Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

by M C Beaton

  “He questions and questions without getting anywhere. I’m sick of questions. The hotel is at least keeping the press out. They’re absent this morning because Pamir is giving a press conference in Nicosia.”

  Charles appeared and stood looking down at them with a quizzical expression on his face. “Join us for a drink,” said George, looking up.

  And that was a mystery, too, thought Agatha as they followed George to the bar Charles had grossly insulted them, she herself annoyed them, and yet they continued to be friendly, in the odd way they continued to be friendly to Trevor and Angus.

  Olivia was not wearing a swimming-costume but a sundress. She was knitting a sweater, her fingers moving quickly. “I didn’t bring any warm clothes,” she said to Agatha. “I got some wool to make myself a sweater. We were wondering whether to go to the British High Commission and ask for help to get us all home.”

  “I think they’ll want us to stay until the murders have been solved.”

  Olivia stopped knitting. For the first time she looked lost and miserable. “I don’t think they’ll ever find out who did it. We’ll be here for years and years.”

  “They can’t keep us much longer,” said Charles.

  Angus said, “Puir auld Harry. He was in better form yesterday than I have ever seen him.”

  “It’s amazing you didn’t spot him on the beach,” said Charles.

  “We were looking for someone walking along by the sea,” explained George. “We weren’t looking for anyone lying down with a newspaper over their face. I pointed out to Pamir it was a Turkish Cypriot newspaper, not an English one.”

  “And what did he say?” asked Agatha.

  “That there are rubbish bins on the beach and one of us could have taken it out and covered Harry with it,” said Olivia. “I’m getting burnt. I’m going to go up to my room to get some sun-cream. Come with me, Agatha. I feel the need for some female company.”

  “Wait till I change,” said Agatha. “I won’t be a minute.”

  When she emerged from the changing cubicle, Olivia was waiting for her. They walked together into the hotel. Tourists were checking in, tourists were checking out, all holiday-makers, all free from suspicion of murder, thought Agatha.

  “I wish I were one of them,” said Olivia as they walked to the lift. “Someone with an ordinary life. Someone who’s had a relaxed holiday and is going home without a care in the world.”

  When they reached Olivia’s room, she found the sun-cream and went into the bathroom. “Help yourself to a drink,” she called. “I won’t be long.”

  “I don’t want a drink,” Agatha shouted back. “I’ve drunk enough on this so-called holiday to last me a lifetime.”

  At fast Olivia emerged, her bony shoulders gleaming with cream. She sat down wearily. “Where’s James?” she asked. “Any news?”

  Agatha shook her head. “He’s somewhere in Turkey. That’s all I know.”

  “Poor you. Why did he go off like that? Was it because of Charles?”

  “No, no. James has always been strange.”

  “Bit thick, leaving you alone to face the music.”

  Agatha thought it was a bit thick as well but she wasn’t going to tell Olivia that.

  “Your husband told me that Harry was paying for this holiday,” said Agatha. “I hope being made to stay on isn’t running you into debt. George must be worried sick.”

  Olivia looked at her in surprise. “Why should George be worried sick?”

  “Because of all his losses on the stock exchange.”

  “What?” Olivia’s eyes bulged with amazement. “How did you hear that?”

  “Pamir told me,” said Agatha, not wanting to betray how she had come by the information. “Didn’t you know?”

  “No, I let George handle all the money affairs. Always have. It can’t be true.”

  “It seems to be. The police appear to have gone thoroughly into our backgrounds.”

  Olivia had gone very white. Agatha felt miserably sorry for her and wished she had not said anything.

  “Did Harry know?” asked Olivia.

  “I don’t know,” said Agatha. “Perhaps he might have left both of you something in his will.”

  “That’s a terrible thing to say.”

  “Practical, though.”

  Olivia’s eyes clouded over. “Was that the attraction of Rose? Money? George said she was really good fun and very bright and that I was being the most dreadful snob, but she was awful.”

  “Again, I don’t know,” said Agatha. “I wish I hadn’t told you about your husband’s losses.”

  “I’d need to know sooner or later. Oh, God, now Harry’s dead, we’ll need to pay this hotel bill.” She clutched her hair. “I can’t think!”

  Agatha was feeling guilty. Olivia had enough to cope with without starting to worry about paying the hotel bill.

  “Look,” she said awkwardly, “if you’re broke, I can help out a bit.”

  “That’s good of you. But I’m sure the police have got it wrong. George would have said something.”

  When they returned to the pool, Agatha said to Charles urgently, “Let’s go.”

  Fortunately he had changed out of his swimming-trunks. As they walked off, Charles asked, “What’s the matter? You look as if the hound of hell is after you.”

