Her voice was a bad imitation of Mary's rather drawling accent. 'I bought myself a new pale blue twin set - you remember, Mrs Raisin, you admired it - and I wore it with my pearls to one of the last meetings. Mrs Fortune looked at it and gave a little smile and I suddenly wished I hadn't wasted the money. She had a way of smiling, she had, that seemed to say, 'It doesn't matter what you do, you'll never look like a lady.'
'I spoke to Mrs Bloxby, who told me that no one had been complaining about me being chairwoman. It was the opposite. She heard a lot of praise for me. She told me to think no more about it. But I said I thought Mrs Fortune would make a better chairwoman and Mrs Bloxby said, 'No, that would not do at all.' I was that riled up with Mrs Fortune that when I met her in the village shop, I says to her, I says, 'I asked Mrs Bloxby if anyone had been unhappy with me being chairwoman and she said quite the opposite, so there!' And she looks at me steady- like and then says quietly, 'Mrs Bloxby is such a
'And how soon after that was your garden attacked?' asked Agatha eagerly.
'Wait a minute, I'll need to look at my diary.' She went to a veneered sideboard and drew, a leather-bound book out from the back of a knife drawer. 'Let me see.' She rummaged through the pages. 'Ah, here's the bit about meeting her in the post office part of the village shop.' She flicked over more pages. 'Three days after that, it would be.'
Agatha flashed a triumphant look at James. 'But what's all this to do with that business about the gardens?' asked Mrs Mason.
'We're following up every lead,' said Agatha obscurely.
'So you're playing detective again?'
'I'm not playing,' snapped Agatha. 'I'm deadly serious.'
'You'll find it was one of those hooligans down from Birmingham,' said Mrs Mason. 'No one here would murder anyone for a few nasty remarks. Another scone?'
'The Boggles next?' suggested Agatha reluctantly. 'I mean, someone sprayed their roses black.'
'Must we?' asked James. 'It would be more a case of the Boggles putting Mary's back up than the other way round.'
'I can't stand the Boggles either,' said Agatha, 'but it would be interesting to find out if their roses were attacked shortly after some sort of confrontation with Mary.'
'I think you're barking up the wrong tree, Agatha. All these attacks on the gardens were within days of each other. If they had been more spaced out, there would have been more of a chance to catch the culprit, but they all happened so quickly.'
'Let's try the Boggles anyway. Don't leave me, James. Boggle-interviewing means I need support.'
Mr and Mrs Boggle lived on the council estate at the end of the village. They had bought their council house and named it Culloden, not because either had any interest in the famous Scottish battlefield but because it was a name that had taken their fancy at the local nursery which sold signs for houses.
Usually people in villages have a soft spot for the elderly, and Mr and Mrs Boggle milked this sympathy for all it was worth. They did not go in for subtle blackmail; they demanded days out and trips to town from various people as their right.
'Now remember,' cautioned Agatha, 'if they want an outing, say both our cars are off the road. Go in for blatant lying, or they'll have us driving them to Bath or Bristol or somewhere. I took them to Bath once and it was a nightmare of a day.'
'I think this is a waste of time,' said James uneasily.
'I don't like them either,' said Agatha, 'but they're so blunt, they might turn out to be more useful than anyone nicer.'
James rang the doorbell, which gave a brisk rendering of the 'Post Horn Gallop'. Odd shuffling noises came from inside as of elderly animals shifting in their lair.
After what seemed an age, there were the sounds of bolts being drawn back and locks being unlocked and then the door was opened on a chain and Mrs Boggle peered at them.
'Oh, it's you,' she said. 'What do you want?'
'We want to talk to you about Mary Fortune,' said Agatha.
Mrs Boggle's elderly eyes gleamed with malice. 'Why not ask him?' she said. 'He must have known her better'n anybody.'
'Can we come in?' asked Agatha patiently.
'Soap's on. You'll need to wait till it's finished.'
The chain was dropped, the door was opened, and Agatha and James followed her dumpy figure into a fusty living-room where a television set blared from one corner. Mrs Boggle was layered in clothes topped with a woolly cardigan and print apron. Her husband, wearing an old shirt, a sweater and a cardigan and thick trousers, was staring avidly at an Australian soap. The room was full of the smell of old Boggle, a strange smell, not of the unwashed but of the decaying.
Agatha and James waited patiently until the soap ground to its syrupy end. It was one of those irritating episodes where a well-loved character has died and so there were seemingly endless close-ups of Australian faces swimming in tears. And why were the women all so tiny? wondered Agatha. What of all those goddesses one saw in films of Bondi Beach? Maybe the undersized female in Australia went in for acting.
When it was finally over, Mrs Boggle reluctantly switched it off. 'Well?' she demanded.
'What did you think of Mrs Fortune?' asked Agatha.
'Tart!'
Agatha stifled a sigh. 'I mean, did she upset you in any way?'
'Bitch!' muttered Mr Boggle.
'Perhaps you could tell us what happened.' James's voice was patient.
'Her had told Mrs Bloxby she wanted to help in the community...and it's no use you two expecting tea or coffee. I've got more to do with my savings,'
Agatha ignored this. 'Go on,' she said. 'Mary asked Mrs Bloxby how she could help out in the community?'
'Yes, so she told that Mrs Fortune to take us out for the day. The painted hussy called round here, mutton dressed as lamb, if you ask me.
'I said we wanted to go to Bristol to look at the ships. Didn't I, Boggle?'
'Yurse,' said Mr Boggle morosely.
'Her said, 'Oh, come now, that's too far. What about Evesham?'
'I said, didn't I, Boggle, that it was her duty to help the old get about? I told her that not all of us had money to go gallivanting around in large cars. Yes, and I told her that the way she was going on with Mr Lacey here was a fair scandal. In my day, we got married, that's what I told her. I was never one to mince my words, was I, Boggle?'
'No,' said Mr Boggle, staring at the blank television screen.
'To which Mary replied?' prompted Agatha.
'That Mrs Fortune then had the cheek to say that we would be better off in the old folks' home than leeching off people. Can you imagine? Did you ever hear the like? I told her to get out and take her trollopy ways with her.'
'Have you any idea who damaged your roses?' asked James.
'Never had any doubt,' said Mrs Boggle. 'It was her, Mary Fortune. Did it out of spite. Knew we would take first prize with them roses.'
'But you didn't get a prize,' said Agatha.
'Cause we didn't have nothing left for the show to match them roses,' said Mr Boggle suddenly and violently. He leaned forward and switched on a large electric fire and a blast of heat scorched into the already hot room. Outside, the sun was blazing down out of a clear sky. The temperature must have been in the high seventies. The room was suffocating. The windows were covered in thick white net, and curtains which looked as if they had been made out of red felt blocked out what was left of the light. The very stifling air seemed to be full of years of shared marital venom.
'The wicked shall be cut down like the green bay tree,' Mrs Boggle quoted inaccurately but viciously.
'You mean you are glad Mrs Fortune is dead?' asked Agatha.
