Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

Venetian Lieutenant Governor from 1505 to 1508 – and who apparently returned to Venice without his wife – but Shakespeare’s play simply mentions ‘a seaport in Cyprus’ and there is no evidence that it was based on any historical occurrence. The entrance is surmounted by a Venetian lion and an inscription recording the prefecture of Niccolo Foscarini, under whom the remodelling of the citadel began.
    Agatha finally left the group and wandered in the shadow of the thirty-foot walls and up steps to the top of the citadel, where she looked bleakly out at a boring view of the harbour.
    She felt she would have been better off to have stayed in Kyrenia and tried to find that villa. She strolled moodily around the top of the walls, feeling the sun beating down on her, feeling sticky and old and unwanted. She looked down the street along which she had come to reach the tower . . . and saw James!
    He was heading back towards the square, the one with the stupid map.
    She called his name, called desperately, but on he went. She ran down the steps, through the dark archway, and collided with Rose, Olivia, husbands and friends.
    ‘Agatha!’ cried Rose, seizing her arm. ‘Owya? Come an’ join us.’
    ‘Got to go,’ yelled Agatha, tearing herself free.
    She ran and ran, glad this time she was wearing flat-heeled sandals. But James had gone again. She searched and searched, as she had done the night before and with as little success. She finally sank down in a chair in a café and ordered a mineral water. There was a mirror in front of her. On her better days, Agatha Raisin was quite presentable, having shiny brown hair cut in a smooth bob, small bearlike eyes, a generous mouth, and a trim, if stocky figure ending in good legs. But in the mirror, she saw a tired middle-aged woman with damp hair, a sweaty red face and a crumpled dress. She must pull herself together or James would take one look at this apparition and sheer off.
    And then, as she became calmer, she decided she would wait until it was cooler and ask Mehmet at Atlantic Cars for the address that James had given when he rented the car.
    She gave a weary little sigh. So much for her detective abilities. With some difficulty she found her way back to where she had parked her car, and then drove slowly along the long hot road over the Mesaoria Plain, where no birds sang and nothing seemed to be growing apart from a few stunted olive trees. Dust devils swirled across the road, which shimmered in the intense heat.
    Mehmet at Atlantic Cars was cautious about revealing James’s address. At last, after more pleading from Agatha, he seemed to decide that as she was a guest at the hotel and British, there should be no harm in giving it to her. James was at the address he had once mentioned to Agatha. She had forgotten it but she remembered it now. It was where they were to have spent their honeymoon. Mehmet led her over to the map again. He said that if she went out on the Nicosia road past the Onar Village Hotel, which she would see on her right, and took the next road down to the left, the villa would be the fourth one down that road on the left.
    Agatha decided to wait until that evening, when she was bathed and refreshed.
    She worked hard on her appearance, washing and brushing her hair until it shone, covering her red face with a flattering shade of foundation cream. She put on a simple silk shift of a gold colour, sprayed herself with Yves Saint Laurent’s Champagne, and then went out into the dark, still, hot evening, to the car.
    Now that she felt she was so close she was almost reluctant to go, to face possible rejection.
    She turned off the Nicosia road and bumped down over potholes, rounded a corner and started counting the villas and parked outside the fourth. It was shielded from the road by a tall hedge of mimosa.
    Agatha pushed opened the gate and walked in. She knocked at the door and waited. No reply.
    She walked around the side of the house and saw a rented car parked there. He must be home. She walked on to a broad terrace. The large plate-glass windows were uncurtained and a pool of light was spilling out on to the terrace.
    She looked in. James was sitting at a rickety table typing on a laptop computer. There was more grey in his hair, she noticed with a pang, and the lines at either side of his mouth seemed deeper.
    Almost timidly, she rapped on the glass.
    Agatha Raisin and James Lacey stared at each other for a long moment.
    Then he rose to