M Beaton - Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

She would forgo investigation and try hard to keep away from Olivia and the rest and do something to make the days pass. Yesterday had been pleasant. The books she had brought to read were uninspiring. Perhaps she should take up knitting like Olivia, thought Agatha, having a sudden vivid picture of Olivia’s knitting needles flashing in and out of the wool, those steel knitting needles flashing in the sunlight.

And then Agatha’s slowly put down the toothbrush. Olivia had been a nurse. Rose and Harry had been murdered by some thin instrument. If not a kebab skewer, what about a knitting needle rammed home by someone who knew exactly where to place it?

Olivia! Olivia, who did not know about her husband’s debts, and so was puzzled by the sudden strange attraction Rose had for her husband. Yet how could Olivia possibly not have known how deeply in debt they were? Surely besotted Harry at his age had made a will and, having no wife or family, had probably left all to Olivia.

Agatha’s heart began to hammer against her ribs.

How could she prove it?

Just ask her, said a voice.

But I’m not going to make the mistakes of the past. I’ll arrange to met her in the hotel lounge with other people about.

She picked up the extension in her room and phoned The Dome and asked to be put through to Mrs. Debenham.

When Olivia answered, Agatha said, “About what we were discussing, Olivia. I have a cheque here for you which might help. Please don’t say no.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said Olivia in a low voice. “George isn’t here. We had a bit of a row about money. He’s gone out for a walk. “

“Meet me in the hotel bar,” said Agatha. “I’ll only be about fifteen minutes.”

She went downstairs to tell Charles where she was going but found him gone. She wondered whether to leave a note for him, but decided she didn’t have the time.

As she left the villa, the thunder rolled nearer and a fat drop of rain struck her cheek. By the time she reached the outskirts of Kyrenia, the rain was coming down in floods and she could barely see the road. She parked in an illegal parking place outside the hotel. Let the police fine her just this once.

She had forgotten about the press and looked nervously around the reception area but there was not a camera in sight.

She walked through to the bar, wishing she had a tape recorder. Even if Olivia confessed, what proof would there be?

But Agatha did not feel like turning back now. She felt that unless these murders were solved, she would be stuck in north Cyprus for months.

Olivia was not in the bar. Agatha ordered coffee for two. And waited. After ten minutes, when she was just about to phone Olivia’s room, Olivia entered.

“Sit down,” said Agatha, “and have some coffee.” Agatha looked around. A couple were having coffee some distance away and the waiters were busy arranging cakes in the cold shelf.

“This is very kind of you, Agatha,” said Olivia with such sincerity that Agatha decided she must have made some dreadful mistake. A bright flash of lightning lit up the room and someone screamed outside in the corridor. Then a great clap of thunder seemed to rock the hotel to its foundations. Rain streamed down the plate-glass windows.

Weakly Agatha felt she should write out a cheque, hand it over and forget about the whole thing. But something made her say, “No knitting today, Olivia?”

“It’s up in my room,” said Olivia. “My knitting gets on George’s nerves. He says I remind him of Madame Defarge.”

And then Agatha found her courage. She would never forgive herself if she did not try.

She asked quietly, “It would be better to get it out, Olivia. You can’t go on living like this.”

Olivia stared at her, her coffee-cup half-way to her lips.

“What are you talking about, Agatha?”

“Those knitting needles, steel knitting needles, sharp steel knitting needles, Olivia. And you used to be a nurse. I think you had one in your handbag the night we went to the disco. I think you killed Rose.”

“You’ve gone mad,” said Olivia, putting down her cup with an angry click in its saucer and gathering up her handbag.

“I have not yet told my suspicions to the police. But I’ll bet one of those needles has been sharpened and I bet you’ve still got it,” said Agatha desperately.

Olivia slowly sat down. Another flash of lightning, another clap of thunder.

She stared at Agatha.

“Why?” asked Agatha. “Rose was a flirt, but apart from that time I saw them chatting on Turtle Beach, there was nothing really to make you jealous, was there?”

“You weren’t with us that day we went to Othello’s Tower,” said Olivia wearily. She put her head in her hands. “Rose was everything I despised-vulgar, raucous, pushing. George laughed at all her awful remarks, but that wasn’t all. When we were about to go to bed that night, George suddenly said he wanted to go out for a walk. I said I would go with him and he shouted he wanted to be alone.

“I waited a minute or so and then I followed him. He was walking quickly towards the harbour but he never turned round, so I was able to keep him in sight. He went right to the end past the fish restaurants and turned up that road which leads up to thé town from the end. It was deserted, so I walked slowly, keeping to the shadows. The road curves round to the right, but there’s a black patch of scrub off to the left. I heard them before I saw them. Rose was against the wall, her skirt hitched up and he was having her, my George. I felt sick.”

“What did they say when you confronted them?” asked Agatha.

“I didn’t. And I didn’t say anything to George either when he returned. I was frightened he would leave me. You see, I lied to you. I knew all along about the financial mess we were in. You shocked me because Pamir said nothing to me and so I thought the police didn’t know about the debts. I knew that slut had probably marked him down as her next husband to spite me. She was everything I had ever despised. What would our friends say? The shame would have been dreadful. I sharpened up that knitting needle and put it in my bag and waited for my chance. And that chance came at the disco. I felt nothing but a tremendous relief that she was gone.”

“But didn’t George guess anything?”

“Not a thing. I kept close to the others afterwards because I began to be terrified of being found out. And then you óame poking around. I knew you were going to Saint Hilarión. I actually passed James, would you believe it? He was sitting with his eyes closed. When I didn’t manage to get rid of you, I managed to hide on the hillside until the fuss died down.”

“How did you get into my room that night?”

“I heard you book a room and picked the lock of the maid’s closet on our landing and took the passkey and replaced it the next day. Why did you have to interfere?”

“And why Harry? Did he find out?”

“Stupid old Harry couldn’t believe any wrong of me. But he got drunk and sentimental and said he had left me everything in his will. I saw how George and I could stick it out and return to our old life. At Salamis, I said to Harry if he met me on the beach, I would give him a kiss. The besotted old fool got so excited, I thought he might have a heart attack and save me the trouble, but he was there when I escaped from the others. I suggested we lie down like lovers on the sand. And then I stabbed him and put the newspaper over his face. No, the needle is not in my room. I buried it in the sand.”

“But why didn’t you just ask Harry for the money to bail you out? I’m sure he would have given it to you.”

“George doesn’t know that I learned a while ago about the mess we were in. George is a gentleman; he has his pride. He would be furious if I took money from a friend because he could not manage his affairs. You don’t understand people like us, Agatha. We come from a different world.”