M Beaton - Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

“When was this?” asked Agatha.

“Three years ago.”

“I thought you’d been married a long time.”

“To Maggie, not Rose. Anyway, Maggie was very flustered and flattered and asked her over. I’d never met anyone like Rose. She sort of sparkled. She seemed to have a lot of money and travelled a lot. She asked me what I did and I told her about the plumbing business. I bragged a bit and said I was making a fortune. Maggie kicked me under the table, but I didn’t want to let the side down in front of a rich woman. Maggie went off to powder her nose and Rose hands me a card with her phone number, winks at me, and says, ‘Why don’t you call round and see me?’

“When Maggie came back towards the table, I seemed to see her for the first time, all dumpy and those damn gloves and she had thick specs that gave her a dopey look, and I thought, I’ve worked hard all my life, I deserve a bit of fun.”

Trevor sighed. “I called her the very next day and we started an affair. I couldn’t think of anything but Rose, couldn’t see anything but Rose. So I asked Maggie for a divorce.”

There was a long silence.

“How did Maggie take it?” asked Agatha gently.

“She never could sleep proper. Got pills from the doctor. Took the lot.”

Agatha looked at him in horror. “She killed herself?”

He nodded. “My son, Wayne, he hasn’t spoken to me since the funeral. He said Rose had changed me into a monster. But all I could feel was free at last. I’d spent too much trying to impress Rose and the business began to suffer. Rose found out about it before we came here. By that time she’d got Angus in tow. She liked money, did Rose. I was terrified she’d leave me. And now she’s gone.”

His pink face crumpled and fat tears ran down his cheeks.

He took out a scrubby handkerchief and dried his cheeks. “It’s like living in a nightmare. Rose was awful. She liked manipulating people. She liked her bit of power. But I just don’t know how to go on without her.”

Agatha made soothing noises. She wondered whether to offer to buy him another drink but then decided more alcohol might make him truculent.

“How did your friendship with Olivia and George start up?” she asked.

“That was Rose. Before we went for that swim off the yacht, she muttered to me, ’Snobby lot, but I’ll soon sort them out.’”

“Could she have met any of them before?”

“Apart from Angus, no.”

“Is… is Angus, I mean, was Angus in love with her?”

“Angus was safe. He adored Rose and he respected our marriage. I didn’t mind Angus.” He looked around bleakly. “I’ve got to go.” He got up abruptly and strode out of the restaurant.

Agatha finished her half-eaten sandwich and asked for another glass of wine, thinking over what Trevor had told her. She suddenly wished James were with her, so that she could discuss it with him.

At last she left and walked down to the car-park. The sun was setting and the mournful call to prayer rang out from a minaret. She got into her car and sat for a moment.

She did not want to return to the villa, to Charles. Charles had been kind and she was glad of his company, but she blamed her night with him for having prompted James to leave.

She drove west out of Kyrenia, but passed the road which led to the villa and continued on through Lapta and then ever westwards and up a winding road into the mountains, driving steadily, not knowing where she was going, only knowing she was reluctant to return to the villa.

She reached the village of Sadrazamkoy. She was down from the mountains now, and beyond the village the road degenerated, becoming broken and in need of repair as it wound through flat, scrubby country. She drove on until she found herself at Cape Kormakiti, or decided that was where she was after switching on the car light and consulting her guidebook. She climbed out of the car and walked towards the rocks. A navigation light shone on a rusty gantry. The waves crashing over the rocks caused the rock to emit a weird clanging sound, like the tolling of the passing bell for the dead at the church in Carsely, thought Agatha with a shiver.

Then she realized her real need to get away from everyone came from simple fear. Someone was trying to kill her and she was terrified.

And even with James gone and her life in a mess, she felt that she had so much to lose: her home, her cats, her friends in the village. She could not regret the driving hard-bitten years building up a successful public-relations firm, for she was now comfortably off.

The very fact that she had admitted to herself that she was frightened made the fear begin to ebb. She turned back to her rented car. They would all know the number plate now and be able to recognize it. It might be an idea to swap it for another.

She drove back over the mountains and east to Kyrenia, again without stopping at the villa. Mehmet at Atlantic Cars was just closing up his small office when she arrived.

“I would like to change the car,” said Agatha.

“What’s up with the one you’ve got?”

Agatha looked at him thoughtfully. She did not want to go into a long explanation about how someone was trying to murder her and so she wanted another car that would not be immediately recognizable as the one she drove.

“Ashtray full?” she suggested.

He grinned and shrugged, as if inured to the vagaries and whims of tourists. He selected a car key, changed the paperwork and led her to a car across the road.

Feeling more positive than she had felt all day, Agatha drove back to the villa at last.

To her surprise, there was no sign of Charles, nor did he seem to have left a note.

She made herself coffee and a sandwich, not feeling very hungry. She then went upstairs, undressed and went to bed. She began to read but could not really concentrate.

She found herself missing Charles and reluctantly remembering his love-making, what she could remember. It had been warm and pleasant. It was a pity she was so much older than he.

At last, she switched out the light after looking at the clock. Midnight. Where was Charles? She turned on her side and fell asleep.

Agatha awoke with a start as she heard the door opening downstairs. She was about to call out, “Charles!” when she heard the sound of a female giggle and Charles’s voice, saying, “Shhh! You’ll awaken Aggie.”

“Who’s Aggie?” whispered the other voice.

“My aunt,” said Charles.

Agatha lay as stiff as a board. She heard them both come up the stairs, giggling and whispering. Then they went into Charles’s room. More whispering, more giggling and then the unmistakable sounds of love-making.

Agatha put the pillow over her head to try to block out the sounds.

In the morning, Agatha awoke and dressed in shorts and a T-shirt and went reluctantly downstairs. She had no right to complain about Charles’s making love to anyone else, and yet it was the very fact he had described her as his aunt which had hurt so dreadfully, had made her feel old.

Charles was sitting at a table in the garden, as smooth and tailored as ever.

He hailed her with a cheery greeting of “Where did you get to yesterday?”

“Here and there,” said Agatha, sitting down. “Where is she?”

“Who?”

“The woman you bedded last night.”

“Oh, her. Long gone.”

“Who was she?”

“I went out round the clubs and pubs to look for you and picked her up. English tourist. Emily. Very nice.”

“Will you be seeing her again?”

“Shouldn’t think so. She gets her plane home today.”

“Easy come, easy go, as far as you’re concerned, Charles.”

“Want some coffee, Aggie?”

“Yes, please.”

Agatha sat under the orange tree and stared out to sea. It was a clear day and the Turkish mainland was a thin line on the horizon. She felt diminished. She had begun to think she had meant more than an easy lay to Charles, but obviously not.