As the Pig Turns - By M.C. Beaton Page 0,72

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