Agatha Raisin: As The Pig Turns (23 page)

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.’