by M C Beaton
“Where were you?” asked Agatha, avoiding looking at Charles. “I went to the villa, to the restaurant, but there was no sign of anyone.”
“We all went on to a bar. Thanks for looking after her, Charles. I gather that must have been you at the restaurant. Why didn’t you say hullo?”
“My pleasure,” said Charles smoothly, ignoring the last question. “Now, if you both don’t mind, I’ll get some more sleep. I’m quite exhausted. Must be the sea air.”
James led the way. Agatha turned in the doorway and looked back at Charles, but his neat features were closed and impersonal.
Men, thought Agatha Raisin. I’ll never understand them.
Rose Macaulay described Saint Hilarión as “a picture book castle for elf kings” and it is supposed to have inspired the animators of Snow White. Sited on its craggy eyrie, 2,400 feet above the plain, Saint Hilarión is best known as the honeymoon castle of Richard the Lionheart. Saint Hilarión consists of three distinct sections on different levels. The highest part of the castle, reached by very steep worn steps, is the Tower of Prince John. Signs on the road up to the castle proclaim in multiple languages that photography is forbidden, but no one seems to pay any attention to that, in the same way as the locals pay no attention to either speed limits or parking restrictions.
Agatha climbed out of the car in the car-park the following afternoon and looked all around. Far below her on one side stretched the blue Mediterranean; on her other side, the ruins of the castle reared up against cloudless skies. There was a smell of pine, and cicadas chattered with their sewing-machine busyness.
James had let her sleep late and had been unusually quiet on the journey up the long winding road to the castle. Agatha felt guilty about having slept with Charles. What had come over her? And what had come over him? Charles had not shown any sign earlier in the evening of having been attracted to her in any way. He probably regarded her as a convenient lay. Agatha blushed.
“Your face is all red,” said James. “Is it the heat?”
“Yes, yes,” said Agatha fretfully. “The sun is very strong up here.”
They walked together out of the car-park, past a small café and up steep steps towards the first part of the castle. Agatha felt bone-weary. She stumbled slightly. James caught her arm with unexpected roughness and said sharply, “I didn’t know you and Charles were such buddies.”
“We’re not,” said Agatha, jerking her arm away. “I only saw as much of him during that case as you did.”
“That’s what I thought. So why did you just walk off with him last night?”
“He took a look at the company and didn’t like what he saw, so he asked me for a drink,” said Agatha defensively. “What’s up with that?”
“There’s nothing up with that. Why did you just walk off with him? Oh, I know, my snobby little friend. He’s a baronet.”
“It wasn’t that,” raged Agatha. “I just wanted to get away from the lot of you!”
“Leaving me to find out what I could. One minor aristo crosses your path, Agatha, and you’re off and running.”
“That’s not true. I sent a fax off to Bill Wong.”
“What?”
“I sent a fax to Bill from The Dome. Charles saw the manager for me and he-”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“How could I? You weren’t there.”
“And didn’t you think to get a taxi? There was no need surely to climb into a comparative stranger’s bed.”
“I climbed into the spare bed. I had already been out to the villa twice. You weren’t there. Was I supposed to cruise back and forwards all night, waiting for you to get home? Isn’t there a spare set of keys?”
He fished in his pocket and handed her a ring of keys. “Jackie called with these this morning. That’s the front door, that the back, that’s the door off the upper terrace. Okay?”
“Thank you,” said Agatha stiffly. “Are we going to stand here all day in this heat or are we going to get on and see this lump of rubble?”
They walked grimly on and upwards.
At last Agatha cried, “I’ve got to sit down for a moment.”
She sank down onto a wall in the shade. James sat down beside her and stared at the ground at his feet. The atmosphere became heavy with unspoken accusation. Agatha pulled her guidebook out of her handbag and began to read aloud:
“This upper ward is reached up a steep path (stout shoes recommended), leading westward along the face of the crag and past an enormous open reservoir, which must have held enough water to last the inhabitants for many months. Veer right at the top to enter the upper enceinte through a Frankish arch. To the north of the entrance are more kitchens, and at the far (west) end of the upper plateau, a long narrow building which formed the Queen’s apartments; on the upper floor is the elegant ‘Queen’s window,’ retaining some of the original tracery and benches.”
“Did you sleep with him?” James’s voice cut across this travelogue.
“Don’t be silly, James,” said Agatha. “Let’s go.”
“Go yourself,” he said moodily.
She got to her feet and began to climb upwards, her thoughts in a turmoil. James was behaving like a jealous man, but why? It was not as if he had any interest left in her, or if he had, he was putting on a very good act not to show it. Oh, why had she let Charles make love to her? Hot tears started to Agatha’s eyes. She was beginning to feel thoroughly ashamed of herself.
At this higher level, there were no tourists other than herself. She could hear them arriving below in the car-park, but for the moment it seemed as if she had this section all to herself.
She walked to one of the windows and looked out. From her eyrie, the land dropped precipitously, tumbling down in a series of crags, broken rock, pine trees and scrub. The air was sweet and fresh. She felt a great peace descend on her. Just for this moment she could forget about murder and James and Charles and all the other messy complications of her muddled life.
