Agatha Raisin: As the Pig Turns

Epilogue

Agatha Raisin was not a heroine. That was borne firmly in on her by Inspector Wilkes. She was not to talk to the press because it was all sub judice until the court case was over.

In vain did she point out that if it hadn’t been for her intervention, Simon would be dead. As she wearily left police headquarters the following morning, she thought about calling the media and leaking the story but decided against it. A really angry police force might start to interfere in her business, and she needed their goodwill.

All that appeared on television that day and in the newspapers on the following day was that a man had been arrested and charged with the attempted murder of Simon Black.

But it couldn’t be kept quiet. A male nurse told his friend about Agatha hiding in the bathroom and braining Tulloch with a bedpan, so the gossip swirled round and on to the reporting desks of the local newspapers.

Stories about Agatha began to appear in the press. She diplomatically replied that she could not say anything until after the court case.

Five days after her adventure, Bill Wong came to tell her that Tulloch was suing her for grievous bodily harm. ‘He can’t do that!’ wailed Agatha.

‘Get yourself a lawyer. He won’t get away with it, but we have to go through the motions, not to mention the miles and miles of paperwork. How are you feeling?’

‘Relieved. I can get my old life back. Work has been suffering because of all this Tulloch business.’

‘Where’s Charles?’

‘I thought he would be round, but I haven’t heard from him. Roy is due to arrive. He feels he’s missing out on a bit of free publicity. What about you and Alice?’

Bill actually blushed. ‘They don’t like staff getting together. I’d like to ask her out, but she might refuse. She values her job and wouldn’t want to put it in jeopardy.’

‘Look at my cats, crawling all over you!’ exclaimed Agatha. ‘The only signs of affection I get from them are when they want food.’

‘I’m sure they’re fond of you. Is that someone at the door?’

It was Roy, resplendent in a white cotton suit, striped shirt and silk tie. His hair was conventionally cut.

‘Who are you representing?’ asked Agatha. ‘Someone conventional?’

‘No, it’s a new boy band called the Irreproachable. They dress square, so I’m supposed to fit in.’

‘You look good.’

‘I’m off,’ said Bill. ‘See you in court.’

Once he had taken his overnight bag up to the spare room, Roy demanded to know all the details.

‘Let’s sit in the garden,’ said Agatha. ‘The weather’s lovely.’

‘You need a gardener,’ commented Roy. ‘It’s a jungle.’

‘Do you know,’ said Agatha, ‘I’ve been frightened to engage someone in case it should turn out to be Tulloch or someone from the gang. I’ll get someone now.’

‘So tell me all about it.’

How unreal it all seemed now, thought Agatha as she told him what had happened.

When she had finished, Roy asked, ‘How’s Toni bearing up? I mean, I felt sick for ages after my kidnapping, but, I mean, thinking you’re going to get your face burnt off!’

‘She’s been getting counselling and she seems to be all right. It’s hard to tell with Toni. She’d been staying at the vicarage, but she went back to her flat as soon as she heard about Tulloch’s arrest. Do you know Tulloch is suing me for grievous bodily harm?’

‘He won’t get away with it, surely?’

‘It’s up to the Crown Prosecution Service, but in the meantime, I’d better get my lawyer on to it. You know, I’m almost tempted to ask Simon back.’

‘What! To work for you after he was prepared to sneak on your work to Mixden?’

‘Well . . . I know. It’s just he’s such a good detective. You see, I need someone with intuition. We don’t have the same resources as the police.’

‘But what if he works for you and takes a payoff from Mixden? And what about dumping that girl at the altar? What about chickening out of the army?’

‘The girl tricked him by saying she was pregnant. I don’t know that I blame him for not wanting to go back. It seems that Sergeant Sue is highly popular in the regiment, and Simon got really trashed in the local papers for dumping her at the altar. Also, Mixden’s in trouble with the police. They’re trying to charge him with industrial espionage or something, but it’s his word against Simon’s and nobody wants to believe a word Simon says any more.’

‘And what about Toni?’

Agatha looked singularly shifty. ‘I’ll have to ask her.’

