Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

him?’
    ‘No. Can’t have servants these days. Anachronism. Get women in from the village to clean, hire a catering company if we’ve a lot of people at the weekend. So what about this murder?’
    Agatha told him all about it, feeling as she did so that every time she talked about it the whole thing became more unreal.
    His pale eyes swivelled from the sea to her face. ‘So what about it? Are you hot on the trail?’
    ‘I’m not,’ said Agatha gloomily. ‘In fact, I should be back there with James trying to find out more about them all. I thought of faxing Bill Wong, you know, my friend at Mircester police, asking him for some background, but James said to wait.’
    ‘I’ll ask the Dome to send a fax if you like.’
    Damn James, thought Agatha. Why shouldn’t she act on her own initiative?
    ‘I haven’t got a typewriter here, or computer,’ said Agatha.
    ‘Write it by hand. I mean, it’s not the Epistle to the Romans, is it? Just a few lines.’
    ‘I’ll do it!’ said Agatha.
    ‘Good girl,’ said Charles, appearing to lose interest.
    ‘So how are things back home?’ asked Agatha, wondering now what James was making of her disappearance, and feeling uncomfortably that she had behaved badly.
    ‘Oh, same as ever. That’s a very pretty girl over there.’
    Agatha had the ordinary feminine irritation of being asked to admire some woman by a male companion. And she had walked off and left the field to Olivia. But as she was eager for Charles to arrange that fax to Bill Wong, she did not want to hurry him over his drink.
    At last he signalled to the waitress and paid the bill.
    The manager was still on duty and agreed to send a fax. Agatha wrote out her request on a piece of paper, asking for any reply to be sent to her at the Dome to await collection.
    ‘I will put the charge on your bill,’ said the manager to Charles.
    ‘It’s not my fax,’ said Charles. ‘Mrs Raisin will pay.’
    ‘Where are you staying, Mrs Raisin?’ asked the manager. ‘My accountant will send the bill to you.’
    Agatha wrote down her address.
    ‘Well, I’m off to bed,’ said Charles, stifling a yawn.
    ‘Aren’t you going to run me home?’ asked Agatha. ‘I went to the restaurant in James’s car.’
    ‘Too tired. I’ll get you a cab.’
    Charles ordered a cab for her at reception and nodded to her and walked off.
    The receptionist said, ‘It is a very busy night. Your cab will be about ten minutes.’
    ‘I’ll wait in the bar,’ said Agatha.
    She walked through to the bar and stopped short on the threshold. Charles, with another brandy sour in his hand, was talking to a group of Turkish women. Agatha felt rejected all round – by James, by Charles.
    She returned to the reception desk and waited until her cab arrived. But when she got back to the villa, it was to find the place in darkness, and James had the keys. She told the cab driver to take her to the Ottoman House Restaurant, only to find that they had all left half an hour before. Thinking she might have missed James on the road, she went back to the villa to find it still in darkness. Wearily she told the driver to take her back to the Dome.
    James was not there and the others were not in their rooms. Where had they gone?
    She sat down on a chair in the reception area and stared bleakly around.
    ‘Still here?’ asked Charles, walking up to her.
    ‘Still here,’ echoed Agatha dismally. ‘James is still out somewhere and he has the keys.’
    ‘It’s late. I’m off to bed.’ Charles hesitated. ‘Got two beds. You can have the other one if you like.’
    ‘I wouldn’t mind that,’ said Agatha gratefully. ‘I’m tired of running around.’
    ‘Come along, then,’ he said, heading for the lift. ‘Just don’t use my toothbrush.’
    Once in his room, he threw her a pair of pyjamas. ‘You can wear those and use the bathroom first.’
    Agatha washed and changed into the pyjamas. ‘You’re in the bed by the window,’ said Charles when she emerged. ‘I hope you don’t snore.’
    ‘I don’t think so,’ said Agatha. Tears started to her eyes. ‘Well, if I do, no one’s ever told me.’
    ‘Have a good cry,’ he said. ‘Nothing like a bloody good cry. Then we’ll have a drink and you’ll sleep like a log.’
    He went into the bathroom. Agatha stared bleakly ahead. All in that moment, she longed to be back home in her cottage in Carsely with English rain drumming down on the thatch, secure with her cats sleeping at the end of