by M C Beaton
“I saw Rose and Trevor over in the corner. I’d never been much of a ladies’ man but I couldnae take ma eyes off her. She was wearing a slinky sort of dress, but it was that laugh of hers and she kept looking over at me, as if inviting me to share the joke. I’d had a wee bit to drink, so I did what I’d never done in ma life afore. I called over the waiter and told him to give them a bottle o’ champagne. The next thing was they joined me.
“Well, it was friends from then on. For the rest of ma stay they took me round the pubs and clubs and I’d never had such a good time in ma life. So Rose says, ‘Why are you stuck up there in Glasgow? You should be down in Essex with us!’ Trevor said he could find me a wee place near to them and so I moved south. Now Rose is gone, and ah’m telling you this, Agatha, ma life is just one desert.”
A tear rolled down his old cheek.
“Why did you never marry?” asked Agatha.
“I came from poor people. I was very ambitious. I got a wee shop after working in the shipyards and saving every penny. It was just a shop selling sweeties and newspapers and things like that. But I made it work and saved everything until I was able to buy another, and then another. I ‘member when I got ma first big shop right in the middle o’ Glasgow… I did-nae have any time for romancing, and by the time I did, I was too shy to romance the ladies.”
“Sometimes your accent is very broad and sometimes almost English,” said Agatha.
“Oh, that was Rose. She said no one south could understand me and sent me to elocution lessons.”
“Didn’t think of taking any herself?”
“Rose had a beautiful voice,” said Angus, looking at Agatha in surprise.
Love is blind, thought Agatha, and deaf as well.
“What are you two talking about?” called Olivia.
“Rose,” said Agatha. “I was asking Angus how he had first met Rose and Trevor.”
“And did you tell her what great friends we all became?” demanded Trevor, seeming to rouse himself from the alcoholic stupor into which he had suddenly sunk.
“Yes, I was remembering how we had first met at the Hilton,” said Angus.
“That was Rose all right,” said Trevor. “‘Looks like a fat cat,’” she said.
“I don’t understand,” said Angus heavily.
“No? Well, my lovely Rose was the most mercenary bitch on God’s earth,” said Trevor viciously. “She liked money, so long as she never had to go out and earn it, but when it came to handing over any, she was tight-fisted. ‘Ask Angus,’ she kept saying. ‘He’s loaded.’ So I asked you, didn’t I, Angus? And you said”-here Trevor produced a terrible parody of Angus’s Scottish voice-” Ah’ve worked all ma Ufe, laddie, and stood on ma ain two feet and Rose will agree wi’ me that you should dae the same.’”
“But if Rose had any money, then you’ll inherit it,” said Agatha bluntly, and James kicked her furiously under the table.
Trevor thrust his face forwards across the table, half-rising, one hand pressing into a dish of olives. “Are you saying I killed my wife to get her money?” he shouted.
“No,” said Agatha. “Not at all. Please sit down, Trevor. It was a clumsy remark.”
Olivia stood up and went to Trevor. “There now,” she said. “No one could ever say our Agatha had any tact. Forget it, do. Have a drink.”
Trevor subsided. “I want to go home,” he said. “I feel I’ll never get home again.”
There was a long silence. Agatha could feel James’s eyes boring into the side of her face.
“Now, isn’t this food delicious?” cried Olivia brightly. “James, you said you were writing a military history. How’s it going?”
“Very slowly,” said James. “I sit down at the laptop and get out my research notes and then something will happen-the phone will ring, or I’ll decide I heard an odd noise in the kitchen that needs investigating, and by the time I return to the computer I don’t feel like doing anything.”
“Then why bother?” asked George. “You’re retired, aren’t you? Why not just say to yourself, ‘I’m never going to do this’?”
“Oh, I’ll get there in the end,” said James. “I don’t like to give up on anything.”
“Neither does Agatha,” said Olivia. “She pursued you here.”