Roy rose to his feet. ‘I’ll just run up to the vicarage and have a talk with Mrs Bloxby.’

‘Wait! I’ll come with you.’

‘I’d like a chat with her on my own. She’s better than any therapist.’

‘Oh, go,’ said Agatha huffily.

When Roy had left, Agatha sat miserably staring at the kitchen table. She suddenly felt very much alone. One of her cats, Boswell, jumped on her lap and stared into her face, and Hodge, the other, climbed up her back and draped itself round her neck.

A tear rolled down Agatha’s face. ‘You wretched animals. You care after all!’

Roy was away for an hour. At times Agatha thought of simply leaving and abandoning him for the rest of the day.

Toni’s doorbell rang. Simon’s voice came through the intercom. ‘Can I come up?’

‘I suppose so,’ said Toni reluctantly, and let him in.

‘You still look a bit white,’ she said when Simon walked into the room. ‘When did they let you out?’

‘This morning.’ He sat down wearily in an armchair.

‘And why are you here?’

‘I couldn’t think of anywhere to go.’

‘Aren’t you living with your parents?’

‘They got me a flat. They keep looking at me with such disappointment in their eyes, I can’t bear it.’

‘I can understand them,’ said Toni. ‘I went for a job at Mixden because I thought Agatha had driven you into the army. When he suggested I spy on her, I walked out. Agatha can be infuriating and meddling, but I owe her a lot.’

‘I wish I could work for her again. I mean, if I hadn’t had that flash of genius about searching car salesrooms, maybe no one would have got on to Tulloch.’

‘Simon! She wouldn’t even have you gift-wrapped. And you said how much you hated working for her!’

‘I know. But she did save my life. Maybe the reason she annoys me is because there’s a good bit of Agatha in me.’ He leaned forward. ‘Look, Toni, just suppose she did say yes, what would you feel about it?’

‘Do you mean romantically or professionally?’

‘Professionally.’

‘I don’t know. I would like someone of my own age around. I seem to have got divorced from all my old school friends. I’m the odd girl out. I don’t like binge drinking. They like to go to clubs on a Saturday night and get wasted.’

‘Nobody loves me either,’ said Simon gloomily.

‘Yeah. But you deserve it.’

‘Fancy going to a movie?’

‘What kind of movie?’

‘There’s a rerun of Gigi at the Classic. But you’ve probably seen it.’

‘No,’ said Toni. ‘That’s one I missed.’

‘Come on, then. Great musical. Great fun. What else were you planning to do?’

‘All right. But don’t get any ideas!’

‘None. I promise. I’m off women.’

‘I’ll just get my bag.’

Roy returned in high good humour. ‘I’ve got a surprise for you.’

‘What now?’ asked Agatha. Her cats slid off her and disappeared into the long grass of the garden.

‘I’ve found someone to do your garden.’

‘Big deal. Look, I’m grateful. But I could have found someone myself. Who is this fellow? Or is it a woman?’

‘No, he’s just moved into the village.’

‘Gnarled and creaking?’

‘Gorgeous. I’m telling you, babes, he’s to die for.’

‘How did you meet this paragon?’

‘I happened to mention to Mrs Bloxby that your garden was a mess.’

‘Oh, really? Was that part of your therapy session?’

‘It was after we’d had our little talk. Don’t get bitchy.’

‘I,’ said Agatha Raisin, ‘am never bitchy.’

‘Yes, well, never mind that,’ said Roy hurriedly. ‘Mrs Bloxby happened to mention that there was an incomer, George Marston, who does gardens. He lives in a cottage at the village end. The one called Wisteria Cottage.’

‘Didn’t old Mrs Henry live there?’

‘You really are out of touch. She died last year. So I went there and this Adonis answered the door. He says he does gardening and all sorts of odd jobs.’

‘What age?’

‘Hard to tell. Not young. Maybe early forties. Posh accent.’

Agatha winced. Early forties seemed young to her. ‘So why is this posh-accented beauty offering himself as a labourer?’

‘Why don’t you phone him and ask him? Come on, Aggie. Just look at your garden.’

‘Oh, all right. What’s the number?’

