slum from which she had sprung. And then Miss Simms, flushed and excited, caught up with her. 'You've got a special ticket on your roses, Mrs Raisin.'
Surprised, Agatha turned back. There was a little red card in front of her rosebush. Excited, she bent down and read the commendation. 'Mrs Agatha Raisin, special commendation for ingenuity.'
Roy read it at the same time. 'Oh, wicked Mrs Bloxby, Aggie. Come away. A plate of steak-and-kidney pie will make you feel lots better.'
'You know, Roy,' said Agatha as she drove him into Oxford to catch the train on Sunday evening, 'I think you should forget this scam about bringing all those plants down. Just do me a favour and send the workmen back to take the top part of the fence off. I'll buy some plants from a nursery myself and let everyone see me planting them and I won't open my garden to the public.'
'Oh, come on. Just because you were stupid enough to leave that nursery label on the pot doesn't mean you're going to fail. I'll be down myself with the truck at two in the morning. Bingo, instant garden. You know yourself nothing moves in Carsely during the night. Besides, I've got more news for you. Pedmans is paying for the lot.'
'Why?'
'It's instead of a golden hello.'
'You mean that little ferret, Wilson, knows I am going to cheat?'
'Of course not. As far as he is concerned, you just want to beautify your garden. He's mad keen to get you, Aggie. And the stuff is going to be magnificent.'
Agatha felt herself weaken. Nothing could go wrong. And Mrs Bloxby might be forced to think she had made a mistake. She did not want to lose respect in the eyes of Mrs Bloxby.
'Oh, all right,' she said. 'But you'd better be there on the great day to help me out.'
The next night found her among a large crowd in the Red Lion. It was the publican's, John Fletcher's, birthday, and he was dispensing free drinks all round. With a lift of the heart, Agatha saw James and went to join him. 'I didn't know it was John's birthday,' she said guiltily, eyeing the pile of presents on the bar. 'Why didn't anyone tell me?'
'They probably thought you knew. You were here last year, after all.'
'Perhaps I should go home and see if I have anything in the house I can give him,' said Agatha, yet not wanting to leave James's side. She could hardly believe that Mary was not there to monopolize his attention, which she did so well.
'Congratulations on your prize,' she said. 'I didn't think there was anything left in your back garden after the attack on it.'
'Well, you can hardly see into it now,' he said. 'Not with that great fence you've got around it. Why such a high fence?'
'I'm keeping my plants sheltered.'
He looked puzzled. 'I don't know how you even managed to grow those roses. That must be what Mrs Bloxby meant by ingenuity.'
Agatha did not normally like her conversations with James to be interrupted, but she looked up in relief as Mr Galloway, a large Scotsman who ran a garage in a neighbouring village, leaned over and said, 'I was talking to Fred Griggs and he says they still don't have a clue who was responsible for wrecking those gardens. I thought you would have tracked down the culprit by now, Mrs Raisin.'
I'll maybe get to work on it.' Agatha preened a little. 'The police don't seem to be doing much of a job.'
'Where's Mary?' asked James.
Mr Galloway scratched his thatch of hair.
'I dunno,' he said. 'Maybe herself is prettifying to make an appearance.'
'It is odd, all the same,' pursued James to Agatha's distress. 'I'm unhappy about this stupid dislike for Mary. To think she had anything to do with wrecking gardens is madness.'
'Not as if
'That was a strange thing,' said Mr Galloway. 'We all thought herself would take the first with those dahlias of hers.'
'I thought no one wanted her to win,' said James.
'Aye, but Mrs Bloxby was doing the judging and Mrs Bloxby woundnae be fashed by gossip.'
'Another drink, James? Mr Galloway?' Agatha felt they had talked about Mary for long enough.
But just as Mr Galloway was beginning to say, 'That's very kind of you,' James rose to his feet. 'I think I'll walk up to Mary's cottage and see if she's coming.'
Agatha rose as well. 'I'll go with you. Get you a drink when I return, Mr Galloway.'
As they walked together through the still-balmy summer night, Agatha could not help wishing they were walking out together and not going to visit some blonde. The gossip in the village relayed by Doris Simpson was that Mary and James were only casual friends and that he did not visit her cottage or take her out for dinner any more. Agatha began to wonder what she really knew of Mary. Jealousy had coloured her opinion, clouded her judgement. So, she had decided, let's look at Mary objectively. Take jealous thoughts away, and Agatha had to admit to herself that Mary was a very attractive woman with a certain warmth and charm. And yet sometimes, through that warmth and charm, there sparked little darts of...malice? Uncomfortable remarks. The remark she had made about Bill had been downright bitchy, and it was not like her to slip up like that.
James looked down at her quizzically. 'Not like you to be so quiet.'
'I was thinking about Mary,' said Agatha. 'I was thinking that I don't really know her very well.'
'That's surprising. I thought the pair of you were the best of friends.'
'Well...' Agatha realized with surprise that she had accepted Mary's friendship only to look for ways to make sure that the coolness between her and James stayed that way. 'What do you really know of her?' she asked.
'Come to think of it, not much. I know she was married because she's got a daughter studying at Oxford, St Crispin's, I think.'
'I've never seen her daughter, and she never talks about her.'
'The daughter never visits her, even in the holidays. I assumed there was some sort of family rift there, so I didn't ask any questions. I also assumed that what you saw was what you got - perfect cook, perfect gardener, perfectly turned out. Then she has charm, and charm always stops you from seeing the person underneath.'
Not like me, thought Agatha. What you see is definitely what you get. And she longed for charm or mysterious depths.
They were approaching Mary's cottage. 'No lights,' said James. 'Maybe she's gone out, Oxford or somewhere.'
'That's another thing,' said Agatha. 'She never does leave the village, except perhaps when she is dining with you.'
'Well, let's see if she's at home.'
Instead of going around the back, as was usual village practice except at homes like Agatha's, they walked up through the front garden where flowers, bleached by the moonlight, crowded the borders on either side of the lawn. The air was heavy with the scent of the flowers. They walked into the front porch. James rang the bell, which echoed off into the dark silence of the house.
Down in the road behind them, a young couple walked home. The girl laughed, a high, shrill giggle. Their footsteps and voices died away, leaving night silence behind.
'That's that,' said Agatha cheerfully. 'We've done our bit for community life. Now back to the pub.' With any luck, she thought, the crowd might have thinned out and she could have James to herself.
He hesitated. He tried the door handle. It turned easily and the door swung open. 'She might be ill.' He walked inside and Agatha reluctantly followed him. He fumbled around for the light switch in the hall. With a little click the small hall became flooded with light, intensifying the odd feeling of emptiness, of loneliness, in the house. They walked through the rooms, switching on the lights. No one in either the living-room, dining-room or kitchen.
James ran up the stairs, calling, 'Mary! Mary!' Agatha stood in the hall, waiting uneasily. She had never considered herself a fey or even a sensitive person, but as she stood there she began to feel a creeping unease.
'Not home,' said James, coming back down the narrow staircase.
