FOUR

THE evening was warm and sticky, and dark clouds obscured the moon. Agatha had put on full make-up, but as they arrived at the restaurant in Zeytinlik, she could feel foundation and mascara beginning to melt. She was wearing a black evening dress with a short skirt and high collar. As she turned her head in the car to speak to James, she felt her damp cheek brushing against her collar and knew immediately it was probably smeared with Vichy Camel foundation cream. She was wearing tights. Her legs had still not recovered from their burning by the pool and the humidity was making the hairs on her legs sprout dreadfully. She passed a tentative hand across her upper lip but she had waxed it before leaving and it still felt smooth. Oh, all the things that careless youth takes for granted, like a slim figure, smooth skin and a hair-free face! In that moment, she desperately wished to be back in her late thirties-that was not asking too much-when one could indulge in, say, a large piece of cheesecake without feeling two minutes after it had been consumed that one’s knicker elastic was cutting off one’s circulation.

The proprietors, Emine and Altay, gave them a welcome and ushered them to a table next to a fountain in the centre of the garden restaurant, where Olivia and party were already seated. Between sunburn and booze, Trevor’s face looked as if it had been boiled. The food as usual was delicious, but Trevor complained loudly and drunkenly that he was tired of “this foreign muck” and would give anything for a good steak and kidney pie.

“This place used to be called Templos,” said Olivia loudly to break the awkward silence which followed Trevor’s outburst. “The Knights Templars were stationed here and it was a sort of market garden for Saint Hilarión Castle. Some even say there is a tunnel here somewhere that leads right up to the castle.”

“I think that’s an engineering feat that would surely be beyond the Crusaders,” said Agatha.

“They built the castle up on top of the mountain,” said Olivia, “so a tunnel wouldn’t have been beyond them.”

Agatha decided to change the subject. She did not like being contradicted. “I cannot understand why north Cyprus is not a recognized country,” she said.

“It’s all quite simple,” said James. “They let the world forget about the massacres they endured, about the women and children in one village buried alive with their hands tied behind their backs. The Greek Cypriots have a very powerful propaganda machine and this side has little or nothing. If I were an emerging country, I would not waste money on guns or bullets, but I would hire a Madison Avenue public-relations company. I’ve talked to some members of the government here. ‘Why don’t you keep reminding the world of what you have suffered?’ I asked. They say they only counter-attack.”

“They have the UN here,” said Angus.

“And what is the UN?” demanded James. “I’ll tell you what their function is. To cost various countries a great deal of money so that their soldiers can stand around surveying ethnic cleansing. And what the hell am I talking about ethnic cleansing for? Genocide is the word. Hasn’t the suffering of the Jews taught this damn world anything? Look at Bosnia!”

“What delicious lamb on the bone,” said Olivia brightly. “Do try some, Trevor. Just like Mother used to make.”

“My mother only made with the can opener,” said Trevor.

What an ill-assorted lot we are, thought Agatha. Even me and James. He talks with such passion about politics but I can’t get him to say one word about us. Passion, thought Agatha. Was that what was behind this murder? But George Debenham, thin and sallow like his wife, seemed always cool and detached. Then there was friend Harry Tembleton, whose expression was usually hidden behind a pair of thick spectacles, and yet, in his way, Harry was almost a reflection of Angus, both being old and sagging and with white thinning hair. Perhaps there was a breed of elderly men who attached themselves to married couples.

“Were you ever married, Harry?” asked Agatha.

He blinked at her through his glasses and said, “Yes, but she died twenty years ago.”

“And you, Angus?”

“Never found anyone to suit me,” said Angus sadly. His Scottish accent was only slight when he forgot to thicken it. “If I could have met someone like Rose, it might have been a different matter.” Agatha glanced quickly at Trevor to see how he had taken this declaration, but Trevor appeared to be once more sunk in gloom.

“And what about you, Agatha?” asked Olivia. “Rose told us she remembered reading about you. Your husband was murdered just as you were about to marry James here. It’s a wonder he’s forgiven you.”

“He hasn’t and won’t, ever,” said Agatha, her eyes suddenly filling with tears. “Excuse me.” She rose to her feet and went to the toilet and leaned against the wash-hand basin. What is up with me? she thought. Is this the menopause? Should I go on hormone-replacement therapy? Or maybe I need a good psychiatrist to tell me that my infatuation for James is because I’m sick in the head.

She walked wearily out of the toilet and back towards the table in the garden. Then she stopped stock-still and gazed in amazement at the entrance to the restaurant.

A small man with fine hair and a thin, sensitive face was standing there, looking vaguely about him.

Agatha walked towards him. “Charles.”

Sir Charles Fraith, Baronet, focused on her. “Funny thing,” he said, “I was just thinking about you, Agatha. Folks at the hotel were talking about some Englishwoman being murdered and you crossed my mind.”

Agatha had been part of a murder investigation when a rambler had been found dead on Sir Charles’s land.

“Do you want to join us?” Agatha indicated her party, who were all staring at them.

