M Beaton - Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

“I wish I were one of them,” said Olivia as they walked to the lift. “Someone with an ordinary life. Someone who’s had a relaxed holiday and is going home without a care in the world.”

When they reached Olivia’s room, she found the sun-cream and went into the bathroom. “Help yourself to a drink,” she called. “I won’t be long.”

“I don’t want a drink,” Agatha shouted back. “I’ve drunk enough on this so-called holiday to last me a lifetime.”

At fast Olivia emerged, her bony shoulders gleaming with cream. She sat down wearily. “Where’s James?” she asked. “Any news?”

Agatha shook her head. “He’s somewhere in Turkey. That’s all I know.”

“Poor you. Why did he go off like that? Was it because of Charles?”

“No, no. James has always been strange.”

“Bit thick, leaving you alone to face the music.”

Agatha thought it was a bit thick as well but she wasn’t going to tell Olivia that.

“Your husband told me that Harry was paying for this holiday,” said Agatha. “I hope being made to stay on isn’t running you into debt. George must be worried sick.”

Olivia looked at her in surprise. “Why should George be worried sick?”

“Because of all his losses on the stock exchange.”

“What?” Olivia’s eyes bulged with amazement. “How did you hear that?”

“Pamir told me,” said Agatha, not wanting to betray how she had come by the information. “Didn’t you know?”

“No, I let George handle all the money affairs. Always have. It can’t be true.”

“It seems to be. The police appear to have gone thoroughly into our backgrounds.”

Olivia had gone very white. Agatha felt miserably sorry for her and wished she had not said anything.

“Did Harry know?” asked Olivia.

“I don’t know,” said Agatha. “Perhaps he might have left both of you something in his will.”

“That’s a terrible thing to say.”

“Practical, though.”

Olivia’s eyes clouded over. “Was that the attraction of Rose? Money? George said she was really good fun and very bright and that I was being the most dreadful snob, but she was awful.”

“Again, I don’t know,” said Agatha. “I wish I hadn’t told you about your husband’s losses.”

“I’d need to know sooner or later. Oh, God, now Harry’s dead, we’ll need to pay this hotel bill.” She clutched her hair. “I can’t think!”

Agatha was feeling guilty. Olivia had enough to cope with without starting to worry about paying the hotel bill.

“Look,” she said awkwardly, “if you’re broke, I can help out a bit.”

“That’s good of you. But I’m sure the police have got it wrong. George would have said something.”

When they returned to the pool, Agatha said to Charles urgently, “Let’s go.”

Fortunately he had changed out of his swimming-trunks. As they walked off, Charles asked, “What’s the matter? You look as if the hound of hell is after you.”

“I let slip about George’s debts. Olivia knew nothing about it. She looked shattered. I wish to God I hadn’t said anything. Harry was paying for their holiday. Now he’s dead, they’re going to be left with a hell of a hotel bill. I offered to help out.”

“Why on earth? You barely know the woman. You don’t like her.”

“I was sorry for her,” said Agatha gruffly. “She’s not bad.”

“You’re a soft touch, Aggie. Where are you taking me for lunch?”

“I’m not that soft a touch. There’s food back at the villa.”

“Okay, you win. Lunch is on me. Here?”

“No,” said Agatha, “the press will soon be back.”

“I know,” said Charles. “Let’s get clear away. Let’s go to Famagusta and find a restaurant.”

Agatha agreed.

It was the beginning to a surprisingly pleasant day. They ate stuffed vine leaves and rice washed down with mineral water at a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant in the market at Famagusta, and then walked around looking at the shops and buying postcards.

They decided to stay on for dinner before making their way back along the long straight road and then over the mountains.

“Can’t see the stars,” said Charles as he negotiated the winding mountain road down into Kyrenia. “I think there’s going to be a storm.”

“No lightning flashes out to sea,” commented Agatha.

“I feel it coming, none the less.”

When Charles swung the wheel and turned the car into the road leading to the villa, they saw with dismay Pamir’s black official car parked outside, behind a police jeep with a flashing blue light.

“What now?” groaned Agatha.

Charles parked and they got out. Pamir approached them. “Is that your rented car?” he asked Agatha sternly, pointing to where Agatha’s car was parked farther down the road.

“Yes,” said Agatha. “What’s happened?”

“Shall we go inside?”

I can’t stand much more of this, thought Agatha as Charles led the way.

They sat down in the kitchen under the harsh fluorescent light and faced Pamir.

“When did you change your car, Mrs. Raisin?”

“Last night. Why?”

“Why did you change it? What was up with it?”

“Nothing,” said Agatha. “Someone has been trying to kill me, whatever you say, and I thought it might be an idea to change the car and get a different registration.”

“For heaven’s sake, man,” snapped Charles. “Get to the point.”

“The car Mrs. Raisin was renting has been found at the foot of an embankment off the Nicosia Road. The driver, a mainland Turk, was found dead at the wheel. He rented the car this morning. So I must ask you what you have both been doing today.”

Wearily they went through their day but Agatha omitted out of a queer sort of loyalty to Olivia to tell Pamir about their conversation. She thought about hurt and lost Trevor and shocked and frightened Olivia and began to feel a queer bond with them.

After over an hour of questioning, Pamir rose and said, “We are having the car investigated. The driver stank of alcohol, so he might simply have gone off the road.”

“Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” yelled Agatha, suddenly furious. “You’ve been letting me think that someone thought I was still using that car and tampered with it, you who didn’t believe anything about the attacks on me. I’m sick of this. I have nothing to do with all this, and neither has Charles. I just want to go home!”

“We’ll see. Meanwhile, keep yourselves available for questioning.”

Pamir left and Charles and Agatha stared at each other.

“Will this never end?” asked Agatha.

“Let’s just go to bed and forget about it until tomorrow.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes. “You know, Aggie, I would never have picked up that Emily unless I was drunk. Don’t know why I did that.”

“I do,” said Agatha. “You’re amoral.”

“Oh well, go to your lonely bed.”

“That is exactly what I’m going to do after I wash the salt off.”

Agatha had a leisurely bath, trying to think of pleasant things, trying not to think of absent James or of murder.

She fell asleep almost immediately.

When she awoke, she could hear thunder rumbling in the distance. So Charles had been right. A storm was coming. Her brain was tired out with worry, she thought as she cleaned her teeth. She hadn’t a clue as to who had killed Rose and Harry, assuming that there was only one murderer. She had been lucky in previous cases, that was all. James had been right. All she had surely done in the past was blunder about-and blunder into the murderer and nearly get herself killed, which was just what was happening here, but without any result.