Then there was the awful business about her ex-husband James Lacey planning to marry a beautiful woman. Agatha had persuaded herself that she no longer had any feeling for James because she had fallen for a Frenchman, Sylvan Dubois, whom she had met at James’s engagement party.
But, stressed out and overworked, she had taken a tumble down the stairs of her cottage, cracking three ribs and severely bruising one buttock.
Urged by everyone to take a break, she decided to go to Paris after finding Sylvan’s phone number through the Internet. They would stroll the boulevards together and love would blossom. But when he phoned her, he sounded distant, and then she heard a young female voice call out in English, “Come back to bed, darling.”
Blushing and furious with herself, Agatha found her old obsession with James Lacey surfacing again. It was like some disease, gone for long stretches, but always recurring.
Agatha remembered that James had accused her of never having listened to him. He worked as a travel writer but had said that he planned to write a series of guidebooks to famous battlefields. Dreaming of surprising him with her knowledge of his subject, Agatha decided to visit the site of the Charge of the Light Brigade in the Crimea, and so take that holiday everyone was telling her she needed badly.
She would go first to Istanbul and take it from there. She had stayed in Istanbul before at the Pera Palace hotel, made famous by Agatha Christie in her
The Artifes Hotel was comfortable and the staff were friendly. Agatha, although tired after the flight, felt restless. She peered in the mirror and saw the ravages of her competitiveness clearly for the first time. She had lost weight and there were dark shadows under her eyes.
She left her suitcase unopened and wandered out of the hotel. There was an interesting cafe close by, the Marmara cafe. She peered in. The walls were lined with carpets. At the end of the long cafe was a vine-covered terrace.
But the tables on the terrace seemed full. Agatha hesitated.
A man rose to his feet and said in English, “I’ll be leaving shortly.”
Agatha sat down opposite him with a sigh of relief. She saw to her delight that there was an ashtray on the table and pulled out her cigarettes.
“Are you English?” she asked her new companion.
“No, I am Turkish Cypriot. My name in Erol Fehim.”
Agatha assessed him. He was a small neat man wearing a good jacket. He had glasses and grey hair. He exuded an air of innocence and kindness. Agatha was immediately reminded of her friend, the vicar’s wife, Mrs. Bloxby.
She introduced herself in turn and then ordered an apple tea.
“What brings you to Istanbul?” asked Erol.
Agatha explained she was stopping off at the Artifes Hotel until she worked out a way to get to Balaclava in the Crimea. “I’m staying at the same hotel,” said Erol. “We could ask there.”
Lonely Agatha warmed to the sound of that “we.”
It transpired there was a weekend shopping cruise from the Crimea returning to Balaclava on the following day. The helpful Erol said he would go with her to the shipping office. It took them ages back on the other side of the Golden Horn to find it. Agatha was grateful for Erol’s company because nobody spoke English. She booked a double cabin, not wanting to share with anyone.
Back at the hotel, the ever-obliging Erol told her he was busy that evening, but he would take her along to the ship early the following afternoon and see her off.
Agatha phoned her friend Sir Charles Fraith. “Where are you?” he asked.
“In Istanbul.”
“Great city, Aggie, but you’re supposed to be taking a rest. Wouldn’t a beach holiday have been better?”
“I don’t like beach holidays. I’ve met a nice man.”
“Aha!
“He’s really very kind. Reminds me of Mrs. Bloxby.”
“Aha!”
“Aha, what?” demanded Agatha crossly.
“He must be a very normal, decent man.”
“He is.”
“I thought so. If he had been unattainable or mad, bad and dangerous to know, you’d have fallen for him.”
“You think you know me but you don’t!” snapped Agatha and rang off.
In the taxi on the road to the boat the next day, Agatha asked Erol about himself but she barely listened as he explained he owned a small publishing company. In her mind, Agatha was already leaning on the rail of a white cruise ship while a handsome man stood beside her and looked into her eyes as the moon rose over the Black Sea.
The ship was a shock. It was a Russian rustbucket. In vain did they search for another ship, Agatha’s ticket was only valid for the tramp steamer.
“It’s all right,” Agatha said to Erol. “It’ll get me there. Thanks for all your help.”
