Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

by M C Beaton

  “There’s water now,” he said, looking at her. “You can have a shower and then come downstairs. I’ve got some cold meat and salad.”

  When he had shut the door Agatha looked crossly down at her body. Well, although her breasts did not yet sag and she was not cursed with cellulite, she supposed it was not a body to drive a man to passion. Besides, James had seen all of it before.

  After she had showered and changed into shorts and a cotton shirt and flat-heeled sandals, she felt better. She went downstairs. James had set out a meal for both of them on the kitchen table. Agatha suddenly realized she was ravenous and had not eaten since the night before.

  “What are we going to do about this murder, Agatha?” asked James.

  “The receptionist at the hotel said it was probably some mainland Turk.”

  “They get blamed for a lot, but believe me, they don’t go around murdering British tourists.”

  “The thing that gets me,” said Agatha, “is that if, say, she was murdered on the dance floor, wouldn’t she have screamed or cried out?”

  “Not necessarily. It was some sort of very thin blade, remember.”

  “Could someone have stabbed her while everyone was trying to drag her out from under the table?”

  “She was lying on her back,” said James. “I’m sure she was. Yes, she was on her back when Trevor slid her out from under the table. If that’s the case, there’ll have been smears of blood on the floor.”

  “I think the clue to the whole thing,” said Agatha eagerly, “is in the odd friendship between Olivia and her lot and Rose and her lot.”

  “Tell me again how you met them.”

  So Agatha told him of the sail on the yacht, how Olivia, George and Harry had hogged the small bar and had been contemptuous of the rest. Then how, when she had been swimming, she had seen Rose and George laughing together until Trevor saw them. She moved on to the scene in The Grapevine and how, underneath Rose’s screeching vulgarity, there was a well-read, intelligent, shrewd mind.

  When she had finished, they heard a knock at the door. “That’ll be the police,” said James, getting to his feet. “I think we should have a crack at finding out who did this ourselves, Agatha, so keep your speculations to yourself.” He went off before she could reply.

  He returned with Detective Inspector Nyall Pamir. He sat down at the table and surveyed Agatha with those little black eyes of his which gave nothing away.

  “Aren’t your colleagues going to join you?” asked James.

  “They can wait outside,” said Pamir. “This is an informal chat. I would like you both to report to the police headquarters in Lefkoça tomorrow at ten in the morning for an official interrogation.”

  He folded his small fat hairy hands on the table in front of him. They looked like two small furry animals.

  “Now, Mrs. Raisin,” he began, “who do you think murdered Rose Wilcox?”

  Agatha glanced at James, who frowned. “I don’t know,” she said. “I had really only just met all of them.”

  “Explain.”

  “I took a sail on a yacht, the Mary Jane.”

  “Tell me all about it.”

  So once more Agatha told her story, but a bald account devoid of speculation.

  He listened carefully. “What interests me, Mrs. Raisin, although you have not said anything about it, is how this friendship arose.”

  “They weren’t friends,” said Agatha impatiently. “Like I told you, they called me over to their table at The Grapevine, and then last night I had arranged to meet Mr. Lacey here for dinner at The Dome. Rose heard James asking for my table-he arrived first-and Rose claimed to be a friend of mine and urged him to join them.”

  Those hairy hands of his were removed from the table and clasped over his rotund stomach. Pamir was wearing a double-breasted suit, shirt, collar and tie. The heat did not seem to trouble him.

  “Ah, yes, you and Mr. Lacey. You are staying here with him?”

  “Yes.”

  “You are friends?”

  “Yes, we are neighbours in the same village in the Cotswolds. That’s an area in the Midlands -”

  “I know,” said Pamir.

  “Your English is very good,” said James.

  “I was brought up in England and went to the London School of Economics. So, Mr. Lacey, you and Mrs. Raisin are neighbours. You arrived first. Mrs. Raisin joins you. Are you having, how shall I say, a liaison?”

  “No,” said James. “We’re friends, that’s all.”

  “So, Mr. Lacey, what has been happening to you since you first arrived on the island?”

  So James told him of renting the villa from Mustafa.

