M Beaton - Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

He bent his head and kissed her slowly. Oh, well, just one kiss, thought Agatha drunkenly. It was all very soothing and sensuous and not quite real. He had forgotten to put on the air-conditioning and the windows were still open. He kissed her for quite a long time before he took her pyjamas off and Agatha’s last sane thought was, oh, what the hell.

She awoke at five in the morning with the telephone ringing shrilly. Charles answered it. She heard him say, “Yes, James, she’s here. She had nowhere to go, so I let her use the spare bed.”

“He’s coming up,” said Charles after he had replaced the receiver. He got out of bed and rapidly put on the pyjamas he had discarded.

Agatha ran for the bathroom, where she had left her clothes. She turned on the shower and washed herself hurriedly, dried, and then put on her clothes. Outside she could hear the sound of voices. She looked anxiously at her face in the mirror, but it showed no signs of love-making.

She went out into the hotel room. “So there you are,” said James cheerfully. “What a scare you gave us! Police all over the place looking for you.”

“Where were you?” asked Agatha, avoiding looking at Charles. “I went to the villa, to the restaurant, but there was no sign of anyone.”

“We all went on to a bar. Thanks for looking after her, Charles. I gather that must have been you at the restaurant. Why didn’t you say hullo?”

“My pleasure,” said Charles smoothly, ignoring the last question. “Now, if you both don’t mind, I’ll get some more sleep. I’m quite exhausted. Must be the sea air.”

James led the way. Agatha turned in the doorway and looked back at Charles, but his neat features were closed and impersonal.

Men, thought Agatha Raisin. I’ll never understand them.

Rose Macaulay described Saint Hilarión as “a picture book castle for elf kings” and it is supposed to have inspired the animators of Snow White. Sited on its craggy eyrie, 2,400 feet above the plain, Saint Hilarión is best known as the honeymoon castle of Richard the Lionheart. Saint Hilarión consists of three distinct sections on different levels. The highest part of the castle, reached by very steep worn steps, is the Tower of Prince John. Signs on the road up to the castle proclaim in multiple languages that photography is forbidden, but no one seems to pay any attention to that, in the same way as the locals pay no attention to either speed limits or parking restrictions.

Agatha climbed out of the car in the car-park the following afternoon and looked all around. Far below her on one side stretched the blue Mediterranean; on her other side, the ruins of the castle reared up against cloudless skies. There was a smell of pine, and cicadas chattered with their sewing-machine busyness.

James had let her sleep late and had been unusually quiet on the journey up the long winding road to the castle. Agatha felt guilty about having slept with Charles. What had come over her? And what had come over him? Charles had not shown any sign earlier in the evening of having been attracted to her in any way. He probably regarded her as a convenient lay. Agatha blushed.

“Your face is all red,” said James. “Is it the heat?”

“Yes, yes,” said Agatha fretfully. “The sun is very strong up here.”

They walked together out of the car-park, past a small café and up steep steps towards the first part of the castle. Agatha felt bone-weary. She stumbled slightly. James caught her arm with unexpected roughness and said sharply, “I didn’t know you and Charles were such buddies.”

“We’re not,” said Agatha, jerking her arm away. “I only saw as much of him during that case as you did.”

“That’s what I thought. So why did you just walk off with him last night?”

“He took a look at the company and didn’t like what he saw, so he asked me for a drink,” said Agatha defensively. “What’s up with that?”

“There’s nothing up with that. Why did you just walk off with him? Oh, I know, my snobby little friend. He’s a baronet.”

“It wasn’t that,” raged Agatha. “I just wanted to get away from the lot of you!”

“Leaving me to find out what I could. One minor aristo crosses your path, Agatha, and you’re off and running.”

“That’s not true. I sent a fax off to Bill Wong.”

“What?”

“I sent a fax to Bill from The Dome. Charles saw the manager for me and he-”

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“How could I? You weren’t there.”

“And didn’t you think to get a taxi? There was no need surely to climb into a comparative stranger’s bed.”

“I climbed into the spare bed. I had already been out to the villa twice. You weren’t there. Was I supposed to cruise back and forwards all night, waiting for you to get home? Isn’t there a spare set of keys?”

He fished in his pocket and handed her a ring of keys. “Jackie called with these this morning. That’s the front door, that the back, that’s the door off the upper terrace. Okay?”

“Thank you,” said Agatha stiffly. “Are we going to stand here all day in this heat or are we going to get on and see this lump of rubble?”

They walked grimly on and upwards.

At last Agatha cried, “I’ve got to sit down for a moment.”

She sank down onto a wall in the shade. James sat down beside her and stared at the ground at his feet. The atmosphere became heavy with unspoken accusation. Agatha pulled her guidebook out of her handbag and began to read aloud:

“This upper ward is reached up a steep path (stout shoes recommended), leading westward along the face of the crag and past an enormous open reservoir, which must have held enough water to last the inhabitants for many months. Veer right at the top to enter the upper enceinte through a Frankish arch. To the north of the entrance are more kitchens, and at the far (west) end of the upper plateau, a long narrow building which formed the Queen’s apartments; on the upper floor is the elegant ‘Queen’s window,’ retaining some of the original tracery and benches.”

“Did you sleep with him?” James’s voice cut across this travelogue.

“Don’t be silly, James,” said Agatha. “Let’s go.”

“Go yourself,” he said moodily.

She got to her feet and began to climb upwards, her thoughts in a turmoil. James was behaving like a jealous man, but why? It was not as if he had any interest left in her, or if he had, he was putting on a very good act not to show it. Oh, why had she let Charles make love to her? Hot tears started to Agatha’s eyes. She was beginning to feel thoroughly ashamed of herself.

At this higher level, there were no tourists other than herself. She could hear them arriving below in the car-park, but for the moment it seemed as if she had this section all to herself.

She walked to one of the windows and looked out. From her eyrie, the land dropped precipitously, tumbling down in a series of crags, broken rock, pine trees and scrub. The air was sweet and fresh. She felt a great peace descend on her. Just for this moment she could forget about murder and James and Charles and all the other messy complications of her muddled life.

She put her handbag on the ground at her feet and stood with both hands leaning on the warm stone at either side of the window, wondering if Queen Berengaria had stood just here and looked at this view, if she had loved Richard of England as she, stocky middle-aged Agatha, loved her James.

And then, without turning round, she became aware of anger filling the room and knew someone had entered and that someone was probably James. She stiffened her back and braced her hands on either side of the window, awaiting more questions about Charles.

That action was to save her life.