‘Here’s his card.’

Agatha phoned. The cultured voice at the other end said he would be along in a few minutes.

‘Can’t be getting that much work if he’s so eager,’ she said. ‘The sun is over the yardarm or whatever. I’m going to have a gin and tonic. What about you?’

‘I’ll have the same.’

They sat over their drinks in the garden. It was a beautiful Cotswold day, with fleecy clouds drifting against a dark blue sky.

There came a ring at the doorbell. Roy shot to his feet. ‘I’ll get it!’

Agatha waited, suddenly glad of the diversion.

Roy entered the garden followed by a tall man. Agatha was wearing sunglasses. She took them off and stared at the vision before her.

George Marston was over six feet tall, with thick grey blond hair and green eyes in a square, tanned face. His body under his dress of chinos and sweatshirt looked muscular.

Agatha rose to her feet. ‘Roy, get Mr Marston a drink. I have to go upstairs.’

Putting on an extra layer of make-up, thought Roy.

Agatha scrubbed off her make-up and carefully applied a new layer. She slipped out of the loose cotton dress she had been wearing and changed into a gingham blouse, tight jeans and wedge-heeled sandals. She looked in the mirror. Country but sexy, she thought with satisfaction. There was a lot to be said for fear and misery. One lost weight. She went back downstairs.

‘Now, Mr Marston . . .’

‘George, please.’

‘George. I run a detective agency and recently have been under threat, so don’t think me rude if I ask you a lot of questions.’

He smiled. Agatha’s heart gave a lurch. ‘Fire away,’ he said.

‘First of all, what is your background?’

‘I was in the army.’

‘For how long?’

‘Twenty years.’

‘When did you leave?’

‘Eight months ago.’

‘May I ask why?’

‘Certainly.’ He rolled up his left trouser leg, showing an artificial limb. ‘Present from Afghanistan,’ he said.

‘How awful,’ said Agatha.

‘It’s all right. I’ve got used to it. I’m good at all sorts of things – carpentry, gardening, things like that.’

‘Well, I see no reason why you don’t join me for a drink and then you can start right away. What are your rates?’

‘Eight pounds an hour.’

‘I feel obliged to tell you that the going rate in Carsely is ten pounds an hour.’

‘To be frank,’ he said, ‘I need the work and thought I would get it if I were a little bit cheaper.’

‘We’ll see how you go,’ said Agatha. ‘If your work is okay, you can earn the going rate. Now, what would you like to drink?’

‘Is that gin and tonic? I’d like one of those. I see an ashtray on the table. Mind if I smoke?’

‘Of course not. I smoke myself. Roy, be an angel and get George a drink.’

When Roy had gone indoors, George settled in a chair and said, ‘Isn’t that the young man who was kidnapped?’

‘Yes. The whole thing has been frightening and I’m just getting over it.’

‘Tell me about it.’

So Agatha did, while Roy returned with George’s drink and then sat in sulky silence, feeling he was being ignored.

‘You’ve certainly been through the wars,’ he said when Agatha had finished. ‘Look, if you don’t mind, I’ll get started.’

‘The gardening things and the mower are all in the shed at the bottom of the garden,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll show you.’

He worked all weekend. Roy complained that he had been ignored because Agatha could hardly bear to leave the house, preferring to sit out in the garden and admire her new acquisition.

‘Don’t fall for him,’ warned Roy when he left. ‘I mean, what a cliché!’

‘What are you talking about?’

‘Middle-aged woman lusts after gardener.’

‘Don’t be silly.’

When Agatha returned to her cottage, she had an impulse to invite George out for dinner. If Charles had turned up or if James had returned home, she would have decided against it. But she felt lonely.

The garden was being rapidly restored. George was putting away the tools in the shed when Agatha called to him, ‘Like a drink?’

‘A cold beer would be lovely if you have one.’

Agatha found one at the back of the fridge and filled a glass.

‘Are you married?’ asked Agatha.

‘I was once. Don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Children?’

‘No. Let’s talk about the garden. It won’t take me long to get it in shape for the autumn.’ He drained his glass. Agatha paid him. ‘Isn’t this too much?’ he asked.