  “Mustafa has gone to the bad,” said Pamir. His black eyes swivelled back to Agatha. “To return to your tourists. We have a lot of British residents here and I am well aware of the famous class differences. Mr. and Mrs. Debenham and their friend, Mr. Tembleton, are not of the class of Mrs. Wilcox and her husband. There is something in your story, Mrs. Raisin, which implies you were surprised by such a friendship.”

  “I was,” said Agatha. “Olivia-that’s Mrs. Debenham-is so snobby and she despised Rose. I’ve been wondering about that myself. Why on earth should such an unlikely lot get together, and why were George Debenham and Rose laughing together at Turtle Beach Cove?”

  “You did not tell me about that.”

  Agatha told him, although she was aware of James glaring at her. “And Rose was actually intelligent,” she said.

  “Explain.”

  So Agatha expanded happily on how Rose would let slip about books she had read and then seem to remember her act. “If it was an act,” she said finally.

  There was another knock at the door. James went to answer it. He returned with a policeman who was carrying a sheaf of fax papers which he handed to Pamir.

  Agatha sipped coffee with her eyes lowered, aware of James’s angry eyes on her.

  “Ah,” said Pamir finally. “You lead an adventurous life, Mrs. Raisin. You and Mr. Lacey here were to be married, but the wedding was interrupted by the arrival of your husband, who was subsequently murdered. You planned to go to north Cyprus on your honeymoon, but while you were in hospital, Mrs. Raisin, recovering from an assault on you by the murderer, Mr. Lacey here left for Cyprus and then you followed him. If you will both forgive me saying so, in my experience people who lead violent and colourful lives are often violent themselves.”

  “Well, I’m not,” said Agatha. “Why don’t you go off and grill that brothel-keeper, Mustafa, or does he bribe the police to stay away?”

  “We’ll deal with this murder first,” said Pamir. “What we have here is two ill-assorted couples who mysteriously become friends very quickly. Now let us take the usual two motives-money and passion. Do you think George Debenham fell madly in love with Rose Wilcox?”

  Agatha looked at James, who shrugged. She said, “No, there seemed to be no sign of that. Rose liked to flirt.”

  “But when Trevor saw Rose with George, he looked jealous?”

  “Yes, he looked furious.”

  “Odd. Then they dine together, go to Famagusta together, and then dine together again. I must study the background on them all.” He ruffled the sheaf of fax papers.

  “James and I have had some experience of helping the police,” said Agatha eagerly. “If I could just-” She reached out towards the fax papers. Pamir stuffed them in his breast pocket and got to his feet.

  “I do not want this investigation hampered by amateurs,” he said. “Try to enjoy your holiday and I shall see you both tomorrow.”

  James saw him out and then came back and leaned against the kitchen counter. “What a blabby little thing you are, dear. Why didn’t you give him your knicker size when you were at it?”

  Agatha cracked. She hurled her coffee-cup across the kitchen, where it smashed against the wall. “You cold, unfeeling bastard,” she howled. She stumbled from the kitchen and ran up the stairs to her room and fell face-down on the b
ed.

  The windows and shutters were open and a mild breeze blew in with a smell of pine, salt and vanilla. The Mediterranean was rough that day, and instead of falling on the beach in measured waves it roared steadily, as if there were a helicopter overhead. And so Agatha did not hear James come in.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and lightly touched her hair.

  “Come on, now, Agatha. This will not do. We’ll go along to The Celebrity, where Trevor and Angus are staying, and see what we can find out.” Agatha continued to sob. He went up the stairs and into the bathroom and soaked a towel with cold water. He came back and turned Agatha over and sponged her face.

  “You’d better wear something cool.” He searched through her clothes and picked out a loose flowered beach dress. He jerked her upright and started to unbutton her blouse. “Let’s get this off for a start.”

  But Agatha was wearing a serviceable cotton brassiere and not one of the lacy French ones bought with seduction in mind, so she pushed him away, snarling, “Oh, leave me alone. I’ll dress myself.”

