M Beaton: Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

“Agatha!” cried Rose, seizing her arm. “Owya? Come an’ join us.”

“Got to go,” yelled Agatha, tearing herself free.

She ran and ran, glad this time she was wearing flat-heeled sandals. But James had gone again. She searched and searched, as she had done the night before and with as little success. She finally sank down in a chair in a café and ordered a mineral water. There was a mirror in front of her. On her better days, Agatha Raisin was quite presentable, having shiny brown hair cut in a smooth bob, small bearlike eyes, a generous mouth, and a trim, if stocky figure ending in good legs. But in the mirror, she saw a tired middle-aged woman with damp hair, a sweaty red face and a crumpled dress. She must pull herself together or James would take one look at this apparition and sheer off.

And then, as she became calmer, she decided she would wait until it was cooler and ask Mehmet at Atlantic Cars for the address that James had given when he rented the car.

She gave a weary little sigh. So much for her detective abilities. With some difficulty she found her way back to where she had parked her car, and then drove slowly back along the long hot road over the Mesaoria Plain, where no birds sang and nothing seemed to be growing apart from a few stunted olive trees. Dust devils swirled across the road, which shimmered in the intense heat.

Mehmet at Atlantic Cars was cautious about revealing James’s address. At last, after more pleading from Agatha, he seemed to decide that as she was a guest at the hotel and British, there should be no harm in giving it to her. James was at the address he had once mentioned to Agatha. She had forgotten it but she remembered it now. It was where they were to have spent their honeymoon. Mehmet led her over to the map again. He said that if she went out on the Nicosia Road past the Onar Village Hotel, which she would see on her right, and took the next road down to the left, the villa would be the fourth one down that road on the left.

Agatha decided to wait until that evening, when she was bathed and refreshed.

She worked hard on her appearance, washing and brushing her hair until it shone, covering her red face with a flattering shade of foundation cream. She put on a simple silk shift of a gold colour, sprayed herself with Yves Saint Laurent’s Champagne, and then went out into the dark, still, hot evening, to the car.

Now that she felt she was so close she was almost reluctant to go, to face possible rejection.

She turned off the Nicosia Road and bumped down over potholes, rounded a corner and started counting the villas and parked outside the fourth. It was shielded from the road by a tall hedge of mimosa.

Agatha pushed opened the gate and walked in. She knocked at the door and waited. No reply.

She walked around the side of the house and saw a rented car parked there. He must be home. She walked onto a broad terrace. The large plate-glass windows were uncurtained and a pool of light was spilling out onto the terrace.

She looked in. James was sitting at a rickety table typing on a laptop computer. There was more grey in his hair, she noticed with a pang, and the lines at either side of his mouth seemed deeper.

Almost timidly, she rapped on the glass.

Agatha Raisin and James Lacey stared at each other for a long moment.

Then he rose to his feet and slid back the window.

“Good evening, Agatha,” he said. “Come in.”

No exclamations of surprise or delight. No welcome.

Agatha looked around. It was a large living-room with an uncarpeted floor. Apart from the table and chair, there were a battered sofa and two armchairs, heavy with tarnished gilt on the woodwork, the kind of furniture called “Loo Kanz” in the Middle East.

“Drink?” he asked. “I don’t have any ice. The fridge isn’t working.”

She followed him into a narrow kitchen. She saw why the fridge wasn’t working. There was no plug on it. She opened the fridge door. It was filthy, encrusted with old food.

“Hardly luxury quarters,” said Agatha. “Looks like a rip-off.”

“It is,” said James, pouring two glasses of wine. “My old fixer, Mustafa, used to be on top form. Fix anything for me in the old days-accommodation, furniture, air flights-anything. I paid a month in advance for this place, too. I keep trying to get him on the phone but he’s always busy.”

“Where is he?”

“He owns some hotel called the Great Eastern in Nicosia. I’m going there tomorrow to ask him what he thinks he’s playing at. There aren’t even any sheets on the bed, just old curtains.”

“How long have you been here?”

“Two weeks.”

“I’m surprised you put up with it this long! Not like you.”

“I just wanted peace and quiet. Where are you staying?”

“The Dome.”

“Nice. I haven’t even got a phone. I have to use the phone up at the Onar Village Hotel. I asked the phone company to fix it up but they said they couldn’t do that until Mustafa paid the previous bill, and so far he hasn’t done that. Perhaps he’s ill. He was a great fellow in the old days. Bit of a rogue, but do anything for anyone.”

“He’s done you, that’s for sure,” said Agatha sourly. She wanted to talk to him about why he had left without seeing her but she realized he was putting up that old force field of his which repelled any intimate discussions.

“How long are you staying?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” said Agatha, almost hating him. She took a gulp of her wine.

“Well, if you’re doing nothing tomorrow, you may as well come to Nicosia with me and meet Mustafa. Yes, the more I think about it, the more I’m sure he’s ill.”

Agatha’s heart rose. At least he wanted to see her again.

“Have you eaten?” she asked.

“Not yet.”

“I’ll stand you dinner.”

“All right. Where?”

“I don’t know the restaurants. I’d like somewhere with authentic Turkish cooking.”

“I know a place at Zeytinlik. Called the Ottoman House.”

“Where’s that?”

“Just outside Kyrenia. You turn off before you get to the Jasmine Court Hotel.”

“I’ll drive, if you like,” said Agatha.

“No, we’ll take both cars because you’ll be going back to the hotel afterwards.”

So much for all my dreams of a hot night of passion, thought Agatha, but still, it’s a start.

The Ottoman House Restaurant was in a garden, quiet and serene, candle-light, tinkling fountain. The proprietors, Emine and Altay, gave James a warm welcome. The food was excellent and Agatha amused James with her stories of the terrible tourists on the yacht.

“The thing I can’t understand,” said Agatha as they worked their way through an enormous meze of little dishes of crushed walnuts, hummus, village bread, pita bread, local sausages, olives and what seemed like a hundred other delicacies, “is why that unlikely sixsome got together. Olivia obviously thinks Rose is beneath her.”

He laughed. “I know what you’re doing. You’re seeing murder already.”

“Well, it’s odd.”

“So how’s Carsely anyway?”

“The same as ever. Sleepy and quiet. I’ve left my cats with Doris Simpson.” Doris was Agatha’s cleaner. “How’s the book going?”

James, Agatha knew, was working on a military history. “Not very well,” said James. “I try to start early in the mornings and do some more in the evenings, but it’s so hot. It’s the humidity, too. Cyprus never used to be so hot. I used to think all those scare stories about global warming were simply…well…scare stories, but now I’m not so sure. And there’s a chronic shortage of water on the island.”

He began to talk about Cyprus in his cool, measured voice, and Agatha hungrily studied his face, looking in vain for some sign of affection. Why on earth hadn’t she the courage to say something…anything? Why couldn’t she ask him outright if he would rather she left Cyprus?