by M C Beaton
“Why has Mr. Lacey gone? I thought none of you was supposed to leave. “
“He just took off,” said Agatha. Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. Oh, James, how could you? Where are you?
Bilal handed her a clean handkerchief and looked at her sympathetically while she blew her nose, so sympathetically that Agatha found herself telling him everything.
“The police here are very good,” said Bilal. “Just like British police, Mrs. Raisin.”
“Agatha.”
“Agatha, then, why don’t you just take a holiday. I mean swim and see the sights and forget about trying to find out who did it. Your own life seems to be in danger. Just keep away from them all.”
Agatha gave him a watery smile, warmed and comforted by his concern.
“I think I might just take your advice, Bilal.”
“And come to our place one evening for dinner. Jackie’s a good cook.”
“Thank you. And now I really must go.” They both rose.
“It will be all right. It may seem like a nightmare now, but it will be all right, you’ll see.”
Bilal smiled warmly at her, and moved by his friendship, Agatha put her arms round him and hugged him and gave him a kiss on the cheek.
And then, as Agatha turned to walk away, she saw Jackie standing a little way away down the street, staring at her, and behind her stood Pamir.
And Agatha blushed, suddenly aware of how that affectionate embrace must look to Pamir, let alone Bilal’s wife. She walked towards them.
“I was just talking to your husband,” she said to Jackie.
“So I saw,” said Jackie drily.
“Looking for me?” Agatha asked Pamir with what she felt was an awful, false guilty brightness.
“No, I was on my way to speak to your landlords. I will call on you later, perhaps.”
Agatha trailed off. Pamir would be confirmed in his suspicions that she was some sort of sex-mad, peculiar female.
Her mind was just beginning to accept Bilal’s advice as she walked up to The Grapevine, deciding to have a drink at the bar. The bar was empty, the lunch-time rush being over. Agatha realized she was hungry and ordered a chicken sandwich and a glass of wine and sat down at one of the tables.
And then Trevor came in. At first he did not see Agatha. He asked for a whisky in a hoarse voice and then, turning from the bar with his glass in his hand, he recognized her.
He walked forwards and demanded, “Are you following me?”
“How can I be following you when I was here first?” demanded Agatha.
Now that she had decided to forget about the case, she was dismayed when he sat down next to her. The tables were out in the restaurant garden among the flowers. Sun slanted down through the leaves of a jasmine bush, casting fluttering shadows over Trevor’s pink, bloated face.
“This is a bad business,” he said.
“Yes,” said Agatha, wishing he would go away.
“I mean, why Harry?” he went on.
Agatha’s good resolutions disappeared as she asked, “You tried to punch Harry, didn’t you, because he called Rose a slut?”
“I don’t remember,” he said, shaking his head. “I drink so much, get these big blanks.”
“Why would Harry call her a slut?”
Agatha held on to the table-top, prepared to flee if Trevor lost his temper, but all his usual truculence was absent.
“He probably felt for Olivia.”
“Did Olivia think her husband was after Rose? I mean, was there any reason for her to think so?”
“Could’ve been. Rose liked to flirt a bit. That was all.”
“How did you meet Rose?”
“I was with my wife at this road-house outside Cambridge-that’s my first wife, Maggie. It was our wedding anniversary. Maggie and I had been married for twenty-five years. Got married when I was eighteen. Well, we was sort of Darby and Joan, set in our ways. Got one boy, left home to work abroad, just me and Maggie left. Good housekeeper. Very quiet. Bit fat. Grey hair. Never went out winter or summer without gloves on. We was in the dining-room, but there was this long bar running along the edge of it and Rose was sitting up on a bar-stool.
“I can ‘member that evening as if it was yesterday. She was wearing a short dress and she had all those diamonds on.
“‘Look at all those rocks on that woman,’ I says to Maggie. And Maggie says they’re bound to be paste. Rose saw us looking at her and she asks the barman something. I had told the restaurant to give us a good table because it was our wedding anniversary and the barman must have known, for next thing is that Rose sends a bottle of champagne over to our table.”
“When was this?” asked Agatha.
“Three years ago.”
“I thought you’d been married a long time.”
“To Maggie, not Rose. Anyway, Maggie was very flustered and flattered and asked her over. I’d never met anyone like Rose. She sort of sparkled. She seemed to have a lot of money and travelled a lot. She asked me what I did and I told her about the plumbing business. I bragged a bit and said I was making a fortune. Maggie kicked me under the table, but I didn’t want to let the side down in front of a rich woman. Maggie went off to powder her nose and Rose hands me a card with her phone number, winks at me, and says, ‘Why don’t you call round and see me?’
“When Maggie came back towards the table, I seemed to see her for the first time, all dumpy and those damn gloves and she had thick specs that gave her a dopey look, and I thought, I’ve worked hard all my life, I deserve a bit of fun.”
Trevor sighed. “I called her the very next day and we started an affair. I couldn’t think of anything but Rose, couldn’t see anything but Rose. So I asked Maggie for a divorce.”
There was a long silence.
“How did Maggie take it?” asked Agatha gently.
“She never could sleep proper. Got pills from the doctor. Took the lot.”