  Soon they were driving off into the ferocious heat along to Lapta and so to the Celebrity Hotel. The hotel is rated four-star, but as Agatha walked into the reception and her jaundiced eye took in the amount of plush and gilt furniture, the chandeliers and the hot noisy carpets, she decided it was Middle Eastern four-star. No one at the reception desk had much English and so it took them some time to discover that Trevor and Angus had just checked out.

  “Why can’t they get someone who speaks bloody English?” raged Agatha. “They don’t care about tourism in this country.”

  “Maybe that’s why they don’t rip them off, insult women and have the place full of lager louts,” said James mildly. “Anyway, we ought to learn Turkish and stop whining about their lack of English.”

  “I wasn’t whining. I was putting forward a reasonable criticism. For God’s sake, why do you have to pick on me over every little damn thing?”

  “This isn’t getting us anywhere, and no, Agatha, you do not look beautiful when you’re angry. I’ll bet Trevor and Angus have gone to The Dome to join the Debenhams. We’ll try there. We’ll drop off at the villa first and pick up swim-suits and get a swim later.”

  But Agatha refused to speak to him. When they got back to their villa, the door was standing open.

  “What the hell…?” muttered James. He strode in. The noise of running water was coming from the kitchen.

  They went into the kitchen. Jackie was scrubbing down the wall, which had been stained from the coffee-cup Agatha had thrown at it.

  “I tried to phone you,” said Jackie. “I hadn’t left you enough clean towels and brought some round. What happened here?”

  “The cup slipped out of my hand,” said Agatha defensively.

  Jackie’s amused eyes looked at the wall and then back at Agatha. Then she took a dustpan and brush and cleared away the shards of broken china from the floor. “No one can talk of anything else but this murder,” said Jackie. “You must have got an awful shock, Mrs. Raisin.”

  “Agatha.”

  “Agatha, then. Don’t you think you should be having a quiet he-down?”

  “Perhaps you should,” said James. “You’re a bit overwrought.”

  “I AM NOT OVERWROUGHT!” shouted Agatha.

  Jackie wiped her hands on a towel, smiled at both of them and hurried off.

  “You really must pull yourself together,” said James severely. “Or I’ll need to leave you behind.”

  But Agatha had no intention of being left behind. Whether she feared to be left out of the murder hunt or whether she feared that Olivia might charm James, she did not stop to think about. She went upstairs and washed her face but did not put on any make-up. There was no point. The heat and humidity would melt any make-up right off her face.

  At the Dome Hotel, they learned that Trevor and Angus had checked in and were out at the pool. James bought a couple of tickets for thé pool. “Did you bring any sun-block?” he asked Agatha. “You’ll burn.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “I’ll buy you some across the road if you wait a moment.”

  “Don’t fuss!” snapped Agatha.

  They walked in silence through the lounges and out in the sunlight again towards the pool. Agatha changed in a cubicle. When she emerged, James was waiting for her, hard and lean and fit-looking in a pair of brief trunks. “They’re over at the bar, all of them.”

  He pointed. At a table in full sunlight sat Trevor, Angus, Olivia, George and Harry.

  They went over to join them.

  “We’re all a bit shell-shocked,” said Olivia languidly. She was wearing a brief bikini. “Join me, James.”

  James sat down next to her. “How are you bearing up, Trevor?” he asked.

  “PU manage,” said Trevor curtly. There were puffy bags under his eyes and he was burnt a dreadful shade of pink. There were already sun blisters on his shoulders but he seemed unaware of the heat.

  “Poor, poor Rose,” mourned Angus. “Who waud hae done such a thing to a bonnie lassie like that?”

  “We phoned Trevor and Angus and told them to move here,” said Olivia to James.

  “Why?” asked Agatha, glaring, for Olivia had put a hand on James’s thigh.

  “Because people like us are brought up to help our fellow-man,” said Olivia coldly. “Something that someone like you might not be aware of, Agatha.”

  Agatha felt that Olivia had pierced through the layers of Mayfair built up through the years to the Birmingham slum where Agatha had been brought up.

  “Oh, piss off,” said Agatha. “I’m going for a swim.”

