'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 like a village policeman, stolid, red-faced. One almost expected him to say, 'Ello, 'ello, 'ello. What 'ave we 'ere?' But he was a shrewd and clever man in his slow way.
'Where's the body?' he asked.
James unfolded his length from the sofa. 'I'll show you.'
Agatha looked longingly at the drinks trolley in the corner. She felt a stiff brandy might help her to pull herself together. Just as she was wondering whether she could risk pouring one by wrapping a handkerchief around the bottle, the CID arrived. Detective Sergeant Bill Wong was part of the group. Behind them came more cars. Pathologist, doctor, forensic team, police cameraman, and the press from the local newspaper, whose enterprising editor listened in on the police radio.
Bill Wong looked at Agatha's tear-stained face and, thinking she was mourning Mary, said with quick compassion, 'You go on home, Agatha. We'll be along to take a statement later. You found the body?'
'Yes, me and James Lacey.'
'Is he here?'
'Yes, with the body.'
'Right. He'll do for now. I'll get one of my men to take you home.'
And Agatha was at such a low point that she let a policeman put a strong arm about her and lead her away.
Five
Agatha sat nursing a glass of brandy in one hand and a lighted cigarette in the other. She noticed with a numb clinical interest that her hands were shaking slightly. She wished now she had stayed at Mary's. Her home was so quiet under its heavy thatched roof, unusually quiet. Mostly the old house creaked comfortably as it settled down for the night.
Who could have done such a thing? What had she ever known of Mary? What had she ever really known of James Lacey, for that matter? He was intelligent, handsome, in his mid-fifties, a retired colonel who had settled in the country to write military history. They had investigated a previous murder together. She knew he could be resourceful and quite ruthless in dangerous circumstances. They had talked together quite a lot then, but about books and plays, about the murder case, about people in the village. What really made him tick? Would
But whoever had done the murder had probably also mined those gardens and she could not believe for a minute that James would do something as petty and spiteful as that. It all centred on gardening, of that she was sure. Therefore, her mind ran on, whoever had destroyed the gardens and poisoned Mr Spott's fish and then murdered Mary was quite mad, and viciously so. It had not been enough just to knife Mary or strangle her. Someone had been evil enough to want her humiliated in death. Please, God, let it be someone from Mary's past.
The sound of a car drawing up outside interrupted her thoughts. She stubbed out her cigarette and carefully put her brandy glass down on a side-table, noticing with an odd sort of pride that her hands had stopped shaking. She went to answer the door. Bill Wong stood there with a policewoman.
'I'll take an initial statement from you, Agatha,' he said, 'and then I would like you to report to headquarters in Mircester tomorrow while we go through it again. I have asked Mr Lacey to come as well, so perhaps you can travel in together.'
Agatha led Bill and the policewoman into the living-room. 'Would you like coffee?'
The policewoman sat down demurely on a hard chair in the corner of the room and flicked open her notebook. 'Not this time,' said Bill.
'No tape recorder?'
'We'll tape your statement tomorrow, have it typed up and read it back to you. So begin at the beginning.'
Agatha spoke of the start of the evening in the pub and how James had become anxious over Mary's non- appearance. She described how they had called at the cottage and found the door unlocked, gone inside, searched, and then found the body in the small conservatory.
'It would take someone of considerable strength to hoist a dead body up like that,' ventured Agatha.
'Perhaps,' said Bill. 'The forensic chaps have taken the rope away, along with every speck of dust in that house. It's amazing what they can find out these days. Now who else was in the pub when you left with Mr Lacey?'
Agatha wrinkled her brow. 'Let me see. James and I were talking to Mr Galloway. Miss Simms was over at the bar with old Mr Spott. Mrs Mason and her husband were at the bar as well, and those pests, the Boggles, were complaining about the strength of the beer in another corner. In front of the fire was my cleaner, Doris Simpson, and her husband.' She half closed her eyes and continued to list the villagers. 'Oh, and there was one stranger, on his own, at the far left of the bar.'
'What did he look like?'
'Early twenties, jeans, designer stubble, thick sandy hair worn in a pony-tail, nondescript face. You know, two eyes, one nose, one mouth. I only noticed him because he was the only stranger there. He seemed to be waiting for someone. This is all a vague impression. You see, I was talking to James.'
'Yes, I see what you mean,' said Bill with a faint twinkle in his eyes. 'Now, when you both approached Mrs Fortune's cottage, did you meet anyone?'
