As The Pig Turns

wish I’d invested in snow tyres or a four-wheel drive. Roy Silver’s coming down for the weekend. I hope the roads clear by then.’
    Roy had worked for Agatha when she had run a successful public relations business in London. She had taken early retirement and had sold up to move to the Cotswolds. But after solving several murders, she had decided to set up her own detective agency.
    Bill said he would try to get down to see her at the weekend and rang off.
    Agatha then phoned her agency. She had a small staff: Patrick Mulligan, a retired policeman, Phil Marshall, an elderly man from Carsely, young Toni Gilmour and a secretary, Mrs Freedman. A shrewd businesswoman, Agatha had seen the recession coming long before most people and so had decided not to employ any more staff. But there was one absence from her staff jabbing at her conscience. A bright young detective, Simon Black, employed by Agatha until a few months earlier, had shown signs of falling in love with Toni. Persuading herself that she was acting in their best interests, Agatha had told Simon that Toni was too young and to wait three years. But Toni had turned against Simon, feeling he was snubbing her at every turn, and to Agatha’s horror, Simon had gone off and enlisted in the army and was now fighting in Afghanistan.
    Toni answered the phone and said that Mrs Freedman and Phil had gone home, not wanting to wait any longer in case the snow got thicker. Toni, young, blonde and beautiful, often gave Agatha pangs of envy, but she had to admit that the girl was a brilliant detective.
    ‘What have we got outstanding?’ asked Agatha.
    ‘Two adulteries, four missing pets and two missing teenagers.’
    Agatha sighed. ‘It seems not so long ago that I swore I would never take on another missing pet. Now we need the money.’
    ‘It’s easy money,’ said Toni. ‘They hardly ever think of checking the animal shelter. I just go along there with the photos they’ve given me of Tiddles or whatever, collect the beasts and phone the happy owners and then say, “Pay up”.’
    ‘Roy’s coming down for the weekend,’ said Agatha, ‘and maybe Bill will come over. Why don’t you join us and maybe I’ll find something interesting for us to do?’
    ‘I’ve got a date.’
    ‘Who is he?’
    ‘Paul Finlay.’
    ‘How did you meet him?’
    Toni longed to tell the ever-curious Agatha to mind her own business, but she said reluctantly, ‘I’ve been taking French classes in the evenings, now that it’s quiet at work. He’s the lecturer.’
    ‘How old is he?’
    ‘I’ve got to go. The other phone’s ringing.’
    After she had rung off, Agatha sat and worried. Toni had a weakness for older men and had run into trouble before.
    Agatha’s cleaner, Doris Simpson, had left a local newspaper on the kitchen table. She began to search through it to see if there were any weekend amusements, and then her eye fell on an event in Winter Parva, a village some twenty miles away. Agatha had been to Winter Parva only once. It was a touristy Cotswold village with gift shops, a mediaeval market hall and thatched cottages. The article said that as the local shops had not fared as well as usual over the Christmas period, the parish council had planned to generate interest in the village with a special January event. There was to be a pig roast on Saturday on the village green. The villagers were urged to dress in old-fashioned costumes. The Winter Parva morris dancers would perform along with the local brass band and the village choir. Two busloads of Chinese tourists were expected to arrive for the event.
    That’ll do, thought Agatha, as long as I’m not blocked in the village by the snow.
    Feeling hungry, she rummaged in her deep freezer to find something to microwave. Suddenly all the lights went out. A power cut.
    She remembered the pub, the Red Lion, had a generator. Agatha changed into trousers, boots and a hooded parka and set out in the hunt for dinner.
    The pub was crowded with locals. Agatha went to the bar and ordered lasagne and chips and a half of lager and looked around for a vacant table. Then, to her amazement, she saw her friend the vicar’s wife, Mrs Bloxby, sitting by herself in a corner, looking down dismally at a small glass of sherry.
    Agatha hurried to join her, wondering what could be wrong, because Mrs Bloxby never went to the pub unless it was some special fundraising occasion. The vicar’s wife had grey hair escaping from an old-fashioned