She put her handbag on the ground at her feet and stood with both hands leaning on the warm stone at either side of the window, wondering if Queen Berengaria had stood just here and looked at this view, if she had loved Richard of England as she, stocky middle-aged Agatha, loved her James.
And then, without turning round, she became aware of anger filling the room and knew someone had entered and that someone was probably James. She stiffened her back and braced her hands on either side of the window, awaiting more questions about Charles.
That action was to save her life.
She received a vicious shove in the back which nearly sent her flying through the window and down to her death on the rocks below. She screamed out desperately, “Help! Murder! Help!” and her voice rang out over Saint Hilarión and sent birds flying from the trees on the hillside.
James heard that scream and came hurtling up the steps and into the room where Agatha was slowly turning around, her face white.
“You,” said Agatha. “Was it you?”
“What happened? Why did you scream?”
Other tourists came running and crowded into the room as well. “Someone pushed me in the back,” said Agatha, beginning to shake. “Someone tried to push meto my death.”
The room was filling up with soldiers, taxi drivers and more tourists.
And then a policeman pushed to the front of the crowd, followed by a tour guide. Agatha repeated again what had happened to her and the guide translated.
“You are to go with this policeman to the café in the car-park,” said the guide, “and wait.”
James helped Agatha out and down the steps. The crowd followed, chattering in a mixture of languages.
James ordered a brandy for Agatha. “Tell me again what happened,” he asked gently.
Agatha took a sip of brandy. “I was standing there, looking out of that window. If I hadn’t had my arms braced against the sides, that push in the back would have sent me to my death. I thought it was you, James.”
�
�Why me?”
“I thought you were still angry with me. I sensed the anger in the room behind me. I thought it was you. That’s why I didn’t turn round.” She looked at him, her eyes suddenly dilating. “What about Olivia and the rest? Are they here?”
“I haven’t seen any of them. But they wouldn’t dare-”
“They were right behind us at that jeweller’s in Nicosia when we were discussing going to Saint Hilarión, when we were talking about faxing Mircester for details on their backgrounds,”
“I didn’t see any of them, and if it were one of them, they would surely have had to pass me on the road up.”
“Why is it always me?” moaned Agatha. “Why doesn’t someone have a go at you?”
“Because I don’t interfere so noisily.”
The wail of sirens sounded louder from the road below as more police headed their way.
And then Pamir arrived, nattily dressed as usual, and not appearing to feel the heat.
Wearily Agatha went through her story again.
But when he took her back over the events of the day before, carefully noting that Agatha thought she had been overheard when she said they were going to Saint Hilarión but making no mention of faxing Mircester, he began to ask about last evening. They had had dinner together at the Ottoman House, Did anything happen there?”
“You’ll need to ask James,” said Agatha. “I left.”
“Ah, yes.” He consulted some notes. “The police were informed that you had not returned home and then you were found at The Dome in the bedroom of Sir Charles Fraith.”
“Sir Charles is an old friend,” said Agatha. “It was a surprise to see him again. He suggested we go for a drink and we did. When I left him and returned to the villa again, James was not there. I went back to the restaurant but everyone had gone. Then I went to The Dome and they weren’t there either. Charles said he had a spare bed in his room and I was very tired and so I accepted his offer.”
Pamir ’s fathomless eyes switched to James. “Were you jealous?”
“Of what?” demanded James.
“Of Mrs. Raisin here. Of her behavior. First she has dinner with a business man and now she shares the bedroom of an Englishman who is not you.”
“I have no reason to be jealous,” said James. “I am used to Agatha’s erratic behaviour.”
“Why did you leave your friends without saying where you were going?” asked Pamir, consulting his notes again.
“Because Sir Charles did not want to meet them and may I remind you, they are not friends of mine. We have only been brought together because of this murder.”
“But Mr. Lacey appears to like them.”
“Until this murder is solved,” said James, “I am a suspect. I thought if I spent some time with them, I could find out more about them.”
“Ah, the amateur English detective. Like Mrs. Raisin here. But Mrs. Raisin was more curious about Sir Charles.”
“Stop making me sound like the Whore of Babylon,” shouted Agatha, her face red. “Charles is an old friend. I was startled to see him. I do not like the Debenhams, if you want the truth, and seized on the opportunity to escape. I know what you are going to ask and no, I did not tell James where I was going. He is not my husband!”
“But very nearly was,” murmured Pamir. “Right, let’s go through it all again from when you left police headquarters.”
Agatha looked appealingly at James. Surely she had gone through enough. She had nearly been killed and yet he sat there with an impassive face, letting this policeman grill her.
So both told their stories again. James said that after Agatha had left and they had finished their meal, they had gone on to a bar for drinks. They had not talked about the murder out of respect for Trevor’s grief.
At last they were free to go. Agatha stood up shakily. James put a hand under her arm and guided her to the car.
“We still have the picnic,” he said. “Do you want to go back to the villa and rest?”
Agatha said, “Forget about the picnic, James. All I want to do is sleep.”
But when they turned into the narrow road leading to their villa, James slammed on the brakes and reversed back out into the main road and sped off. “Press,” he said bitterly. “The British press have arrived and I don’t feel like coping with them.”