“Can we change the subject?” said James frostily. “Here’s the fish.”
Agatha wanted to say something rude to Olivia but felt she was in such deep disgrace already that she was frightened to open her mouth. She suddenly remembered a married colleague in the public-relations business telling her that she dreaded going out on social occasions with her husband because of the post-mortem afterwards: “Why did you say that?” “Did you see so-and-so’s face when you said that?” “Couldn’t you have found something better to wear? God knows you spend enough on clothes.” And man-less Agatha had replied cheerfully, “Why don’t you stand up to him? Why don’t you tell him to go and get stuffed?”
And now here she was dreading the moment she would be alone with James and listening to his recriminations. The trouble was that she, Agatha, had been brought up in the pre-feminist years, in the “yes, dear” generation. And now that she had a man in her life, all the old patterns had re-emerged. Also men were born with an enviable ability to make women feel guilty about the smallest things, although, she admitted to herself drearily, that telling a man whose wife has just been murdered that her will should see him all right had been a crazy thing to do.
She asked George many questions about his life in the Foreign Office, hoping to repair the damage by being as pleasant and social as she could. George, it transpired, had been desk-bound in London, no glamorous foreign assignments. But he talked and talked. He seemed to miss his old life and his stories were all about more charismatic characters than he was himself. There is nothing quite so boring as listening to someone happily reminiscing about people one has never met, but it had the advantage of taking up most of the evening and deflecting everyone’s mind from Trevor’s outburst.
At the end of the meal Olivia suggested they should all have coffees and brandies at The Dome. Agatha still did not want to be alone with James, and so she said that was a good idea.
She bolted for her car before James could get to her and drove off, fumbling in her handbag for her cigarettes. She no longer liked to smoke in front of James because he flapped his hands and coughed angrily.
She drove slowly along the coast road. By the time she got to the hotel, she decided it would be better to take James aside and get the row over with. Otherwise it would be hanging over her for the rest of the evening.
She found James waiting for her by the reception desk. “Before you start,” said Agatha, “I’ve an interesting bit of news. Before we arrived in the bar this evening, that lot were having a terrible row. Trevor accused George of having made a pass at Rose and Harry called Rose a slut and Trevor tried to punch him.”
His eyes narrowed. “How did you find that out?”
“Charles told me,” said Agatha, and then wished she had said a waiter had told her.
“So that’s what kept you,” said James furiously. “Let me tell you this, Agatha: This is a small, gossipy place, and you are the one who’s getting the reputation as slut.”
“That’s unfair. He came up to speak to me when I was getting in my car and then Pamir arrived and that’s what kept me. “
“I don’t believe you,” shouted James. “And what about your behaviour this evening? We were going to approach the subject of Rose’s money tactfully, remember? But oh no, you just blurt it out. Damn it, Agatha,” he roared. “I could kill you.”
A girl and a man behind the reception desk froze and stared at both of them, as did several tourists.
James muttered something and turned on his heel and headed for the bar.
Agatha stood for a moment, numb. And then she began to feel very angry indeed. How dare James go on as if he owned her? Why was all his passion confined to bad temper? Well, she was not go
ing back to the villa tonight. She would take a room here and enjoy some peace and quiet.
She fished in her handbag for her credit cards and booked a room for the night. Then, feeling as if she had at last asserted her independence, she walked along to the bar. There was a silence when she joined the others and she had an uncomfortable feeling that they had been discussing her.
She sat down next to Harry on the opposite side of the table from James, avoiding his eyes.
Agatha asked for coffee but refused brandy, saying she had drunk enough.
“Oh, come one, Agatha,” urged Olivia. “The night is young, even if we aren’t.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Agatha. “But I am tired of rotting what brain cells I have left with booze.”
“That’s put a damper on things,” said Harry.
Agatha waved the waiter over. “I don’t want any coffee,” she said firmly. “No coffee.”