‘No, your work is good, so you get the going rate.’

‘If I keep the shed keys, then I can get into the garden by the path at the side of the house and I won’t need to disturb you.’

‘That’s fine. I’ve got a spare set. I’ll be out at work,’ said Agatha, ‘but I might drop home during the day to see how you are getting on.’

‘Fine,’ said George. Then he rose easily from his seat, waved to her and moved swiftly away. Agatha winced as she heard the front door shut behind him.

But she was not to be left alone for long. As she went to answer the summons of the doorbell, she thought with relief that it was simply marvellous to be able to answer her own front door without a feeling of terror.

Simon stood there, looking plaintively at her.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ said Agatha. ‘What do you want?’

‘I wondered if you could ever see your way to giving me another chance?’

‘Oh, come in.’

‘Your garden looks better,’ said Simon. ‘Have you been working on it?’

‘Yes,’ said Agatha, all at once wanting to keep the glory of finding George to herself. ‘Take a seat, Simon, and tell me why I should ever trust you again. What made you volunteer to spy for Mixden?’

‘I was pretty sure that after the wedding, you wouldn’t consider having me back. I know I’m good at detecting.’

‘I can’t have you back,’ said Agatha. ‘Toni would never forgive me, for a start. It was she you used to winkle out information.’

‘She says she will.’

‘When? How?’

‘I had a talk with her and we went to the movies.’

‘Look, I could certainly do with someone with your intuition. But it’s not only Toni I have to consider. It’s Phil, Patrick and Mrs Freedman. I’ll discuss it with them tomorrow. If I do take you back, you will need to work at all the lowest jobs for two months until I feel I can trust you. You will also need to sign a confidentiality document, and if you sneak to Mixden, I’ll sue your socks off.’

On Monday morning, Agatha told her staff about Simon. Phil was all for giving him another chance, Toni said she did not mind, but Mrs Freedman and Patrick said he had proved himself untrustworthy. But when Agatha started to look at all the cases she had neglected, and they all realized there was a lot of hard work ahead, Patrick reluctantly said it would be useful to have someone to do the lost cats and dogs kind of work.

Mrs Freedman said that in that case she would go along with it.

A two-month trial was decided on, and Agatha phoned Simon.

Three more cases came in that morning, and Agatha, who had hoped to rush off early and maybe see George, found she had to work long hours.

Mrs Ada Benson called on Mrs Bloxby. The vicar’s wife looked at her wearily. ‘What now?’ she asked.

‘Dear me,’ said Mrs Benson. ‘One would think I was always complaining. It’s just a little matter.’

Mrs Bloxby reluctantly stood aside, and Mrs Benson walked into the sitting room.

‘It’s like this,’ she began. ‘There is a newcomer in this village. A Mr George Marston.’

‘Yes, I know,’ said Mrs Bloxby. ‘What about him?’

‘He appears to be working full-time for Mrs Raisin.’

‘So? I know he needs work.’

‘But he should be warned.’

‘What on earth are you talking about?’

‘Agatha Raisin is a man-eater!’

Mrs Bloxby sighed. ‘Would you please leave, Mrs Benson, and in future, would you telephone first? I am very busy. Please shut the door on your way out.’

‘Well, I never!’

‘Then it’s time you did. Goodbye!’

Agatha longed for the weekend. The weather was still golden. Cotswold cottages lazed under a warm sun. Often, when they were busy, she and her staff would work on Saturdays as well, but she told them firmly that the following weekend was to be free – with the exception of Simon, who was asked to continue trying to find a missing teenager.

She was up early on Saturday, trying on one outfit after another, settling at last for a white cotton blouson, blue cotton skirt and high-heeled sandals.

He was already in the garden when she descended.

‘Coffee?’ she called out.

‘Fine.’

When she had two mugs of coffee ready, he joined her at the garden table.

‘Did you bring your bill?’ asked Agatha.

He pulled a piece of paper from his pocket. Agatha opened her handbag, took out her wallet and paid him the amount.

