“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 going 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.
