put it in as her own, but the memory of Bill Wong's disappointment in her still rankled.
There was a final crime just before the competition which was out of line with the rest. Mr Bernard Spott, the chairman of the horticultural society, that elderly and scholarly gentleman, had his magnificent goldfish poisoned. They were found floating belly-up in the garden pond, as dead as doornails.
As the show approached, the sourness in the village increased but then abated somewhat when it was announced that Mrs Bloxby was to be judge and present the prize for the best. No one could suspect Mrs Bloxby of being anything but fair.
Agatha invited Roy Silver down for the weekend. She did not want to go to the show without any support. James talked to her frequently and even called around for the occasional coffee, but he always seemed preoccupied and somewhat distant and never issued any more invitations to dinner.
Despite her good intentions, Agatha cracked before the show and drove to a nursery in Oxfordshire and bought a magnificent rosebush, almost blue roses, called Blue Moon. She did not even have to take it out of the pot because other contestants had potted their exhibits.
'You're learning, or getting back your old evil ways,' said Roy. 'Love it, love it. You'll be a credit to Pedmans.'
And that made Agatha suddenly wish she had not decided to cheat. But old habits die hard and she forgot about her guilt as she walked along to the competition with Roy. The day was sunny and warm. 'Do you know,' she said, 'I think whoever was playing these nasty tricks was doing it to put other people out of the running. I've a feeling that when this show is over, the village will return to its normal calm.' She had told Roy about the attacks on the gardens.
The band was playing, the hall was full of villagers, and the air was heavy with the scent of flowers. There were also stands of home-made cakes and jam and the tea-room at the side of the hall was doing a brisk business. Roses of all kinds seemed to be the favourite flower. To Agatha's delight, the prize was to be a silver cup. It would look good on her mantelpiece.
Mrs Bloxby began the judging. She walked from exhibit to exhibit, a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on the end of her nose. She stopped before Agatha's and stood very silent for a moment. Then she looked directly at Agatha with her mild questioning eyes. To Agatha's horror, she felt herself beginning to blush all over. The blush started somewhere at her toes and worked its way up to her face in a great surging tide of red.
Roy suddenly muttered under his breath as Mrs Bloxby moved on and he leaned past Agatha and whipped something off the pot. 'What are you doing?' whispered Agatha.
'There was a little label there with the name of the nursery,' hissed Roy.
'Oh, God. Do you think Mrs Bloxby saw anything?'
'Probably not. But you're slipping, dearie. The crafty old Aggie would never have done anything stupid like that.'
'Let's get a cup of tea,' said Agatha. 'It's too agonizing waiting for a decision.'
In the tea-room, James and Mary were sitting side by side. They saw Agatha and Roy and called them over.
'At least nothing awful has happened,' said Agatha as she sat down and Roy went up to the counter to buy them both tea. 'I almost expected some maniac with a flame-thrower to burst into the hall,'
'That little Chink friend of yours has been 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 something, only
'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