She stood up again. “I’m going to bed. I want a nice comfortable hotel room, so I’ve booked in here for the night.” And before anyone could say anything, she walked off.
James’s remarks were beginning to hurt and hurt badly, so badly she had a mad idea that she might have bruises on her stomach. She hesitated a moment, wondering whether to go back to the villa to get her night-gown and toothbrush and a change of clothes, but suddenly wanted the oblivion of sleep.
She collected her key from the desk. “Staying here, Aggie?”
Charles again.
“I want a quiet night,” said Agatha.
“Fallen out with James?”
“Mind your own business.”
He got his own key and followed her to the lift. “Come for a drink.”
“No,” said Agatha firmly. “I am going to sleep.”
“I can lend you a pair of pyjamas. We’re on the same floor,” he said, squinting at the number on her key tag. “And I’ve got a spare toothbrush, never touched before by the human mouth, still in its pristine wrappings.”
“That’s kind of you,” said Agatha gruffly. “But I’m not sleeping with you.”
“Did I ask you?” he said mildly.
In his room, he took out the pyjamas Agatha had worn before, freshly cleaned and ironed by the hotel laundry, and a toothbrush.
“Drink?” he offered.
“Oh, why not?” said Agatha. “I’ve had so much already but I still feel wide awake. May I smoke?”
“Of course. I smoke occasionally myself. I’ll have one of yours.”
They sat out on the balcony. Charles leaned back in his chair and looked at the stars twinkling over the sea and did not speak.
Agatha watched him covertly, wondering what made him tick. He was a remarkably clean man, tailored and laundered. Even his neat features and well-brushed hair appeared tailored and laundered. Like a cat, she thought suddenly, neat and self-sufficient.
At last she finished her drink and stood up. “Thanks for the silence, Charles. I really mean it.”
“I can be silent any time you like, Aggie. See you around.”
And so she left, half-amused, half-puzzled that he could be so casual, so unembarrassed.
At the reception desk, James asked, “Which room is Mrs. Raisin in?” The receptionist told James. “Can you phone her for me?”
The receptionist phoned and then said, “There is no reply, sir, but Mrs. Raisin went upstairs with Sir Charles Fraith. Would you like me to try his room for you?”
“No,” said James furiously. “Damn her.”
Agatha curled up in her hotel bed and thought about James. She desperately did not want him to be angry with her. He surely must be jealous of Charles. But how could the man be so jealous and be living with her and yet not make any move to make love to her?
She suddenly plunged down into a deep sleep. The night was warm but pleasant and she had not switched on the air-conditioning but had left the windows and shutters open.
At around three in the morning, the lock on her bedroom door clicked softly open. Agatha slept on. A dark figure moved softly towards the bed. With one swift movement, the pillow was snatched from under Agatha’s head and pressed down on her face.
Agatha awoke instantly and began to fight for her life. She thrashed and fought and then suddenly, with a wrench of her head, found her mouth free and screamed and screamed. She heard her door slam.
She switched on the bedside light, phoned reception and babbled for help.
An hour later, feeling sick and shivering despite the warmth of the room, she faced Pamir.
She tried to protest that she had told her story to the hotel manager, to various policemen and detectives, but he took her through it again.
When she had finished, he said, “We have taken Mr. Lacey in for questioning.”
“What?” said Agatha dizzily. “What has James got to do with it?”
“Mr. Lacey was heard earlier this evening threatening your life. He subsequently tried to call your room and when you were not there, the receptionist volunteered the information that you had gone upstairs with Sir Charles Fraith and might be in his room and volunteered to phone that number, but Mr. Lacey went off in a temper. We must not be sidetracked by the unsolved murder of Rose Wilcox. We think that Mr. Lacey, overcome with jealousy, may have tried to murder you.”
“I was able to fight off my attacker,” said Agatha. “If James had tried to murder me, I wouldn’t have been able to fight him off.”
“He may have changed his mind at the last moment.”
“Oh, this is rubbish.”
