Agatha Raisin and the Terrible Tourist

amoral.’
    ‘Oh well, go to your lonely bed.’
    ‘That is exactly what I’m going to do after I wash the salt off.’
    Agatha had a leisurely bath, trying to think of pleasant things, trying not to think of absent James or of murder.
    She fell asleep almost immediately.
    When she awoke, she could hear thunder rumbling in the distance. So Charles had been right. A storm was coming. Her brain was tired out with worry, she thought as she cleaned her teeth. She hadn’t a clue as to who had killed Rose and Harry, assuming that there was only one murderer. She had been lucky in previous cases, that was all. James had been right. All she had surely done in the past was blunder about – and blunder into the murderer and nearly get herself killed, which was just what was happening here, but without any result.
    She would forgo investigation and try hard to keep away from Olivia and the rest and do something to make the days pass. Yesterday had been pleasant. The books she had brought to read were uninspiring. Perhaps she should take up knitting like Olivia, thought Agatha, having a sudden vivid picture of Olivia’s knitting needles flashing in and out of the wool, those steel knitting needles flashing in the sunlight.
    And then Agatha slowly put down the toothbrush. Olivia had been a nurse. Rose and Harry had been murdered by some thin instrument. If not a kebab skewer, what about a knitting needle rammed home by someone who knew exactly where to place it?
    Olivia! Olivia, who did not know about her husband’s debts, and so was puzzled by the sudden strange attraction Rose had for her husband. Yet how could Olivia possibly not have known how deeply in debt they were? Surely besotted Harry at his age had made a will and, having no wife or family, had probably left all to Olivia.
    Agatha’s heart began to hammer against her ribs.
    How could she prove it?
    Just ask her, said a voice.
    But I’m not going to make the mistakes of the past. I’ll arrange to meet her in the hotel lounge with other people about.
    She picked up the extension in her room and phoned the Dome and asked to be put through to Mrs Debenham.
    When Olivia answered, Agatha said, ‘About what we were discussing, Olivia. I have a cheque here for you which might help. Please don’t say no.’
    ‘That’s very kind of you,’ said Olivia in a low voice. ‘George isn’t here. We had a bit of a row about money. He’s gone out for a walk.’
    ‘Meet me in the hotel bar,’ said Agatha. ‘I’ll only be about fifteen minutes.’
    She went downstairs to tell Charles where she was going but found him gone. She wondered whether to leave a note for him, but decided she didn’t have the time.
    As she left the villa, the thunder rolled nearer and a fat drop of rain struck her cheek. By the time she reached the outskirts of Kyrenia, the rain was coming down in floods and she could barely see the road. She parked in an illegal parking place outside the hotel. Let the police fine her just this once.
    She had forgotten about the press and looked nervously around the reception area but there was not a camera in sight.
    She walked through to the bar, wishing she had a tape recorder. Even if Olivia confessed, what proof would there be?
    But Agatha did not want to turn back now. She felt that unless these murders were solved, she would be stuck in north Cyprus for months.
    Olivia was not in the bar. Agatha ordered coffee for two. And waited. After ten minutes, when she was just about to phone Olivia’s room, Olivia entered.
    ‘Sit down,’ said Agatha, ‘and have some coffee.’ Agatha looked around. A couple were having coffee some distance away and the waiters were busy arranging cakes in the cold shelf.
    ‘This is very kind of you, Agatha,’ said Olivia with such sincerity that Agatha decided she must have made some dreadful mistake. A bright flash of lightning lit up the room and someone screamed outside in the corridor. Then a great clap of thunder seemed to rock the hotel to its foundations. Rain streamed down the plate-glass windows.
    Weakly Agatha felt she should write out a cheque, hand it over and forget about the whole thing. But something made her say, ‘No knitting today, Olivia?’
    ‘It’s up in my room,’ said Olivia. ‘My knitting gets on George’s nerves. He says I remind him of Madame Defarge.’
    And then Agatha found her courage. She would never forgive herself if she did not try.
    She asked quietly, ‘It would be better to get it