Agatha Raisin and the Murderous Marriage (25 page)

Trevor was besotted with her, and so was the elderly Scotsman, Angus. In conversation it came out that Trevor owned a prosperous plumbing business and that Angus, a recently made friend, was a
retired shopkeeper. The quiet couple had taken out books and had started to read and so the conversation went on among Agatha, Rose, Trevor and Angus.

Rose let slip, almost as if by accident, that she was very well read. After every occasional comment, it seemed to Agatha as if she remembered her role of silly endearing woman and quickly
returned to it. Had she settled for money? The diamonds on the many rings on her fingers were real.

The voyage was short but pleasant, the sea breeze refreshing. They anchored in Turtle Beach Cove.

They swam from the boat. Agatha was a good swimmer, but she was out of condition and found that the shore was much farther away than it had looked from the yacht. Relieved to have escaped from
the others, she floated on her back in the shallow water and dreamed of meeting James, her eyes closed against the burning sun above. And then she floated against a rock. It was a flat rock and it
was a nudge she felt rather than a bump, but she struggled to her feet, suddenly terrified, and looked wildly around. She had not yet got over the fright of being knocked unconscious by someone and
nearly buried alive during what she considered as ‘my last case’.

She could hear her heart thumping. She took several deep breaths and sat down in the green-blue water, which was shallow enough.

The skipper, whose name was Ibraham, was swimming about, making sure none of his passengers drowned or had a heart attack. His wife, who sailed with him, a short, black-haired woman called
Ferda, was preparing lunch and the clatter of dishes and glasses floated to Agatha’s ears across the water.

Rose’s husband, Trevor, was heaving his great bulk, sunburnt now to a nasty salmon-pink, up the ladder at the side of the yacht. He stopped halfway and turned and glared back across the
bay.

Agatha looked to see what had caught his attention. Sitting side by side in the water a little away from Agatha were Rose and Olivia’s husband, George, giggling about something.

Olivia herself was swimming backwards and forwards with powerful back-arm strokes. Trevor was still halfway up the ladder. The elderly friends of the two women, Harry and Angus, were trying to
get back on board the yacht. Harry reached up and tapped Trevor on the back. Trevor turned round and fell back into the water, nearly colliding with the two old men. He began to swim towards his
wife. Rose saw him coming and immediately left George and began to swim towards him.

Agatha stayed where she was, enjoying the solitude. She suddenly wished with all her heart that she could forget about James and be free again, free to enjoy a peaceful holiday without being
haunted and obsessed by the man. Then she heard herself being hailed from the yacht. Lunch was about to be served. Agatha was reluctant to return. Her brief interest in Rose had fled, leaving her
with a feeling of distaste for all her fellow passengers. She swam back and pulled herself up the ladder, conscious of her round stomach. She would need to get herself in shape for James.

Lunch was pleasant: complimentary glasses of wine, good chicken, crisp salad. Pleased as any tourist might be to find she had not been ripped off, Agatha mellowed enough to join Rose, her
husband and friend. She noticed, however, that Olivia’s husband, George, kept looking over at Rose from his place at the bar. He said something to his wife in an undertone and she answered
loudly, ‘I don’t feel like slumming today.’

When the young meet up on an outing abroad, they exchange addresses at the end of it or arrange to meet in the evening. The middle-aged and elderly, by silent consent, simply part with a nod and
a smile. Agatha had enjoyed herself on the sail back, for she had told them all about her detective work and entertained them with highly embroidered stories about how clever she had been.

But she, too, after the yacht had slid into Kyrenia harbour under the shadow of the old castle, simply said goodbye and walked away. Olivia, her husband and friend were all residing at the Dome
Hotel. With luck, she would be able to avoid them. She had more important work to do.

She had to find James.

She was reluctant to dine in the hotel that evening, so she checked her guidebook and selected a restaurant called the Grapevine which looked hopeful, and took a taxi the short
distance there, not wanting to bother driving. It was a good choice, the restaurant being in the garden of an old Ottoman house. Agatha ordered wine and swordfish kebab and tried not to feel
lonely.

The garden was heavy with the scent of jasmine and full of the sound of British voices. It was a great favourite with the British residents, according to a blonde woman called Carol who served
her meal. There were evidently a great number of British residents in north Cyprus: they even had their own village outside Kyrenia called Karaman, complete with houses called things like Cobblers,
and a British library, and a pub called the Crow’s Nest.

