M Beaton - Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

Olivia then took over, Olivia in a simple black gown and pearls and with her face as cunningly made up into a mask of grief as that of Princess Di’s during her famous Panorama interview. With the sharp eyes of pure jealousy, Agatha took in the pale make-up, the carefully arranged wispy hair-style and the shadows painted under the eyes.

With a break in her voice, lowered a register, Olivia said she had only known Rose a short time but they had become firm friends. “She was so full of life,” said Olivia, “and to see such a life snuffed out is a tragedy.”

Angus then put in his bit in an accent so broadly Scottish it was almost unintelligible. He said Rose was a “puir wee broken burdie.”

“Pass the sick-bag,” snarled Agatha.

“Shh!” admonished James, turning up the volume. George spoke next, in a gruff, embarrassed voice about how they all missed Rose. Only Harry Tembleton remained silent.

“And now the weather,” said the newscaster.

“I wonder when that conference was,” said James. “I mean, if they were all at a press conference they could hardly be up at Saint Hilarión trying to push you out of a window. Let’s go and find out.”

“They might have told us what they were up to,” complained Agatha.

“They could hardly do that as we haven’t seen them. Let’s go.”

When they arrived in The Dome, the manager approached them and said, “I have a fax for you, Mrs. Raisin.

“Now we’ll find out all about them,” said Agatha excitedly.

But the fax from Bill Wong said only, “Call me at my home number.”

“Rats,” said Agatha.

“I see his point,” said James. “Forget about here for the moment. We’d best get back and phone.” He turned to the manager. “When was that press conference here-about the murder?”

“At four-thirty this afternoon.” That let no one out. The attack at Saint Hilarión had been at one o’clock.

“Can’t we phone from here?” Agatha asked James.

“Yes, but too expensive.”

Back they went to the villa. “It’s early over there,” said James as he picked up the phone. “There’s two hours’ difference. What’s the number?”

Agatha fished a small leather-bound book out of her handbag and then took the phone from James. “He’s my friend,” she said. “I’ll phone.”

Mrs. Wong answered. “My Bill’s just dropped in is having a cup of tea. You’ll need to call back.”

“I’m phoning from Cyprus,” howled Agatha.

Fortunately the receiver at the other end was taken from Mrs. Wong and Bill’s voice came on the line. “You can’t keep away from murder, can you?” he said cheerfully.

“Oh, Bill,” said Agatha thankfully, “did you get anything on any of them?”

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, “and don’t you ever let anyone know where you got your information from. Here goes.”

James paced up and down impatiently as Agatha listened and took notes. Then Agatha finally said, “Well, thanks a lot. That’s given me something to think about. No, I won’t get into trouble. Yes, I found James. He’s here. What? No, no, no.”

James wondered what that no, no, no had been in answer to.

Agatha finally rang off and turned and looked triumphantly at James. She began to tell him what she had learned. Trevor’s plumbing business was on the skids and the receivers were shortly to be called in. Angus was a very rich retired man who had owned a chain of shops in Glasgow. George Debenham was also in financial trouble, having gambled unwisely on the stock exchange. Friend Harry was a comfortably-off farmer, no debts there. Rose Wilcox was extremely rich in her own right, the result of three previous marriages, the last of which had left her a very wealthy widow before she married Trevor.

“So does Trevor inherit now she’s dead?” asked Agatha, her eyes gleaming. “And why wouldn’t she bail his business out if she was that wealthy?”

“The simplest way will be to ask Trevor, but I’d like to get him away from the others. Let’s leave it until tomorrow, Agatha. We’ll go in early in the morning and suggest he might like to take a drive with us. Leave it until tomorrow.”

But Agatha fretted. “Bill might know,” she said, “and have forgotten to tell me.”

But when she phoned Bill’s number again, Mrs. Wong told her acidly that her son had gone over to see his new girlfriend-“such a nice young lady. “

So that was that. James said he was tired and hungry and he would cook them both something to eat.

Agatha sat staring into space. This was not how she would have imagined it to be. Her dreams had turned upside-down. No lingering romantic kisses beside the Mediterranean -except from Charles. Every time she thought of that episode with Charles, she felt hot and uncomfortable. How could she have let one man make love to her when she was in love with another? Because, said a nagging voice in her head, maybe you’ve never really been in love with James but with an imaginary James. The imaginary, or dream, James was always doing and saying the right things while the real James was as cold and distant as ever. Agatha gave a broken little sigh. Her obsession with James seemed to be waning as each day passed.

Over dinner James suddenly said, “I would like to get even with Mustafa for cheating me. I’ll bet he’s dealing in drugs. You don’t have all those villains around just because you’re running a brothel.”

“Could be dangerous,” said Agatha.

“So’s poking about in a murder investigation, but it hasn’t stopped you yet.”

“Oh, well, I’ll help you.”

“Not this one,” said James firmly. “‘I’ll deal with Mustafa myself.”

WHEN Agatha went downstairs in the morning, she found a note on the kitchen table from James. It said briefly, “Gone off on some private business. Be back around lunch-time.”

Agatha cursed and crushed the note into a little ball and shied it into the rubbish bin. They were no longer a team, she thought bitterly. She made herself a cup of coffee and sat down at the kitchen table and gloomily revised in her mind all James’s coldnesses, all his snubs, and all his lack of affection, until she was perfectly sure she had no feelings left for him at all.

Then she decided to go into Kyrenia and do some investigating for herself. The day was a washed-out milky grey, with wreaths of mist hiding the tops of the mountains. It was very warm and humid.

She parked in a side street and walked down to the Dome Hotel. English tourists with high fluting voices came and went outside the hotel. North Cyprus seemed to be living up to its reputation of being the last genteel watering-hole along the Mediterranean.

Neither Olivia nor the rest were in their rooms. She went to the dining-room. A few people were having a late breakfast but they were not among them. But over at the window sat Charles, holding a coffee-cup between his sum fingers and gazing dreamily out to sea.

Agatha hesitated and then, with a little shrug, she walked towards his table. He looked up.

“Morning, Aggie,” he said. “Where’s your guard-dog?”

“If you mean James, he’s gone off somewhere on his own. Have you see the Debenhams or the bereaved husband?”

“You’ve missed them. They had breakfast. Then they said something about going to Bellapais.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a place immortalized by Lawrence Durrell in his book Bitter Lemons. There’s a Gothic abbey there. I’ll drive you there. Got nothing else to do. In fact, I’m getting a bit bored. Thought of going home.”

Agatha sat down opposite him. “Why did you sleep with me?”