‘I’ve cost you a lot of money,’ he said, ‘but as you can see, everything’s nearly finished. In fact, I’ll be finished at lunchtime. Of course, I’ll be back occasionally to mow the lawn and do the weeding. I’ve been lucky to land several other jobs.’

‘The garden looks lovely. I didn’t realize I had so many flowers,’ said Agatha, who could not remember the name of even one of them. ‘I say, this demands a celebration. Why don’t I take you for lunch today?’

‘That would be nice. I’ll go home and change first. What time?’

‘We’ll leave here at twelve thirty.’

‘Right. I’ll get back to work.’

I must play it cool, thought Agatha. She went indoors and phoned a restaurant in Broadway that she knew had tables outside and made a booking for one o’clock.

Charles Fraith had put off contacting Agatha. He was feeling increasingly drawn to her, and he did not like to be emotionally involved with anyone. That Saturday, he decided it would do no harm just to call in and see her. But in the morning, another former girlfriend called on him and he found himself asking her out for lunch instead. She was called Rosamund and was dainty and pretty, not at all like Agatha. But Agatha always exuded a strong air of sensuality of which she seemed completely unaware.

Agatha was almost ready to leave when the phone rang. It was Mrs Bloxby. ‘I’m in a rush,’ said Agatha. She giggled. ‘I’m taking the new gardener to Russell’s in Broadway for lunch.’

‘How kind of you,’ said Mrs Bloxby, repressing a desire to shriek down the line, ‘Not again! Do be careful.’

She said she would call her later.

James Lacey arrived home and flipped through his accumulated post. He put all the bills and circulars to one side. There was one letter for him with a handwritten address. He opened it up. It was from Roy. ‘Dear James,’ he read, ‘Our Agatha has fallen for her gardener. You know what she’s like and the trouble she’s got into in the past by falling for unsuitable men. She knows nothing about this one. Do check up on her. Your dear friend, Roy.’

James was tempted to forget about it, but Agatha had put herself in danger in the past. He went next door, but Agatha’s cottage was empty. He phoned Mrs Bloxby and asked her if she knew where Agatha was.

‘Mrs Raisin has taken her new gardener for lunch at Russell’s in Broadway,’ said Mrs Bloxby, ‘but she should be back home later today.’

James thanked her and rang off. Then he decided it would do no harm just to go to Broadway and have a look at this fellow.

Agatha was enjoying herself. George did not talk much but seemed amused and interested in Agatha’s highly colourful description of the cases she had worked on.

They had just reached the coffee stage when a long shadow fell across their table.

‘Hello, Agatha.’

‘James!’ cried Agatha. ‘Just passing by?’ she added hopefully.

‘May I join you for a coffee?’

‘All right,’ said Agatha in a voice that meant she did not think it was all right one little bit. She made the introductions.

‘Lacey!’ exclaimed George. ‘Not Colonel Lacey?’

‘I’m retired now,’ said James, sitting down.

‘I read your book on military logistics when I was at Sandhurst,’ said George.

‘I’ve got it. George Marston. Major George Marston. I read about you,’ said James. ‘What a hero. You rescued four of your men before you got your foot blown off. How are you doing?’

‘I had to have a whole prosthetic leg from the knee down,’ said George. ‘I manage. How did you meet Agatha?’

‘I live next door and I’m her ex-husband. I hear you’re doing a bit of gardening.’

‘As much as I can get.’

‘I’m right next door to Agatha. You’re welcome to do mine. I usually do it myself, but I haven’t had the time.’

‘I’ll have a look at yours after lunch,’ said George.

‘Tell me about Afghanistan,’ said James. ‘Are we ever going to get out of there?’

‘I don’t know,’ said George. ‘But I’ll tell you what it was like in Helmand before I left.’

Agatha smoked and watched the passing crowds of tourists, feeling forgotten and outside this masculine world of war. And why did James have to come butting in? Their voices rose and fell, naming names of people Agatha did not know. At last George turned to her apologetically and said, ‘I am so sorry. We must be boring you to death.’

‘Not at all,’ said Agatha. ‘How did you find me, James?’