Agatha had brought a paperback with her and was trying to read by candlelight when Carol brought her a note. It said simply, ‘Come and join us.’

She looked across the restaurant. Just taking their seats at a centre table were Rose, husband and friend, and Olivia, husband and friend. They were smiling and waving in her direction.

Intrigued that such an unlikely combination should get together, Agatha picked up her plate and wine and went to join them.

‘Isn’t this a surprise?’ said Rose. ‘There we was, just walking down the street, when my Trevor, he says, he says to me, “Isn’t that Olivia?”’
Agatha noticed Olivia wince. ‘And Georgie says, “Come and join us,” so here we all are! Innit
fun
!’

To Agatha’s amazement, Olivia seemed to be making an effort to be polite to Rose, Trevor and Angus. It transpired that her husband, George, had recently retired from the Foreign Office,
that friend Harry Tembleton was a farmer, and that Olivia herself had heard of Agatha, for the Debenhams had a manor house in Lower Cramber in the Cotswolds.

The wine circulated and Rose grew more animated. It seemed she was a specialist in the double entendre. She had a really filthy laugh, a bar-room laugh, a gin-and-sixty-cigarettes-a-day laugh,
which sounded around the restaurant. George crossed his legs under the table and his foot brushed against Rose’s leg. He apologized and Rose shrieked with laughter. ‘Go on,’ she
said, giving him a nudge with one thin, pointed elbow. ‘I know what you’re after!’

Agatha did not think anyone could eat kebab off its skewer in a suggestive manner, but Rose did. Then she, it seemed deliberately, misunderstood the simplest remarks. George said he hoped there
wouldn’t be another tube strike in London when they got back because he had some business in the City to attend to. ‘A boob strike,’ cried Rose gleefully. ‘Has Olivia
stopped your jollies?’

Agatha gave her a bored look and Rose mouthed at her, ‘Like Lysistrata.’ So vulgar Rose knew her Greek classics, thought Agatha, who had only recently boned up on them herself. And
somehow Rose knew that Agatha had rumbled her act.

What was an intelligent woman doing being tied to the brutish Trevor and a dreary retired shopkeeper like Angus?

Angus was a man of few words and those that he had were delivered in a slow portentous manner. ‘Scottish education is the finest in the world, yes,’ he said, apropos of nothing.
Things like that.

Olivia had a bright smile pinned on her face as she tried to ‘draw’ everyone out, and did it very well, thought Agatha, although noticing that Olivia could not quite mask that she
detested Rose and thought Trevor a boor. She entertained them with a funny story about how the man in the hotel room upstairs had let his bath overrun so that it had seeped down into the ceiling of
their room and he refused to admit he was guilty and said they must have left the windows open and let the rain in.

To Agatha’s surprise, they all decided to go on an expedition to the Othello Tower in Famagusta the next day and she was urged to join them. They would hire cars. She refused. Tomorrow was
James Lacey-hunting day. They had been going to spend their honeymoon at a rented villa outside Kyrenia. She would try to find it.

Trevor insisted on paying the bill, joking that it would be the first time in his life he was a millionaire as he pulled out wads and wads of Turkish lira. Agatha refused a lift, deciding to
walk back to the hotel. She was streetwise enough to know that she was safe, and Rose, who had arrived a week before her, had told her with a tinge of regret in her voice that there was no danger
of getting your bottom pinched. Rose had also said that there was also no danger of getting your handbag snatched, or of being cheated by shopkeepers. So Agatha strolled down past the town hall and
along Kyrenia’s main street.

And then she saw James.

He was ahead of her, walking with that achingly familiar long, easy, loping stride of his. She let out a strangled cry and began to run on her high heels. He turned a corner next to a
supermarket. She ran ahead, calling his name, but when she, too, turned the corner, he had disappeared. She had once seen the French film,
Les Enfants du Paradis,
and this felt like the last
scene where the hero desperately tries to catch up with his beloved.

A Turkish soldier blocked her way and asked her anxiously in broken English if he could help her.

‘My friend. I saw my friend,’ babbled Agatha, staring up the side street. ‘Is there a hotel along there?’

‘No, that is Little Turkey. Ironmongers, cafés, no hotel. Sorry.’