Agatha looked at him in horror. “She killed herself?”
He nodded. “My son, Wayne, he hasn’t spoken to me since the funeral. He said Rose had changed me into a monster. But all I could feel was free at last. I’d spent too much trying to impress Rose and the business began to suffer. Rose found out about it before we came here. By that time she’d got Angus in tow. She liked money, did Rose. I was terrified she’d leave me. And now she’s gone.”
His pink face crumpled and fat tears ran down his cheeks.
He took out a scrubby handkerchief and dried his cheeks. “It’s like living in a nightmare. Rose was awful. She liked manipulating people. She liked her bit of power. But I just don’t know how to go on without her.”
Agatha made soothing noises. She wondered whether to offer to buy him another drink but then decided more alcohol might make him truculent.
“How did your friendship with Olivia and George start up?” she asked.
“That was Rose. Before we went for that swim off the yacht, she muttered to me, ’Snobby lot, but I’ll soon sort them out.’”
“Could she have met any of them before?”
“Apart from Angus, no.”
“Is… is Angus, I mean, was Angus in love with her?”
“Angus was safe. He adored Rose and he respected our marriage. I didn’t mind Angus.” He looked around bleakly. “I’ve got to go.” He got up abruptly and strode out of the restaurant.
Agatha finished her half-eaten sandwich and asked for another glass of wine, thinking over what Trevor had told her. She suddenly wished James were with her, so that she could discuss it with him.
At last she left and walked down to the car-park. The sun was setting and the mournful call to prayer rang out from a minaret. She got into her car and sat for a moment.
She did not want to return to the villa, to Charles. Charles had been kind and she was glad of his company, but she blamed her night with him for having prompted James to leave.
She drove west out of Kyrenia, but passed the road which led to the villa and conti
nued on through Lapta and then ever westwards and up a winding road into the mountains, driving steadily, not knowing where she was going, only knowing she was reluctant to return to the villa.
She reached the village of Sadrazamkoy. She was down from the mountains now, and beyond the village the road degenerated, becoming broken and in need of repair as it wound through flat, scrubby country. She drove on until she found herself at Cape Kormakiti, or decided that was where she was after switching on the car light and consulting her guidebook. She climbed out of the car and walked towards the rocks. A navigation light shone on a rusty gantry. The waves crashing over the rocks caused the rock to emit a weird clanging sound, like the tolling of the passing bell for the dead at the church in Carsely, thought Agatha with a shiver.
Then she realized her real need to get away from everyone came from simple fear. Someone was trying to kill her and she was terrified.
And even with James gone and her life in a mess, she felt that she had so much to lose: her home, her cats, her friends in the village. She could not regret the driving hard-bitten years building up a successful public-relations firm, for she was now comfortably off.
The very fact that she had admitted to herself that she was frightened made the fear begin to ebb. She turned back to her rented car. They would all know the number plate now and be able to recognize it. It might be an idea to swap it for another.
She drove back over the mountains and east to Kyrenia, again without stopping at the villa. Mehmet at Atlantic Cars was just closing up his small office when she arrived.
“I would like to change the car,” said Agatha.
“What’s up with the one you’ve got?”
Agatha looked at him thoughtfully. She did not want to go into a long explanation about how someone was trying to murder her and so she wanted another car that would not be immediately recognizable as the one she drove.
“Ashtray full?” she suggested.
He grinned and shrugged, as if inured to the vagaries and whims of tourists. He selected a car key, changed the paperwork and led her to a car across the road.
Feeling more positive than she had felt all day, Agatha drove back to the villa at last.
To her surprise, there was no sign of Charles, nor did he seem to have left a note.
She made herself coffee and a sandwich, not feeling very hungry. She then went upstairs, undressed and went to bed. She began to read but could not really concentrate.
She found herself missing Charles and reluctantly remembering his love-making, what she could remember. It had been warm and pleasant. It was a pity she was so much older than he.
At last, she switched out the light after looking at the clock. Midnight. Where was Charles? She turned on her side and fell asleep.
Agatha awoke with a start as she heard the door opening downstairs. She was about to call out, “Charles!” when she heard the sound of a female giggle and Charles’s voice, saying, “Shhh! You’ll awaken Aggie.”
“Who’s Aggie?” whispered the other voice.
“My aunt,” said Charles.
Agatha lay as stiff as a board. She heard them both come up the stairs, giggling and whispering. Then they went into Charles’s room. More whispering, more giggling and then the unmistakable sounds of love-making.
Agatha put the pillow over her head to try to block out the sounds.
In the morning, Agatha awoke and dressed in shorts and a T-shirt and went reluctantly downstairs. She had no right to complain about Charles’s making love to anyone else, and yet it was the very fact he had described her as his aunt which had hurt so dreadfully, had made her feel old.
Charles was sitting at a table in the garden, as smooth and tailored as ever.
He hailed her with a cheery greeting of “Where did you get to yesterday?”
“Here and there,” said Agatha, sitting down. “Where is she?”
“Who?”
“The woman you bedded last night.”
“Oh, her. Long gone.”
“Who was she?”