‘Mrs Bloxby told me where you were. I’ve been reading bits about you in the papers. You must have been having an awful time of it. Why don’t I take you out for dinner tonight and we can talk about it?’

‘Sorry, James,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ve got work to catch up on at home.’

James looked surprised and taken aback, remembering the days when Agatha would have jumped at an invitation from him. It was a good thing George had turned out to be all right. Agatha was obviously in the grip of one of her obsessions.

‘Are you still working on Agatha’s jungle?’ he asked.

‘Just about finished,’ said George, ‘apart from a bit of maintenance.’

‘Finished your lunch?’ said James. ‘I’ll follow you back and show you my garden.’

At James’s cottage, Agatha longed to follow them in but did not want to appear too pushy. Men could smell needy across two continents, she thought bitterly.

Charles turned up on her doorstep in the early evening.

‘You can’t stay,’ said Agatha quickly.

‘Why?’

‘I’ve brought a lot of work home from the office and I don’t want to be disturbed.’

‘May I have a drink before you push me out?’

‘Okay. What?’

‘Whisky and water.’

‘Right. Take a seat in the garden.’

Agatha realized as she returned with the drinks that she should never have allowed Charles into the garden.

‘The place looks beautiful,’ he said. ‘Got a new gardener?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s he like?’

‘Oh, the usual. Grumpy and old, but he does good work.’

Charles found Agatha’s conversation practically monosyllabic and finally got up to leave. ‘See you soon,’ he said.

‘Phone first!’ said Agatha sharply.

‘Come on, Aggie. Who is he?’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’

‘It’s Saturday. You’re perfectly made up and that must be the shortest skirt in your wardrobe, not to mention the highest heels.’

‘You’re being silly. Just go.’

Charles was getting into his car when he noticed James standing talking to an extremely handsome man. He strolled over. James made the introductions. ‘We’re both old army men,’ said James, ‘and we’ve been talking most of the day. George has moved into the village. He’s done Agatha’s garden and he’s going to do mine.’

‘Really?’ said Charles. ‘Now, that is interesting.’

‘Why?’ asked George.

‘Oh, nothing.’ But Charles exchanged a sneaking glance with James. It looked as if Agatha was heading for one of her obsessions.

As soon as he had gone, Agatha kicked off her high heels and wriggled her toes. She must make more work for George. He said he did carpentry.

She went upstairs and put on a pair of sneakers, shorts and an old shirt blouse. Then she went downstairs and out into the garden, her cats scampering after her. In the shed, she took out a heavy sledgehammer and a saw and then returned to her sitting room, leaving the cats shut out in the garden.

In her sitting room, along one wall, was a set of wooden bookshelves. She carefully began to take down all the books and pile them on the floor. Then she attacked the shelves with the sledgehammer. They had been well made and she was exhausted by the time she had reduced only half of them to splintered piles of timber.

A ring at the doorbell made her start guiltily. She firmly shut the sitting-room door and answered the front door. ‘Oh, Mrs Bloxby,’ said Agatha. ‘What’s up?’

‘Just a social call. You look all hot and dusty.’

‘Just clearing out some old books. Come in. Go through to the garden and I’ll bring you a sherry.’

‘It’s turned a bit cold,’ said Mrs Bloxby.

‘Then go to the kitchen,’ snapped Agatha, wishing she hadn’t let her friend in. But her car was outside, and if Mrs Bloxby had not received any reply, she would have started to worry.

Agatha came back with a glass of sherry. ‘I’ll be back in a moment. I’ve got to wash my hands. Sorry. Should have done that before I served you sherry, but it’s just paper dust.’

Mrs Bloxby waited until Agatha had gone upstairs. She looked through the open door of the kitchen to the firmly closed door of the sitting room. Why had Mrs Raisin looked so furtive?

On impulse, she moved quietly across the hall and opened the sitting-room door. She gazed in horror at the mess, at the splintered and shattered bookshelves, before retreating quickly to the kitchen.

She remembered that George Marston had put up a notice in the local shop announcing he did carpentry as well as gardening.

Oh, Mrs Raisin, thought Mrs Bloxby sadly, the things you do for love. And where is this obsession going to lead?