  “I let slip about George’s debts. Olivia knew nothing about it. She looked shattered. I wish to God I hadn’t said anything. Harry was paying for their holiday. Now he’s dead, they’re going to be left with a hell of a hotel bill. I offered to help out.”

  “Why on earth? You barely know the woman. You don’t like her.”

  “I was sorry for her,” said Agatha gruffly. “She’s not bad.”

  “You’re a soft touch, Aggie. Where are you taking me for lunch?”

  “I’m not that soft a touch. There’s food back at the villa.”

  “Okay, you win. Lunch is on me. Here?”

  “No,” said Agatha, “the press will soon be back.”

  “I know,” said Charles. “Let’s get clear away. Let’s go to Famagusta and find a restaurant.”

  Agatha agreed.

  It was the beginning to a surprisingly pleasant day. They ate stuffed vine leaves and rice washed down with mineral water at a small hole-in-the-wall restaurant in the market at Famagusta, and then walked around looking at the shops and buying postcards.

  They decided to stay on for dinner before making their way back along the long straight road and then over the mountains.

  “Can’t see the stars,” said Charles as he negotiated the winding mountain road down into Kyrenia. “I think there’s going to be a storm.”

  “No lightning flashes out to sea,” commented Agatha.

  “I feel it coming, none the less.”

  When Charles swung the wheel and turned the car into the road leading to the villa, they saw with dismay Pamir’s black official car parked outside, behind a police jeep with a flashing blue light.

  “What now?” groaned Agatha.

  Charles parked and they got out. Pamir approached them. “Is that your rented car?” he asked Agatha sternly, pointing to where Agatha’s car was parked farther down the road.

  “Yes,” said Agatha. “What’s happened?”

  “Shall we go inside?”

  I can’t stand much more of this, thought Agatha as Charles led the way.

  They sat down in the kitchen under the harsh fluorescent light and faced Pamir.

  “When did you change your car, Mrs. Raisin?”

  “Last night. Why?”

  “Why did you change it? What was up with it?”

  “Nothing,” said Agatha. “Someone has been trying to kill me, whatever you say, and I thought it might be an idea to change the car and get a different registration.”

  “For heaven’s sake, man,” snapped Charles. “Get to the point.”

  “The car Mrs. Raisin was renting has been found at the foot of an embankment off the Nicosia Road. The
driver, a mainland Turk, was found dead at the wheel. He rented the car this morning. So I must ask you what you have both been doing today.”

  Wearily they went through their day but Agatha omitted out of a queer sort of loyalty to Olivia to tell Pamir about their conversation. She thought about hurt and lost Trevor and shocked and frightened Olivia and began to feel a queer bond with them.

  After over an hour of questioning, Pamir rose and said, “We are having the car investigated. The driver stank of alcohol, so he might simply have gone off the road.”

  “Why didn’t you say so in the first place?” yelled Agatha, suddenly furious. “You’ve been letting me think that someone thought I was still using that car and tampered with it, you who didn’t believe anything about the attacks on me. I’m sick of this. I have nothing to do with all this, and neither has Charles. I just want to go home!”

  “We’ll see. Meanwhile, keep yourselves available for questioning.”

  Pamir left and Charles and Agatha stared at each other.

  “Will this never end?” asked Agatha.

  “Let’s just go to bed and forget about it until tomorrow.” He glanced at her out of the corner of his eyes. “You know, Aggie, I would never have picked up that Emily unless I was drunk. Don’t know why I did that.”

  “I do,” said Agatha. “You’re amoral.”

  “Oh well, go to your lonely bed.”

  “That is exactly what I’m going to do after I wash the salt off.”

  Agatha had a leisurely bath, trying to think of pleasant things, trying not to think of absent James or of murder.

  She fell asleep almost immediately.

  When she awoke, she could hear thunder rumbling in the distance. So Charles had been right. A storm was coming. Her brain was tired out with worry, she thought as she cleaned her teeth. She hadn’t a clue as to who had killed Rose and Harry, assuming that there was only one murderer. She had been lucky in previous cases, that was all. James had been right. All she had surely done in the past was blunder about-and blunder into the murderer and nearly get herself killed, which was just what was happening here, but without any result.

  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 t
hat 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.”

  “A world in which your husband screws Rose with one eye on her money? Some gentleman! Come on, Olivia. What on earth possessed a sensible woman like you to do such a dreadful thing?”

  “You don’t know what love is,” jeered Olivia. “I’ve seen you running after James like some old dog looking for a pat from its master. I love George. Without him, my life would have been nothing. The Roses of this world are expendable.”