M Beaton - Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

“What’s up?” asked Agatha.

Olivia swung round. “We lost Harry.”

“Wasn’t he with you?”

“Of course he was. But he wandered off towards the beach. You know, there’s a Roman villa and then a crossroads with a track leading down to the sea. He said he wanted to see what kind of beach it was. We then all agreed to go different ways to look at different things and then meet up in the gymnasium. When he didn’t come back, we went down to the beach but there was no sign of him. We all spread out and began to search and agreed to meet up in the gymnasium again, which we did, but none of us has been able to find Harry, and I’m tired and don’t want to be stuck here all day.”

“You are the murder people,” said the guide suddenly. “I see you on television.”

Olivia ignored him, but Agatha saw the guide go into his little office and pick up the phone.

“We’ll try the beach again for you,” said Charles. “Maybe you missed him.”

“But that’s miles,” groaned Agatha.

“Then you wait here,” said Charles. “I’ll go alone.”

“No, I’m coming with you.” Agatha did not want to be left with them in case one of them tried to murder her.

They set off as the sun fell lower in the sky. There were few tourists now. Ah passed them and shouted, “Any luck?” They shook their heads and pressed on until they came to the crossroads.”

“It should be easier to search now,” said Charles. “Most people will have left the beach.”

They almost ran down the narrow road to the beach, Agatha forgetting her fatigue in her desire to find Harry.

The beach was nearly deserted. A yacht bobbed out on the water. The sea was calm, with only little waves rippling in across the sand.

And then, along the beach, they saw a lone figure, lying prone. The top half of the body was mostly covered by a newspaper, its pages rising and falling in the slight breeze.

Charles pointed. “Do you think that’s him?”

“May as well go and see.” Agatha headed along the beach and Charles followed.

They both stood together at last, looking down.

“Seems to be asleep,” said Charles. “Do you think those are Harry’s feet?”

“I don’t know what Harry’s feet look like,” said Agatha. “Here goes.”

She bent down and gently drew away the newspaper which was covering the man’s face and top half of his body, noting that it was Kibris, a Turkish Cypriot paper.

Agatha knew immediately, before she saw the broad red stain on the front of Harry’s shirt, that he was dead. The face was as lifeless as clay. Someone had closed his eyes.

All the frights she had endured, the two attempts on her life, the long hot day and now this made Agatha feel sick, and dizzy and faint. She sat down on the sand and put her head between her knees.

“Stay there,” said Charles urgently. “I’ll get help.”

So Agatha sat where she was, beside the dead body of Harry. A woman passed her, leading a small child by the hand. She stopped and turned back and stared open-mouthed at the dead body, at the gruesome red stain on the shirt. Then she scooped up the child and ran off down the beach, screaming at the top of her voice.

Agatha stayed, unmoving. Her mind seemed to be a numb blank. In the distance, she heard the wail of police sirens. She felt very tired.

Then she was dimly aware of being surrounded by people, of Charles’s saying sharply, “Can’t you see she’s in shock? I was with her when we found the body. I’ll answer any questions.”

He helped Agatha to her feet. She blinked and stared around in a dazed way.

Pamir was there, his face grim. “If you will just step aside for a moment with Sir Charles,” he said to Agatha. “Only a few preliminary questions.”

With Charles’s arm around her waist, Agatha walked up the beach.

“Now we will sit down here,” said Pamir. “You first, Sir Charles.”

So Charles painstakingly went through their day, ending up with the finding of Harry.

In a dreary little voice, Agatha then told the same story.

“You may go,” said Pamir. “I will call on you later.”

“I’ll be with Mrs. Raisin at the villa,” said Charles.

Agatha wanted to cry out that James might be there, but felt too weak and shaky to protest.

Charles said he would drive. She fell asleep on the road back to Kyrenia, awaking only when they stopped outside The Dome.

“Wait there,” said Charles. “I’ll get my stuff.”

He’s going to move into the villa, thought Agatha with a stab of panic. She still cherished a hope that James might be there waiting for her.

Bright images of the day crowded her head-the ruins, the ancient brutality of the tombs, Harry’s still, dead face and closed eyes facing up to the sun. Who had closed his eyes? The killer, no doubt.

She fumbled in her handbag for a cigarette and ht it. What were they doing in Carsely, sleepy Carsely that she used to despise for its lack of excitement? She thought longingly of the vicarage, where Mrs. Bloxby would produce tea and scones and they would sit by the fire and chat about safe and secure village matters. Would she ever see her home again? Or would the killer, who had tried to get rid of her twice and failed, be successful on the third attempt? She shivered, suddenly glad that she was not going to be alone in the villa. Damn James for a heartless, selfish beast. He should be there to protect her. Yes, he hadn’t even thought of that! Two attempts on her Ufe and he had cleared off, leaving her alone. He didn’t care a rap for her or he would not have gone. Forget the analysis-paralysis and look at the footwork. She could not possibly imagine that a man who had any feeling for her at all could leave her in such peril.

Charles came out of the hotel, carrying two expensive suitcases which he put in the boot.

He slid in behind the steering wheel.

“You’re very kind,” volunteered Agatha.

“Think nothing of it,” said Charles. “You’re saving me a hotel bill.”

The rest of the evening went by like a bad dream. Pamir came at eight o’clock to grill both of them again. His anger seemed to have mounted. Outside, the press waited eagerly. The murder on the Greek side was old hat.

At last Pamir left.

“We can’t go out anywhere without being plagued by the press,” said Charles. “They will keep banging on the door. There they go again. “

But a voice shouted, “British High Commission here.”

Charles went to let a small, dapper man in, blinking in the sudden blast of flashes from press cameras.

He introduced himself as Mr. Urquhart and advised them, unnecessarily, as Charles acidly pointed out, to cooperate with the police. Then he began to question Agatha closely about James Lacey. Where was he? Turkey? Was she sure? He could still be on the island.

“If he were,” said Agatha, “then he certainly would not be at Salamis, murdering poor old Harry Tembleton.”

“This is all most unfortunate,” said Mr. Urquhart. “The police were about to release Mrs. Wilcox’s body and let you all go home, but in the light of this latest murder they are certainly not going to let any of you go.”

He then questioned Agatha about James again, but Agatha would only repeat that James had said he was going to Turkey. She did not mention anything about his investigations into Mustafa.

At last Mr. Urquhart departed the villa in a fusillade of flashes. From outside the villa came the nasal voice of a television reporter talking to a camera.

“Do you want to go to bed?” asked Charles. “Or shall we eat first?”

“There’s nothing much left in the house,” said Agatha. “And I don’t feel like the picnic stuff. The phone’s ringing again. Maybe I should answer it. It might be James.”