“Me neither,” said Agatha. “Find a nice cool picnic spot and maybe I’ll get a sleep in the open.”
James looked in the driving mirror. “They’re pursuing us.”
“What can we do?”
“Lose them.”
He swung off the road and accelerated up towards the mountains, round a bend and shot off into a field behind a stand of trees and cut the engine. Out on the road, they heard the press cars roar past. James reversed and went back down to the coast road, through Kyrenia and then down onto another coast road.
“Not much of a beach,” he said, stopping at last. “But at least there’s no one around.”
He spread out the picnic on a flat rock beside the water: bread, black olives, cheese, cold chicken and a bottle of wine.
Agatha thought she would not be able to eat, but after the first bite of chicken decided she was very hungry.
She lay back after she had eaten and closed her eyes. “I didn’t sleep with Charles,” she said. “Honestly.” Agatha thought privately that what she had done with Charles could hardly be described as sleeping.
“I know,” said James quietly.
Well, I probably won’t see Charles again, thought Agatha, and then fell asleep.
James watched her for a moment and then went to the car and got a straw hat which he placed gently over her sleeping face.
When they returned to the villa, the press had gone. “There’s a news in English about now,” said James. “Let’s see if there’s anything about the murder.”
The local TV station was usually long on words spoken in badly accented English by some pretty newscaster and short on pictures. But to Agatha’s amazement they had pictures this time-of a press conference at The Dome. Lined up behind a table were Olivia, George, Harry, Angus and Trevor.
Trevor, unlike his usual taciturn self, gave an emotional and heart-broken plea to the people of north Cyprus to help the police discover who had murdered his precious wife, Rose. He then relapsed into noisy sobs.
Olivia then took over, Olivia in a simple black gown and pearls and with her face as cunningly made up into a mask of grief as that of Princess Di’s during her famous Panorama interview. With the sharp eyes of pure jealousy, Agatha took in the pale make-up, the carefully arranged wispy hair-style and the shadows painted under the eyes.
With a break in her voice, lowered a register, Olivia said she had only known Rose a short time but they had become firm friends. “She was so full of life,” said Olivia, “and to see such a life snuffed out is a tragedy.”
Angus then put in his bit in an accent so broadly Scottish it was almost unintelligible. He said Rose was a “puir wee broken burdie.”
“Pass the sick-bag,” snarled Agatha.
“Shh!” admonished James, turning up the volume. George spoke next, in a gruff, embarrassed voice about how they all missed Rose. Only Harry Tembleton remained silent.
“And now the weather,” said the newscaster.
“I wonder when that conference was,” said James. “I mean, if they were all at a press conference they could hardly be up at Saint Hilarión trying to push you out of a window. Let’s go and find out.”
“They might have told us what they were up to,” complained Agatha.
“They could hardly do that as we haven’t seen them. Let’s go.”
When they arrived in The Dome, the manager approached them and said, “I have a fax for you, Mrs. Raisin.
“Now we’ll find out all about them,” said Agatha excitedly.
But the fax from Bill Wong said only, “Call me at my home number.”
“Rats,” said Agatha.
“I see his point,�
� said James. “Forget about here for the moment. We’d best get back and phone.” He turned to the manager. “When was that press conference here-about the murder?”
“At four-thirty this afternoon.” That let no one out. The attack at Saint Hilarión had been at one o’clock.
“Can’t we phone from here?” Agatha asked James.
“Yes, but too expensive.”
Back they went to the villa. “It’s early over there,” said James as he picked up the phone. “There’s two hours’ difference. What’s the number?”
Agatha fished a small leather-bound book out of her handbag and then took the phone from James. “He’s my friend,” she said. “I’ll phone.”
Mrs. Wong answered. “My Bill’s just dropped in is having a cup of tea. You’ll need to call back.”
“I’m phoning from Cyprus,” howled Agatha.
Fortunately the receiver at the other end was taken from Mrs. Wong and Bill’s voice came on the line. “You can’t keep away from murder, can you?” he said cheerfully.
“Oh, Bill,” said Agatha thankfully, “did you get anything on any of them?”
“I shouldn’t be doing this,” he said, “and don’t you ever let anyone know where you got your information from. Here goes.”
James paced up and down impatiently as Agatha listened and took notes. Then Agatha finally said, “Well, thanks a lot. That’s given me something to think about. No, I won’t get into trouble. Yes, I found James. He’s here. What? No, no, no.”
James wondered what that no, no, no had been in answer to.
Agatha finally rang off and turned and looked triumphantly at James. She began to tell him what she had learned. Trevor’s plumbing business was on the skids and the receivers were shortly to be called in. Angus was a very rich retired man who had owned a chain of shops in Glasgow. George Debenham was also in financial trouble, having gambled unwisely on the stock exchange. Friend Harry was a comfortably-off farmer, no debts there. Rose Wilcox was extremely rich in her own right, the result of three previous marriages, the last of which had left her a very wealthy widow before she married Trevor.
“So does Trevor inherit now she’s dead?” asked Agatha, her eyes gleaming. “And why wouldn’t she bail his business out if she was that wealthy?”
