As the Pig Turns - By M.C. Beaton Page 0,69

. . . 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