“That’s that chap Lacey,” said Charles. “That’s the one you nearly married. Odd bunch of people with him. No, I don’t think I want to join them.”

“What are you doing here, Charles?”

“Just a little holiday. You’re here with Lacey? Honeymoon?”

“No, we’re just friends.”

“Oh, in that case, let’s go somewhere for a drink.”

“Don’t you want to eat?”

“No, I was just cruising the highways and byways, looking for a cool place to have a drink.”

“You’d best come over and say hullo,” said Agatha, who was looking forward to introducing this baronet to Olivia.

“I don’t think so, Agatha. You know what will happen. They’ll all come with us. Let’s just drift off.”

Suddenly the thought of just walking away with Charles and going for a quiet drink somewhere seemed wonderful.

James had engaged Olivia in conversation, not wanting Agatha to know that they were all awaiting her return impatiently. He had not recognized Charles, who was slightly hidden by a palm; he only knew that Agatha was talking to some man. When he looked up again, Agatha and her companion had gone.

Ten minutes later Agatha and Charles were sitting at an outdoor café near the Dome Hotel.

Charles ordered brandy sours for both of them and leaned back in his chair and gazed vaguely out to sea.

“I heard you’d got married,” said Agatha.

“Engaged. Didn’t work. No chemistry. Sarah was very attached to her parents. Very worthy people, but her father was the sort of man who puts logs on my fire. Know what I mean?”

“Sort of,” said Agatha, suddenly getting a picture of a solid middle-class family, foreign in their ways to the aristocratic Charles.

“They liked giving very long dinner parties with such boring people. I used to sit there thinking, when will this evening end? Bring on the cheese. Oh, please God, bring on the cheese.”

“So you broke off the engagement? How’s Gustav?” Gustav had been Charles’s manservant.

“Left me because of the engagement. Terrible snob, Gustav.”

“Where is he now?”

“Maître d’ in some classy hotel in Geneva.”

“Did you replace him?”

“No. Can’t have servants these days. Anachronism. Get women in from the village to clean, hire a catering company if we’ve a lot of people at the weekend. So what about this murder?”

Agatha told him all about it, feeling as she did so that every time she talked about it the whole thing became more unreal.

His pale eyes swivelled from the sea to her face. “So what about it? Are you hot on the trail?”

“Fm not,” said Agatha gloomily. “In fact, I should be back there with James trying to find out more about them all. I thought of faxing Bill Wong, you know, my friend at Mircester police, asking him for some background, but James said to wait.”

‘I’ll ask The Dome to send a fax if you like.”

Damn James, thought Agatha. Why shouldn’t she act on her own initiative?

“I haven’t got a typewriter here, or computer,” said Agatha.

“Write it by hand. I mean, it’s not the Epistle to the Romans, is it? Just a few lines.”

“I’ll do it!” said Agatha.

“Good girl,” said Charles, appearing to lose interest.

“So how are things back home?” asked Agatha, wondering now what James was making of her disappearance, and feeling uncomfortably that she had behaved badly.

“Oh, same as ever. That’s a very pretty girl over there.”

Agatha had the ordinary feminine irritation of being asked to admire some woman by a male companion. And she had walked off and left the field to Olivia. But as she was eager for Charles to arrange that fax to Bill Wong, she did not want to hurry him over his drink.

At last he signalled to the waitress and paid the bill.

The manager was still on duty and agreed to send a fax. Agatha wrote out her request on a piece of paper, asking for any reply to be sent to her at The Dome to await collection.

“I will put the charge on your bill,” said the manager to Charles.

“It’s not my fax,” said Charles. “Mrs. Raisin will pay.”

“Where are you staying, Mrs. Raisin?” asked the manager. “My accountant will send the bill to you.”

Agatha wrote down her address.

“Well, I’m off to bed,” said Charles, stifling a yawn.

“Aren’t you going to run me home?” asked Agatha. “I went to the restaurant in James’s car.”

“Too tired. I’ll get you a cab.”

Charles ordered a cab for her at reception and nodded to her and walked off.

The receptionist said, “It is a very busy night. Your cab will be about ten minutes.”

“I’ll wait in the bar,” said Agatha.

She walked through to the bar and stopped short on the threshold. Charles, with another brandy sour in his hand, was talking to a group of Turkish women. Agatha felt rejected all round-by James, by Charles.

She returned to the reception desk and waited until her cab arrived. But when she got back to the villa, it was to find the place in darkness, and James had the keys. She told the cab driver to take her to the Ottoman House Restaurant, only to find that they had all left half an hour before. Thinking she might have missed James on the road, she went back to the villa to find it still in darkness. Wearily she told the driver to take her back to The Dome.

James was not there and the others were not in their rooms. Where had they gone?

She sat down on a chair in the reception area and stared bleakly around.

“Still here?” asked Charles, walking up to her.

“Still here,” echoed Agatha dismally. “James is still out somewhere and he has the keys.”

“It’s late. I’m off to bed.” Charles hesitated. “Got two beds. You can have the other one if you like.”

“I wouldn’t mind that,” said Agatha gratefully. “I’m tired of running around.”