“We think this is jealousy. Sir Charles is being questioned also. You are, I believe, wearing Sir Charles’s pyjamas.” Agatha blushed. She had been too shaken to change, to do anything more but sit on the edge of the bed and shiver.
“I told you. I had a drink with him. That’s all. He kindly lent mç the pyjamas. How did whoever get the key to my room?”
“Someone may have stolen a passkey. We are questioning the staff.”
Agatha clutched her hair. “I know James was not responsible. The whole idea is mad.”
Pamir questioned her further and then said she was free to leave. Agatha miserably washed and dressed. She bundled up Charles’s pyjamas and put the toothbrush in her handbag and then made her way downstairs and out of the hotel.
She drove back to the villa and let herself in. She felt she should really go to police headquarters and see if she could help James, but she felt too tired and shaken. She went up to her room and lay on the bed. Now every sound seemed sinister. Voices carried up from the beach. People chatting on the road outside sounded as if they were downstairs in the house.
She awoke two hours later with a start. Someone was inside the house. Someone was coming up the stairs.
Agatha was just looking wildly around for a weapon when her bedroom door opened and James came in.
“Oh, James,” said Agatha, flooded with gladness. “They let you go!”
He stood in the doorway. “They had no real excuse to keep me. The neighbours were questioned and two of them, returning from a casino at the time I was supposed to be trying to murder you, said they had seen my rented car parked outside the house and had seen me walking in the garden, which is fortunately what I was doing since I could not sleep.”
“James, who do you think tried to murder me?”
“Right at this moment, I feel too tired to care. It came out during the interviewing that you had sex with Charles.”
Agatha turned dark-red. “That man is no gentleman.”
“On the contrary. He lied gallantly, but unfortunately for you, the proof of your love-making was there on the sheets and the hotel staff bore witness to that. They had hitherto kept this interesting fact from me, because I think they were sorry for me. No, Agatha, don’t say anything more. You lied to me, as you lied to me about the existence of your husband.”
He went out and closed the door.
SIX
AGATHA went for a long walk along the beach. There were fewe
r tourists, and flocks of migrating birds sailed over the cloudless sky overhead.
She was beginning to become angry over her own fear of James and his recriminations. How had it happened that she, Agatha Raisin, once the terror of the public-relations world, should dread another confrontation? Being in love seemed to have sapped her strength. How strange that few people actually talked about love any more. They were obsessed, taken hostage, or co-dependent-anything rather than admit they were not in control, for the very word “love” now meant weakness.
But he was at fault. He was no saint either. He had had affairs even with a woman in the village.
She would need to have it out with him and though she quailed from the idea, she knew she could not go on living under the same roof with him in a hostile atmosphere. As she walked back, the thought that someone was actually trying to kill her made her keep stopping and look warily around. She climbed up the steep hill from the beach to the villa. She felt breathless from the walk and threw away the cigarette she had been smoking. Before smoking had become such a sin, Agatha had thought the whole time about giving up. Now that it was, somehow she could not seem to summon up the will to stop.
She went into the villa. She could hear from the clatter of dishes that James was in the kitchen. She walked in and said to his back, “Come and sit down, James. We can’t go on like this. We have to talk.”
He turned round, his face hard and closed. But he went and sat at the kitchen table. Agatha pulled out a seat opposite him and sat down.
“I want you to listen to me carefully,” began Agatha in an even voice. “You have shown me no love or affection since I came here. I got drunk with Charles and ended up in bed with him. It just happened. I had no reason not to tell you the truth, but I did not want to lose you. But in this loveless whatever-it-is we have between us, you have no right to be angry with me or possessive or jealous. You have hurt me badly. We both want to find out who murdered Rose. But we cannot go on living together like this. What do you suggest?”
He stared at the table in silence.
“James,” Agatha pleaded, “I know that any intimate conversation makes you want to shrivel up, but you are going to have to say something.”