Ryan. Her cottage is at the back of the allotments. She may have heard something.”
    â€œGreat idea!” Agatha got to her feet. “Come along, Charles.”
    Agatha got into the car, but Charles came round, opened the door and said, “Back in a minute. I’ve left something.”
    Oh, no, thought Agatha, watching his retreating back. He didn’t leave anything. He’s going to make a date with her. She peered at her face in the driving mirror. Her eyes looked tired, and there was a tiny wrinkle on her upper lip. Agatha rummaged in her bag and found she had not brought any make-up with her. Gold and red leaves danced on the road in front of the car, and a half-denuded tree raised branches up to the lowering sky as if mourning the loss of summer.
    The year was dying, and with it, Agatha Raisin’s hopes of ever finding a mate. Now that Gerald had walked out of her fantasies with his clay feet leaving hardly any impression on her mind, she did not even have anyone to