As the Pig Turns - By M.C. Beaton Page 0,49

Charles.

‘Yes, thanks,’ said Agatha as they at last emerged from police headquarters into the fading sunlight.

‘I’d better go home first and get my togs for tomorrow,’ said Charles.

‘Tomorrow?’

‘Simon’s wedding.’

‘Snakes and bastards! I’d better find something to wear.’

‘Go to the office when you’ve found something,’ said Charles, ‘and wait for me. We’ll go to your cottage together.’

‘Thanks.’ A tear rolled down Agatha’s cheek.

‘Come on, old girl, this isn’t like you. Where’s your stiff upper lip?’

‘As The Goon Show once memorably said, it’s over my loose wobbly lower one,’ said Agatha, taking out a crumpled tissue and dabbing her eyes. ‘I wonder what drug was given to Tulloch and how it got there?’

‘Forensics, like the mills of God, grind slowly. We won’t hear for a bit.’

Once in her office, Agatha got a call from her cleaner, Doris Simpson, to say she had taken Agatha’s cats home with her. ‘Men in white suits all over the place,’ said Doris. ‘And they could have been trodden on with those policemen and their big boots.’

Agatha thanked her, wondering how on earth she had managed to forget the welfare of her cats.

Sitting down with a pile of files covering both murders, Agatha began to read through them, looking for any sort of clue. Fiona Richards had been in the George when Staikov was there. Was there a connection?

Phil had left a note saying he was watching the Richardses’ house but had taken pains to make sure he would not be recognized.

If I could solve Beech’s murder, then everything else might fall into place, thought Agatha. It was a particularly vicious murder. Revenge? Hate? A warning? And how could he possibly have been any use to them apart from turning a blind eye to speeding and parking violations?

Patrick went into a Richards Supermarket in Mircester and began to look around. It was an example of the sort of giant supermarket that was slowly killing off the small shops in Mircester, as it sold everything from food to pots and pans, clothes and takeaway meals. He remembered he needed a new shirt to wear to Simon’s wedding and headed for the clothes section.

There was a placard in front of the section with the legend THE CHEAPEST YOU CAN BUY! LOOK AT OUR LEATHER JACKETS!

‘I wonder,’ muttered Patrick. He lifted down one of the jackets and examined the label. It did not say ‘Country Fashions’. Instead it simply had a small label saying ‘Richards’. It was not good leather. The jackets were made of the type of leather that looked almost like plastic and was stiff and unyielding.

Could there be a connection with Staikov’s firm?

Chapter Ten

Only Charles, in full morning dress, seemed to have made an effort for the occasion of Simon’s wedding. Agatha had not found anything suitable to wear in Mircester and had not been allowed back into her cottage the evening before. In the morning she had rapidly scrambled into a pale blue trouser suit, realizing only when she got to the church how much she hated it. Although it was well designed, she felt pale blue was definitely not her colour.

Roy, who had been invited, had sent his apologies, probably frightened he might be abducted again. Mrs Freedman was resplendent in black-and-red-patterned silk and with a large straw hat decorated with silk poppies. Patrick and Phil were in lounge suits. Toni looked subdued. She was wearing a dark grey silk dress, rather drab, as if she were wearing half-mourning, like an Edwardian lady. Mrs Bloxby was there with her husband, wearing the same outfit she had worn to many weddings: an unflattering brown chiffon dress and a large straw hat decorated with brown chiffon roses.

As if by common consent, they all shuffled into pews at the very back of the church. Agatha, worried about Toni, hoped the service would not be too long. There was to be a reception afterwards at Simon’s parents’ home. They had all decided, for Toni’s sake, to forgo it.

For her part, Toni really did not know what she felt.

Many of Simon’s regimental friends were in the church, reminding guilty Agatha that it was surely her fault that he had gone to Afghanistan.

The church was very warm. Agatha began to regret she had jeered so many times about global warming. The stained-glass windows of the abbey sent down harlequin shafts of light. The organ played softly.

Charles whispered, ‘What’s happening? Simon isn’t here. The best man’s there, but no Simon.’ People began to twist their heads, looking anxiously towards the door.

Agatha experienced