But Agatha ploughed on, peering at deserted shops, stumbling over potholes. Then she saw a light shining out from a laundry called White Rose, Beyaz Gül in Turkish. A man in shirt-sleeves
was working at a dry-cleaning machine. Agatha pushed open the door and went in.

‘Can I help you?’ he asked.

He was a small man with a clever, attractive face.

‘You speak English?’

‘Yes, I worked in England for some time as a nurse. My wife, Jackie, is English.’

‘Oh, good. Look, I saw this friend of mine come along here a moment ago, but he’s disappeared.’

‘I don’t know where he could have been going. Sit down. I’m called Bilal.’

‘I’m Agatha.’

‘Would you like a coffee? I’m working late because it’s cooler at night. Trying to get as much done as I can when I can.’

Agatha felt suddenly tired, weepy and disappointed.

‘No, I think I’ll go back to the hotel.’

‘North Cyprus is very small,’ he said sympathetically. ‘You’re bound to run into your friend sooner or later. Do you know the Grapevine?’

‘Yes, I had dinner there this evening.’

‘You should ask there. All the British end up there sooner or later.’

For some reason, Bilal, although probably somewhere in his mid-forties, reminded her of Bill Wong.

‘Thanks,’ she said, getting to her feet again.

‘Tell me the name of your friend,’ said Bilal, ‘and maybe I can find something out for you.’

‘James Lacey, retired colonel, fifties, tall with very blue eyes, and black hair going grey.’

‘Are you at the Dome?’

‘Yes.’

‘Write down your name for me. I’ve a terrible memory.’

Agatha wrote down her name. ‘A laundry is an odd business for a nurse,’ she commented.

‘I’m used to it now,’ said Bilal. ‘At first I made some awful mistakes. They would give me those Turkish wedding dresses covered in sequins and I’d put them in the
dry-cleaning machine, but the sequins were made of plastic and they all melted. And then they come down from the mountains with the suit they bought about forty years ago covered in olive oil and
wine and expect me to give it back to them looking like new.’ He gave a comical sigh.

‘In any case, can I come back and see you?’ asked Agatha.

‘Any time. We can have coffee.’

Feeling somewhat cheered, she left. She wandered round more streets. Men sat outside cafés playing backgammon, music blared, half-key Turkish music, sad and haunting.

At last she gave up the search and returned to the hotel. She thought she should have gone back to the Grapevine. Maybe tomorrow.

The next morning she awoke heavy-eyed and sweating profusely. She showered and put on a loose cotton dress and flat sandals. She ate a light breakfast of cheese-filled pastry
and then went on impulse into the car-rental office.

‘Did you by any chance rent a car to a Mr Lacey?’ she asked.

‘Yes, I did,’ said the man behind the desk. He stood up and shook hands with her. ‘It’s Mrs Raisin, isn’t it? I’m Mehmet Chavush. In fact, Mr Lacey renewed
his rental this morning.’

‘When?’

‘An hour ago.’

‘Do you know . . . did he say where he was going today?’

‘Mr Lacey said something abut going to Gazimağusa.’

Agatha looked blank.

‘You probably know it as Famagusta,’ he said helpfully.

‘How do I get there?’

‘Drive up past the post office.’ He led her to a map on the wall. ‘Here. And then take this road up over the mountains. It will lead you down on to the dual carriageway on the
Famagusta road. You might have come that way from the airport.’

‘Yes, I think I did.’

Agatha set off. Round the roundabout, past the post office, very much an architectural reminder of British colonial days, and so out towards the mountains. The heat was tremendous, but for once
she barely noticed it. The air-conditioning in the car was working – just.

The mountains were bare and stark, scorched from the forest fires of the year before. She recognized the army chicanes as she came down from the mountains. A soldier on guard duty beside the
road waved to her and gave her the thumbs-up sign and Agatha’s heart began to lift with hope. Ahead lay Famagusta and James. And then she thought, I should have asked for the registration
number of his car. All the rented cars looked much the same, with red licence plates to denote they were rented. And Mehmet probably had a record of James’s address.

She carefully observed the speed limit through two villages and then the Famagusta road, which follows the line where the old railway used to run, stretched straight out in front of her across
the Mesaoria Plain, straight as an arrow, and no speed limit.