Agatha Raisin and The Potted Gardener

know you were making love to her mother?'

James coloured slightly. 'I don't know. I shouldn't think so. I got the impression that mother and daughter were barely on speaking terms.'

'Let's go anyway. Should we take something? Does one usually take something?'

'Flowers or cake? No, I don't think so. Condolences in hushed whispers seem to be the order of the day.'

Agatha left the living-room after shutting the door carefully behind her and let her cats out into the back garden. She winced as she looked at it. The cats made their way to the one patch of sun that had been able to shine over the high fence.

They made their way to Mary's cottage, each thinking of the last time they had walked there together. They went up the front garden to the glassed-in porch that Mary had had built at the front of the house, in addition to the conservatory at the back. In fact, she had altered and changed the cottage so much, it was hard to remember what a poky little place it had seemed when Mrs Josephs lived there.

For a moment after James had rung the bell, Agatha almost expected Mary herself to answer the door. It suddenly seemed incredible that she was dead, that she had been killed in such a macabre way.

But the door was answered by a girl in her early twenties who did not look at all like Mary. She had brown eyes, a sallow skin, a long thin nose, and a quantity of glossy black hair. She was wearing a man's tartan shirt loose over a pair of brief shorts. Her legs were very long, very white, and quite hairy.

'Miss Fortune?' asked James.

'Yes?' The girl looked at him curiously and then her eyes moved to Agatha.

'This is Mrs Agatha Raisin, a friend of your late mother. I am James Lacey, also a friend. We came to offer our condolences.'

She stood back. 'You'd better come in.'

In the living-room, her boyfriend, John Deny, was slouched in an armchair. In the way of modern youth, Beth did not bother introducing them. 'Coffee or tea?' she asked.

'Neither,' said Agatha quickly, not wanting a moment to be lost while Beth disappeared into the kitchen. 'Have the police found out how your mother died?' she asked.

'Someone poisoned her first with weedkiller and then strung her up,' said Beth. Her eyes were dry and her voice hard and rather impatient, with an underlying faint twang of an American accent.

'Don't worry,' said James. 'The police will soon find out who did it.'

'How?' asked John Deny, speaking for the first time.

'There must be loads of clues,' said James. 'There's the rope which tied her, the weedkiller, surely lots of things.'

'The rope,' said Beth, 'was old-fashioned Woolworth's-type clothes-line, probably bought a long time ago, for all you can get now is the plastic stuff. There were no fingerprints at all apart from those of the two who found the body.' Her eyes widened a fraction. 'Oh, that was you two, wasn't it?'

Agatha nodded. There was something almost intimidating about Beth's self-possession. 'Will your father be arriving for the funeral?' she asked.

'Shouldn't think so. He hated Mother.'

'So he's still in America?'

'Yes, Los Angeles.'

'Have you heard from him?'

'He phoned a few days ago and asked if he could help...financially. But Mother left me comfortably off.'

'What does he do for a living?'

'He's a...' Beth's eyes narrowed. 'Look, it's kind of you to call, but I am fed up with journalists and their cheeky questions and I don't have to put up with being grilled in my own living-room.'

'Sorry,' mumbled Agatha.

James began to talk soothingly of Mary's work for the horticultural society and how much she had been liked by the villagers. Agatha took a covert look around. Mary's living-room had been altered already. The green wallpaper had been painted over, so that the walls were a uniform white. A lot of the little china ornaments which Mary had displayed on the mantelpiece and side-tables had gone. There were new bookshelves in the corner, or rather planks on bricks holding a great quantity of books. The green fitted carpet had been covered with faded and worn Persian rugs. The green curtains had been taken down and replaced with Venetian blinds. Beth or John Deny had tried to take as much green out of the room as possible.

'And are you a gardener yourself, Miss Fortune?' Agatha realized James was asking.

'No, I can't be bothered. I took all those plants out of the conservatory and got a friend in Oxford who likes all that sort of tropical junk to take them away. I switched off the heating. The conservatory will make a good study.'

'So you plan on staying here?' asked Agatha.

Beth gave her a hard look. 'Why not?'

'I assumed you would have rooms in Oxford,' said Agatha weakly.

'Of course. But these are the university holidays, or had you forgotten?' Beth suddenly rounded on James. 'Wait a bit. Did you say your name was James Lacey?'

'Yes.'

'I want a word with you in private. John, show Mrs Raisin out.'

There was nothing Agatha could do but get up and take her leave. Outside in the porch, John looked down at her. 'I've heard of you,' he said. 'You're the village Nosy Parker. Don't come round here again.'

Agatha walked off as stiff as an outraged cat.

When she returned home, her cleaner, Doris Simpson, was there. 'See, there's a bit in the newspapers this morning about Mrs Fortune's husband.'

'Rats!' Agatha seized the papers and sat down at the kitchen table and flicked through them. The American correspondent of the Daily Mail had interviewed Barry Fortune, Mary's ex. He was quoted as saying he was sorry to learn about such a terrible murder. He said he and Mary had separated amicably fifteen years ago. He had married again. He owned a chain of video-rental shops. If I had only checked the newspapers before I went out this morning, thought Agatha, it would have saved me from asking unnecessary questions.

'And here's your post,' said Doris, putting a small pile of envelopes on the table.

Agatha flicked through it. There was one from a lawyer's office in Mircester. The name was in prim black letters on the outside of the envelope, Carter, Bung and Desmond. Agatha opened it and her eyebrows rose in surprise. It concerned the late Mrs Mary Fortune's will. If she would call at their offices, she would learn something to her advantage.

'Come back, Doris,' she called.

The cleaner came back into the kitchen. 'I'm sorry for those kitties of yours, Agatha,' she said. 'Not much fun playing in that Gulag you've got out there.'

'Open Day's not far off,' said Agatha. 'The fence will be lowered then. You haven't told anyone about it?'

'Course not! What do you want to see me about?'

'This.' Agatha held out the letter.

Doris read it slowly. 'There's a surprise.'

'I wouldn't have thought she would have left me anything either.'

'That's not what surprises me.'

'What, then?'

'She didn't know you that long. I would think she would have already made out a will. Why change it to put in something in your favour? I mean, did she know she was going-to die?'

'That's a thought.'

The doorbell rang. 'That'll be James,' said Agatha, still looking at the letter. 'Could you get it, Doris?'

The cleaner glanced at her quizzically. Normally Agatha would have rushed upstairs to put on fresh make-up or a clean dress.

When James came into the kitchen, Agatha handed him the letter. 'Oh, that,' he said, sitting down next to her. 'I got one of those this morning.'

'You might have told me.'

'I felt awkward about it, under the circumstances.'