As the Pig Turns - By M.C. Beaton Page 0,47

evening, Charles Fraith was fumbling for his keys to Agatha’s cottage.

A heavy hand fell on his shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’ demanded a Scottish voice. Charles swung round. A police sergeant was standing, glaring at him.

‘I’m a friend of Mrs Raisin,’ he said crossly. ‘I usually have the keys to her cottage, but I forgot that they had been stolen. What are you doing here?’

‘I am Sergeant Tulloch, following orders. A policeman will be along soon to relieve me.’

‘What has she been up to?’ asked Charles, ringing the doorbell.

Agatha answered it. ‘It’s all right, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘Come in, Charles. Sergeant, would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Thanks, missus. Grand. Still hot out here.’

‘You might have given me a new set of keys,’ complained Charles, following Agatha into the kitchen.

‘I like the feeling of not having to find you in residence when I get home,’ said Agatha. ‘Wait till I make that copper a cup of tea and I’ll tell you what’s been happening.’

She made a pot of tea and then arranged it with milk, sugar and a plate of biscuits and carried it outside. She then brought out a canvas chair and told him to make himself comfortable.

When she returned, Agatha explained about the interest in her cottage and Country Fashions. ‘So Bill decided to give me a police guard,’ she ended. ‘I’d love to get inside that factory.’

‘What about James? He was always a dab hand at breaking and entering.’

‘He’s gone off somewhere and left his keys with Mrs Bloxby. Didn’t even have the decency to tell me where he was going.’

‘He’s a travel writer. He has to travel, Aggie.’

‘Don’t call me Aggie.’

‘Heard from Roy?’

Agatha sighed. ‘I did try to talk to him on the phone, but he screeched, “This is dangerous. They could be listening,” and rang off.’

‘He went through a lot, and he is a bit of a rabbit. So you think it might be the vulgar Bulgars?’

‘Patrick’s experience alone makes them look fishy to me. Maybe I could go in disguise and get a job in their factory.’

‘You! A lot of their stuff is hand-stitched. I bought one of their jackets. Mind you, they do fleeces and things like that. Can you work a sewing machine? No, of course you can’t. Forget it.’

‘I can’t send Toni. Too dangerous.’

‘I saw Simon the other day,’ said Charles. ‘The wedding’s tomorrow. Are you going?’

Agatha flushed miserably. ‘If only he’d get out of the army, then I wouldn’t mind. I suppose I’d better go.’

‘Has he been in touch with Toni?’

‘Oh, I hope all that is over. She doesn’t seem heartbroken.’

‘Is Patrick winkling any information out of the police?’ asked Charles.

‘They seem to have clammed up, although Patrick says that it’s probably because they’re not getting anywhere and really do have nothing to tell him. Wait a bit. I wonder if that sergeant outside has any little bits of information. I’ll just see if he wants any more tea.’

Soon Charles faintly heard Agatha’s voice coming from outside, saying, ‘Hey, wake up! You’re supposed to be on guard.’ And then a wail of ‘Charles!’

He ran out to join her. Tulloch was slumped in his chair, his eyes closed. Charles felt for a pulse and heaved a sigh of relief. ‘He’s not dead. Someone must have put something in his tea. I’ll get the police and ambulance.’

‘Hurry up!’ Agatha looked around wildly. ‘If he’s only drugged, that meant someone wanted access to the house. Let’s go inside and lock the door.’

‘We can’t leave him here baking in the sun. Get me an umbrella and I’ll hold it over him. You phone the police. Do something and don’t stand there like a stuffed fish.’

One hour later, Mrs Bloxby opened the door of the vicarage to a deputation from the Ladies’ Society. Mrs Ada Benson had obviously elected herself as spokeswoman.

‘We are here,’ she boomed, ‘to complain about the mayhem Agatha Raisin is causing in this village. Most of us ladies retired here for a quiet life.’

‘What has happened?’ asked the vicar’s wife.

‘A policeman on guard outside her cottage has been found unconscious. She has brought terror to this village. She should be asked to leave.’

‘Poor Mrs Raisin!’ exclaimed Mrs Bloxby. ‘I must go to her right away.’

‘And you’ll tell her to leave?’

Mrs Bloxby pushed past the women and said over her shoulder, ‘If it hadn’t been for the superb detective activities of Mrs Raisin in the past, then you really would find this a terrifying place. Don’t be silly, Mrs Benson.’

‘I’m resigning from