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 Hilarion 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 Hilarion 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 Hilarion had been at one o’clock.
