Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

the bed. What on earth was she doing sharing a foreign hotel room with this odd baronet?
    He emerged from the bathroom finally, wearing a pair of paisley-patterned pyjamas. He flung open the windows and shutters. ‘There’s a table out on the balcony, Aggie. Come and take a pew.’
    Agatha sat out on the balcony. The air was warm and sweet and the sound of the sea soothing.
    ‘I can’t mix brandy sours,’ he said, returning with a bottle and two glasses. ‘But at least I’ve got the brandy. It’s local stuff but not bad.’
    They drank silently and then he said, ‘What was all that about?’
    ‘What about?’
    ‘You were nearly in tears, Aggie.’
    ‘It’s Agatha.’
    ‘I like Aggie. I shall call you Aggie, and since you are in my room and drinking my brandy, I can call you what I like.’
    Slightly tipsy now, Agatha began to talk. She told him all about James, about her relationship with James, about her obsession with James.
    ‘I had a crush on a girl like that when I was seventeen,’ he said when she had finished. ‘That’s what it’s like, Aggie. A teenage crush.’
    ‘I didn’t expect you to understand,’ said Agatha sadly.
    ‘Have you ever considered,’ he said, tilting his brandy glass in the moonlight and watching the liquid, ‘that there is something up with the man to keep you hanging around like this?’
    ‘I behaved badly. He won’t forgive me.’
    ‘Then he should stop jerking your chain. All he had to do was tell you that you should not have followed him out here, that it is all over, and get lost, Aggie.’
    She bent her head. ‘I think he still loves me.’
    ‘Dream on. And talking of dreams, let’s go to bed.’
    Agatha sighed, drained her glass and followed him into the bedroom. Somehow, even in his pyjamas, Charles looked as neat and impersonal as if he were wearing a business suit.
    She got into bed. What a mess! Her head swam from all she had drunk.
    ‘Move over,’ she heard Charles say.
    ‘What?’
    ‘Move over.’ He edged into the bed next to her and took her in his arms.
    ‘What are you doing?’ demanded Agatha.
    ‘What do you think?’
    He bent his head and kissed her slowly. Oh, well, just one kiss, thought Agatha drunkenly. It was all very soothing and sensuous and not quite real. He had forgotten to put on the air-conditioning and the windows were still open. He kissed her for quite a long time before he took her pyjamas off and Agatha’s last sane thought was, oh, what the hell.
    She awoke at five in the morning with the telephone ringing shrilly. Charles answered it. She heard him say, ‘Yes, James, she’s here. She had nowhere to go, so I let her use the spare bed.’
    ‘He’s coming up,’ said Charles after he had replaced the receiver. He got out of bed and rapidly put on the pyjamas he had discarded.
    Agatha ran for the bathroom, where she had left her clothes. She turned on the shower and washed herself hurriedly, dried, and then put on her clothes. Outside she could hear the sound of voices. She looked anxiously at her face in the mirror, but it showed no signs of love-making.
    She went out into the hotel room. ‘So there you are,’ said James cheerfully. ‘What a scare you gave us! Police all over the place looking for you.’
    ‘Where were you?’ asked Agatha, avoiding looking at Charles. ‘I went to the villa, to the restaurant, but there was no sign of anyone.’
    ‘We all went on to a bar. Thanks for looking after her, Charles. I gather that must have been you at the restaurant. Why didn’t you say hello?’
    ‘My pleasure,’ said Charles smoothly, ignoring the last question. ‘Now, if you both don’t mind, I’ll get some more sleep. I’m quite exhausted. Must be the sea air.’
    James led the way. Agatha turned in the doorway and looked back at Charles, but his neat features were closed and impersonal.
    Men, thought Agatha Raisin. I’ll never understand them.
    Rose Macaulay described Saint Hilarion as ‘a picture book castle for elf kings’ and it is supposed to have inspired the animators of Snow White. Sited on its craggy eyrie, 2,400 feet above the plain, Saint Hilarion is best known as the honeymoon castle of Richard the Lionheart. Saint Hilarion consists of three distinct sections on different levels. The highest part of the castle, reached by very steep worn steps, is the Tower of Prince John. Signs on the road up to the castle proclaim in multiple languages that photography is forbidden, but no one seems to