“Come along, then,” he said, heading for the lift. “Just don’t use my toothbrush.”

Once in his room, he threw her a pair of pyjamas. “You can wear those and use the bathroom first.”

Agatha washed and changed into the pyjamas. “You’re in the bed by the window,” said Charles when she emerged. “I hope you don’t snore.”

I don’t think so,” said Agatha. Tears started to her eyes. “Well, if I do, no one’s ever told me.”

“Have a good cry,” he said. “Nothing like a bloody good cry. Then we’ll have a drink and you’ll sleep like a log.”

He went into the bathroom. Agatha stared bleakly ahead. All in that moment, she longed to be back home in her cottage in Carsely with English rain drumming down on the thatch, secure with her cats sleeping at the end of the bed. What on earth was she doing sharing a foreign hotel room with this odd baronet?

He emerged from the bathroom finally, wearing a pair of paisley-patterned pyjamas. He flung open the windows and shutters. “There’s at table out on the balcony, Aggie. Come and take a pew.”

Agatha sat out on the balcony. The air was warm and sweet and the sound of the sea soothing.

“I can’t mix brandy sours,” he said, returning with a bottle and two glasses. “But at least I’ve got the brandy. It’s local stuff but not bad.”

They drank silently and then he said, “What was all that about?”

“What about?”

“You were nearly in tears, Aggie.”

“It’s Agatha.”

“I like Aggie. I shall call you Aggie, and since you are in my room and drinking my brandy, I can call you what I like.”

Slightly tipsy now, Agatha began to talk. She told him all about James, about her relationship with James, about her obsession with James.

“I had a crush on a girl like that when I was seventeen,” he said when she had finished. “That’s what it’s like, Aggie. A teen-age crush.”

“I didn’t expect you to understand,” said Agatha sadly.

“Have you ever considered,” he said, tilting his brandy glass in the moonlight and watching the liquid, “that there is something up with the man to keep you hanging around like this?”

“I behaved badly. He won’t forgive me.”

“Then he should stop jerking your chain. All he had to do was tell you that you should not have followed him out here, that it is all over, and get lost, Aggie.”

She bent her head. “I think he still loves me.”

“Dream on. And talking of dreams, let’s go to bed.”

Agatha sighed, drained her glass and followed him into the bedroom. Somehow, even in his pyjamas, Charles looked as neat and impersonal as if he were wearing a business suit.

She got into bed. What a mess! Her head swam from all she had drunk.

“Move over,” she heard Charles say.

“What?”

“Move over.” He edged into the bed next to her and took her in his arms.

“What are you doing?” demanded Agatha.

“What do you think?”

He bent his head and kissed her slowly. Oh, well, just one kiss, thought Agatha drunkenly. It was all very soothing and sensuous and not quite real. He had forgotten to put on the air-conditioning and the windows were still open. He kissed her for quite a long time before he took her pyjamas off and Agatha’s last sane thought was, oh, what the hell.

She awoke at five in the morning with the telephone ringing shrilly. Charles answered it. She heard him say, “Yes, James, she’s here. She had nowhere to go, so I let her use the spare bed.”

“He’s coming up,” said Charles after he had replaced the receiver. He got out of bed and rapidly put on the pyjamas he had discarded.

Agatha ran for the bathroom, where she had left her clothes. She turned on the shower and washed herself hurriedly, dried, and then put on her clothes. Outside she could hear the sound of voices. She looked anxiously at her face in the mirror, but it showed no signs of love-making.

She went out into the hotel room. “So there you are,” said James cheerfully. “What a scare you gave us! Police all over the place looking for you.”

“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?”

“The simplest way will be to ask Trevor, but I’d like to get him away from the others. Let’s leave it until tomorrow, Agatha. We’ll go in early in the morning and suggest he might like to take a drive with us. Leave it until tomorrow.”

But Agatha fretted. “Bill might know,” she said, “and have forgotten to tell me.”

But when she phoned Bill’s number again, Mrs. Wong told her acidly that her son had gone over to see his new girlfriend-“such a nice young lady. “

So that was that. James said he was tired and hungry and he would cook them both something to eat.

Agatha sat staring into space. This was not how she would have imagined it to be. Her dreams had turned upside-down. No lingering romantic kisses beside the Mediterranean -except from Charles. Every time she thought of that episode with Charles, she felt hot and uncomfortable. How could she have let one man make love to her when she was in love with another? Because, said a nagging voice in her head, maybe you’ve never really been in love with James but with an imaginary James. The imaginary, or dream, James was always doing and saying the right things while the real James was as cold and distant as ever. Agatha gave a broken little sigh. Her obsession with James seemed to be waning as each day passed.

Over dinner James suddenly said, “I would like to get even with Mustafa for cheating me. I’ll bet he’s dealing in drugs. You don’t have all those villains around just because you’re running a brothel.”

“Could be dangerous,” said Agatha.

“So’s poking about in a murder investigation, but it hasn’t stopped you yet.”

“Oh, well, I’ll help you.”

“Not this one,” said James firmly. “‘I’ll deal with Mustafa myself.”

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