  She was very conscious of her rear as she walked off. She hoped her bottom wasn’t sagging. She really must pull herself together. She took a deep breath and jumped into the pool, expecting the shock of cold water, but the sea-water in the pool was warm. She swam energetically up and down until she felt calmer. She turned on her back to perform the backstroke and hit someone on the face. She rolled back over and found herself looking into a rather battered, but handsome middle-aged face.

  “Sorry,” said Agatha.

  “It’s all right,” he said with a grin that revealed white teeth. “Couldn’t have been hit by a more attractive lady.”

  “You’re American?”

  “No, Israeli. Here on holiday. You?”

  “British. And on holiday as well.”

  “We can’t talk very well paddling round each other like this,” he said. “Let’s sit at the edge of the pool for a bit.”

  “I’m Bert Mort,” he said, extending a wet hand when they sat together at the edge, their feet in the water.

  “Agatha Raisin,” said Agatha, shaking his hand.

  “I was brought up in Brooklyn,” said Bert. “But I moved to Israel ten years ago and I’ve got a clothing business outside Tel Aviv.”

  “High-fashion?”

  “No, T-shirts, holiday wear, things like that. Did you hear about the murder?”

  “I was there.”

  “Jeez, that must have been awful. Tell me about it.”

  So Agatha did, hoping James was noticing her in the company of this good-looking man. She glanced across at James but his back was to her and he was talking to Olivia.

  At last Bert said, “Why not join me for dinner tonight? Or is there a Mr. Raisin with you?”

  “No, and I would like dinner. Where?”

  “I’ll meet you in the hotel dining-room at eight.”

  Agatha got up and said goodbye to her new friend and strolled back to the table. She felt all her old confidence restored.

  “Olivia’s given me some sun-block,” said James. “Sit down, Agatha, and I’ll put some on your shoulders. They’re turning bright red.”

  As he stroked on the cream with an impersonal hand, Agatha said to Olivia, “I’m sorry I flared up like that. But I’m still tired. We had a grilling from the police this morning.”

  “Yes, so did we,” said Ol
ivia. “We’re to go to Nicosia tomorrow for the official grilling.”

  “So are we,” said Agatha. “But they must know none of us can have had anything to do with it.”

  “It’s those damned foreigners and their knives,” growled Harry Tembleton.

  “They don’t think it was a knife,” said Trevor. “They say it was something much thinner, like a kebab skewer.”

  Agatha had a sudden memory of Rose salaciously eating kebab off a skewer at The Grapevine. She wondered if a skewer had gone missing from The Grapevine.

  James said they should leave. By the time Agatha had put her beachdress on, she could feel her shoulders beginning to burn painfully. She told James about her idea of checking at The Grapevine to see if a skewer was missing.

  “I don’t think that’s much use,” said James. “They sell them all over town. And any restaurant here is bound to have bundles of them in the kitchen. But we could go there for dinner tonight if you like.”

  “I’ve got a date.”

  They had reached the car. James turned and looked down at her.

  “A date? Who with?”

  “Some fellow I met at the pool.”

  He got into the car and slammed the door shut. Agatha went round to the passenger side and got in. They drove back to the villa in silence.

  Agatha went straight to her room when they arrived. She lay down on the bed, suddenly tired and, lulled by the roar of the Mediterranean, fell fast asleep.

  When she awoke, it was dark. She screwed her head around and looked at the luminous dial of her travelling alarm clock. Seven-thirty! She would need to rush.

  There was no water in the bathroom and she felt sticky and grubby. She found a box of something called Fastwipes in her luggage for cleaning off make-up and used the whole box to wipe herself down. Her shoulders burnt like fire, but her face was getting a nice tan.

  She eased a short silk dress over her shoulders. Her legs were red, not brown, and almost as sore as her shoulders, but the thought of putting on tights made her shudder.

  She finally went down, calling to James. There was no reply and when she went outside, his car was gone.

  She drove along the now familiar road through Karaoğlanoğlu, noticing the police were out looking for anyone speeding. Two cars had been stopped. Agatha cruised past them virtuously at a low speed. Down past the army barracks, then the Jasmine Court Hotel and on into Kyrenia and round the new one-way system and down to The Dome. Following the example of the locals, she parked on the pavement in a side street and walked to the hotel.