“I went out round the clubs and pubs to look for you and picked her up. English tourist. Emily. Very nice.”
“Will you be seeing her again?”
“Shouldn’t think so. She gets her plane home today.”
“Easy come, easy go, as far as you’re concerned, Charles.”
“Want some coffee, Aggie?”
“Yes, please.”
Agatha sat under the orange tree and stared out to sea. It was a clear day and the Turkish mainland was a thin line on the horizon. She felt diminished. She had begun to think she had meant more than an easy lay to Charles, but obviously not.
He came back with the coffee and put it down in front of her. “Why so grim, Aggie?”
“I heard myself being described last night as your aunt.”
“Had to. If she was going to actually meet you, I would have had to say you were my sister. You’re too glam to be an aunt.”
“You’re soft-soaping me.”
“A little bit. Cheer up. Where did you go?”
Agatha told him about her conversation with Trevor.
“Still think he did it?” asked Charles.
“I wouldn’t like to think so now, funnily enough. It was an awful story. Poor Maggie. It was those gloves he mentioned. I kept thinking about his first wife and her whole nice, orderly life being shattered.”
“People think high tragedy belongs to the Greeks and Shakespeare, but mark my words, Aggie, it’s alive and well in the suburbs of England.”
“I still think he did it,” said Agatha, “and I think he’s on the point of cracking up and confessing.”
“And you want to be the one to whom he confesses?”
“Not any more, Charles. I’m sick of the whole thing.”
“Good girl. Let’s go to The Dome for a swim in the pool and have lunch. Let’s not bother speaking to any of them any more.”
“What about the press?” asked Agatha.
“We can’t let the press run our lives. ‘No comment’ and a smile will get rid of them. Cheer up, I have a feeling it will soon all be over.”
SEVEN
IT seemed odd to be going for a swim, just as if nothing had happened, as if she and Charles were tourists like the other tourists. The day was warm and humid, just as the weather had been when Agatha first arrived.
At least she had now such a healthy tan that she had only bothered to put on a little lipstick. “Will the sea still be nice and warm?” she asked.
“Shouldn’t think so,” said Charles. “Not any more. But it will be refreshing.”
They got their tickets for the pool at the hotel reception desk. When they emerged into the sunlight, the first thing Agatha saw was Olivia, George, Trevor and Angus sitting at a table in the bar.
“Ignore them,” said Charles cheerfully.
But once they had changed, their path took them right along past the party. Charles went straight by without a glance, but Agatha gave a weak smile and got bleak looks in return.
The water was almost cold, but once she was in, became pleasant. She swam around energetically, trying not to think of the others sitting in the bar. Charles called to her that he was going to swim in the sea instead. Agatha waved and said she would keep to the pool.
Then, as she emerged up the steps, it was to find George Debenham. He appeared to be waiting for her.
“What do you think of this latest business?” asked George.
Agatha sat down next to him. “I’m so bewildered and scared I don’t want to think about it.”
“I wish we were all out of here and back home,” said George. “There’s a maniac on the loose.”
“Do you think it’s one of us, or some local madman?” asked Agatha.
“It must be some local madman,” said George. “It can’t be one of us.”
“Trevor has quite a temper,” volunteered Agatha.
“Yes, but he’s understandably broken up about the death of his wife. I
think someone’s out to get rid of us all.”
“I gather from Trevor that his son, Wayne, is very bitter about Trevor divorcing Wayne’s mother, who committed suicide,” said Agatha. “He’s one with a good reason to hate Rose.”
“I’m sure the police have thought of that.”
“If Trevor told them,” pointed out Agatha. She hesitated and then said cautiously, “I was surprised when you and your wife befriended Rose and her party. Not your sort, I would have thought. You made that pretty plain on that yacht trip.”
“Oh, you can’t be stuck-up on holiday,” he said vaguely. “It seemed like fun at the time to get together. And then, after it happened, we couldn’t really abandon Trevor and Angus.”
“Have you and Olivia been married a long time?” asked Agatha.
“Years and years.”
“How did you first meet?”
“It was at a party in London. I was in my early twenties. I had just finished university and Olivia was training as a nurse. We hit it off right away.”
“And what about Harry?”
“Friend of the family, and a good friend, too.”
“Wasn’t it odd of Harry to suddenly want to go off to the beach? Did he seem worried about something?”
“No, in fact he was in good form, excited and happy. I pointed out our swimming-costumes were in the car, but he said he liked the sea and wanted a walk along the beach.”
“Do you think he might have been going to meet someone?” asked Agatha.
“He only knew us. He hadn’t talked to anyone else that I know about. We were always together.”
Agatha hesitated and then said, “Didn’t you ever get fed up with Harry always tagging along? I mean, this holiday. Wouldn’t you rather Harry had stayed at home?”
“Harry was paying for this holiday. He was very generous.”
That made Agatha think of George’s debts. She itched to ask him if Rose had held out the promise of money, but decided not to.
“I suppose there’s nothing we can do now,” he went on impatiently, “but wait for the bone-headed police to decide to let us all go.”
“I don’t think they’re bone-headed,” said Agatha slowly. “I think Pamir is very thorough.”
