Agatha walked back to her cottage and let the cats in from the back garden. She could not see much of the garden because night had fallen. She had put in a few bushes and flowers last year, Agatha being an 'instant' gardener - that is, someone who buys plants ready grown from the nursery. In order to get in on the act, she would need to become a real gardener. Real gardeners had greenhouses and grew their plants from seed. Also, she had better join this horticultural society.
With a view to finding out about the opposition, Agatha drove down to Moreton-in-Marsh the following day and bought a cake at the bakery and then drove back to Carsely and made her way to the newcomer's home, which was in an undistinguished terrace of Victorian cottages at the top of the village. As she opened the garden gate, she remembered with a pang of unease the last time she had pushed open this gate and had entered the house to find that Mrs Josephs, the librarian, had been murdered. An extension had been built to the front of the house, a sort of porch made mostly of glass and filled with plants and flowers and wicker furniture.
Holding the cake, Agatha rang the bell. The woman who answered the door made Agatha's heart sink. She was undoubtedly attractive, with a smooth, unlined face and blonde hair and bright blue eyes.
'I am Agatha Raisin. I live in Lilac Lane, next to Mr Lacey. I have just returned from holiday and learned of your arrival in the village, and so I brought you this cake.'
'How very nice of you,' beamed Mary Fortune. 'Come in. Of course I have heard of you. You are our Miss Marple.' There was something in the way she said it and the appraising look she gave that made Agatha think she was being compared to the famous fictional character not because of that character's detective abilities but more because of her age.
Mary led the way into a charming sitting-room. Bookshelves lined the walls. Pot plants glowed green with health and a brisk log fire was burning. There was a homely smell of baking. Agatha could almost imagine James relaxing here, his long legs stretched out in front of him. 'I'll just take a note of your phone number,' said Agatha, opening her capacious handbag and taking out a notebook, pen and her glasses. She was not interested in getting Mary's phone number, only an excuse to put on her glasses and see if the newcomer's face was as unwrinkled as it appeared to be.
Mary gave her number and Agatha looked up and peered at her through her glasses. Well, well, well, thought Agatha. Thunderbirds, go! That was a face-lift if ever there was one. There was something in the plastic stretchiness of the skin. The hair was dyed, but by the hand of an expert, so that it was streaked blonde rather than being a uniform bleach job.
'I have heard you are a member of the horticultural society,' said Agatha, taking off her glasses and tucking them away in their case.
'Yes, and I pride myself on doing my bit for the village. Mr Lacey is a great help. You know Mr Lacey, of course. He's your neighbour.'
'Oh, we're
'Really? But we must sample some of the cake you brought.' Mary stood up. She was wearing a green sweater and green slacks and her figure was perfect.
The doorbell rang. 'Talking of James, that'll be him now,' said Mary. 'He often calls round.'
Agatha smoothed her skirt. She realized she had not bothered to put on any make-up. Agatha knew there were lucky women who did not need to wear any make-up and that she was not one of that happy breed.
James Lacey came in and for a second a little flash of disappointment showed in his eyes when he saw Agatha. James Lacey was a very tall man in his mid-fifties. His thick black hair showed only a trace of grey. His eyes, like Mary's, were bright blue. He kissed Mary on the cheek, smiled at Agatha and said, 'Welcome back. Did you have a good holiday?'
'Mrs Raisin has brought a cake,' interrupted Mary. 'I'll make some tea while you two chat.'
James smiled at Mary without quite looking at her, as if he longed to look at her, but was as shy as a schoolboy. He's in love, thought Agatha, and wanted to get up and walk away.
She forced herself to talk brightly about her holidays, wishing she had some amusing stories to tell, but she had hardly talked to anyone and hardly anyone had talked to her.
Mary came back in bearing a tray. 'Chocolate cake,' she announced. 'Now we shall all get fat.'
'Not you,' said James flirtatiously. 'You don't have to worry.'
Mary smiled at him and James sent her back a shy little smile and bent his head over a slice of chocolate cake.
'I was thinking of joining the horticultural society,' said Agatha. 'When do they meet?'
'James and I are going to a meeting tonight, if you would like to come along,' said Mary. 'It's at seven thirty in the school hall.'
'I didn't know you were interested in gardening, Mrs Raisin,' commented James.
'Why so formal?' Agatha's bearlike eyes surveyed James. 'You always call me Agatha.'
'Well, Agatha, you've always just bought fully grown stuff from the nurseries before.'
'I've got time on my hands,' said Agatha. 'Going to do it properly.'
'We'll help you,' said Mary with an easy friendliness. 'Won't we, James?'
'Oh, absolutely.'
'Why did you decide to settle in Carsely, Mary?' Agatha felt the waistband of her skirt constricting her and put down her plate of half-eaten chocolate cake and shoved it away.
'I was motoring about the Cotswolds and took a liking to this village,' said Mary. 'So peaceful, so quiet. Such darling people.'
'Do you know someone was murdered in this house?' asked Agatha, determined to bring the conversation around to the murder case she had solved.
But Mary said quickly and dismissively, 'I heard all about that. It doesn't matter. These old houses must have seen a lot of deaths.' She turned to James and started talking about gardening. 'I've been pricking out my seedlings,' she said.
'What you do in the privacy of your home is your own affair,' said Agatha and gave a coarse laugh.
There was a frosty little silence and then Mary and James went on talking, the Latin names of plants Agatha had never heard of flying between them.
Agatha felt diminished and excluded. One part of her longed to get away and the other part was determined to hang on until James left.
At last, almost as if he knew Agatha would not budge until he left, James rose to his feet. 'I'll see you this evening, Mary.'
Mary and Agatha rose as well. 'I'll walk home with you, James,' said Agatha. 'See you this evening, Mary.'
Agatha and James went outside. When they had reached the garden gate, James suddenly turned and went back to where Mary was standing on the step. He bent his handsome head and whispered something to her. Mary gave a little laugh and whispered something back. James turned and came back to where Agatha was standing. They walked off together.
'Mary's an interesting woman,' said James. 'She is very well travelled. As a matter of fact, before coming here, she spent some time in California.'
'That would be where she got her face-lift,' said Agatha.
He glanced down at her and then said abruptly; 'I've just remembered, I must get something in for supper. Don't try to keep up with me. Must hurry.' And like a car suddenly accelerating, he sped off, leaving Agatha looking bleakly after him.
As she walked back home, Agatha was half inclined to forget about the whole thing. Let Mary have James. If that was the sort of woman who sparked him, then he wasn't for such as Agatha Raisin.
But competitiveness dies hard, and somehow she found that by the late afternoon she had ordered a small greenhouse complete with heating system and had agreed to pay through the nose to have the whole thing done the following week. She also bought a pile of books on gardening.
Before going to the horticultural society meeting, Agatha went along to the pub, the Red Lion. She wanted to come across just one person who did not like Mary Fortune. John Fletcher, the landlord, gave her a warm welcome and handed her a gin and tonic. 'On the house,' he said. 'Nice to have you back.'
Agatha fought down tears that threatened to well up in her eyes. It had been hell travelling alone. Single women did not get respect or attention. The little bit of kindness from the landlord took her aback. 'Thanks, John,'
