Agatha decided to change the subject. She did not like being contradicted. “I cannot understand why north Cyprus is not a recognized country,” she said.

“It’s all quite simple,” said James. “They let the world forget about the massacres they endured, about the women and children in one village buried alive with their hands tied behind their backs. The Greek Cypriots have a very powerful propaganda machine and this side has little or nothing. If I were an emerging country, I would not waste money on guns or bullets, but I would hire a Madison Avenue public-relations company. I’ve talked to some members of the government here. ‘Why don’t you keep reminding the world of what you have suffered?’ I asked. They say they only counter-attack.”

“They have the UN here,” said Angus.

“And what is the UN?” demanded James. “I’ll tell you what their function is. To cost various countries a great deal of money so that their soldiers can stand around surveying ethnic cleansing. And what the hell am I talking about ethnic cleansing for? Genocide is the word. Hasn’t the suffering of the Jews taught this damn world anything? Look at Bosnia!”

“What delicious lamb on the bone,” said Olivia brightly. “Do try some, Trevor. Just like Mother used to make.”

“My mother only made with the can opener,” said Trevor.

What an ill-assorted lot we are, thought Agatha. Even me and James. He talks with such passion about politics but I can’t get him to say one word about us. Passion, thought Agatha. Was that what was behind this murder? But George Debenham, thin and sallow like his wife, seemed always cool and detached. Then there was friend Harry Tembleton, whose expression was usually hidden behind a pair of thick spectacles, and yet, in his way, Harry was almost a reflection of Angus, both being old and sagging and with white thinning hair. Perhaps there was a breed of elderly men who attached themselves to married couples.

“Were you ever married, Harry?” asked Agatha.

He blinked at her through his glasses and said, “Yes, but she died twenty years ago.”

“And you, Angus?”

“Never found anyone to suit me,” said Angus sadly. His Scottish accent was only slight when he forgot to thicken it. “If I could have met someone like Rose, it might have been a different matter.” Agatha glanced quickly at Trevor to see how he had taken this declaration, but Trevor appeared to be once more sunk in gloom.

“And what about you, Agatha?” asked Olivia. “Rose told us she remembered reading about you. Your husband was murdered just as you were about to marry James here. It’s a wonder he’s forgiven you.”

“He hasn’t and won’t, ever,” said Agatha, her eyes suddenly filling with tears. “Excuse me.” She rose to her feet and went to the toilet and leaned against the wash-hand basin. What is up with me? she thought. Is this the menopause? Should I go on hormone-replacement therapy? Or maybe I need a good psychiatrist to tell me that my infatuation for James is because I’m sick in the head.

She walked wearily out of the toilet and back towards the table in the garden. Then she stopped stock-still and gazed in amazement at the entrance to the restaurant.

A small man with fine hair and a thin, sensitive face was standing there, looking vaguely about him.

Agatha walked towards him. “Charles.”

Sir Charles Fraith, Baronet, focused on her. “Funny thing,” he said, “I was just thinking about you, Agatha. Folks at the hotel were talking about some Englishwoman being murdered and you crossed my mind.”

Agatha had been part of a murder investigation when a rambler had been found dead on Sir Charles’s land.

“Do you want to join us?” Agatha indicated her party, who were all staring at them.

“That’s that chap Lacey,” said Charles. “That’s the one you nearly married. Odd bunch of people with him. No, I don’t think I want to join them.”

“What are you doing here, Charles?”

“Just a little holiday. You’re here with Lacey? Honeymoon?”

“No, we’re just friends.”

“Oh, in that case, let’s go somewhere for a drink.”

“Don’t you want to eat?”

“No, I was just cruising the highways and byways, looking for a cool place to have a drink.”

“You’d best come over and say hullo,” said Agatha, who was looking forward to introducing this baronet to Olivia.

“I don’t think so, Agatha. You know what will happen. They’ll all come with us. Let’s just drift off.”

Suddenly the thought of just walking away with Charles and going for a quiet drink somewhere seemed wonderful.

James had engaged Olivia in conversation, not wanting Agatha to know that they were all awaiting her return impatiently. He had not recognized Charles, who was slightly hidden by a palm; he only knew that Agatha was talking to some man. When he looked up again, Agatha and her companion had gone.

Ten minutes later Agatha and Charles were sitting at an outdoor café near the Dome Hotel.

Charles ordered brandy sours for both of them and leaned back in his chair and gazed vaguely out to sea.

“I heard you’d got married,” said Agatha.

“Engaged. Didn’t work. No chemistry. Sarah was very attached to her parents. Very worthy people, but her father was the sort of man who puts logs on my fire. Know what I mean?”

“Sort of,” said Agatha, suddenly getting a picture of a solid middle-class family, foreign in their ways to the aristocratic Charles.

“They liked giving very long dinner parties with such boring people. I used to sit there thinking, when will this evening end? Bring on the cheese. Oh, please God, bring on the cheese.”

“So you broke off the engagement? How’s Gustav?” Gustav had been Charles’s manservant.

“Left me because of the engagement. Terrible snob, Gustav.”

“Where is he now?”

“Maître d’ in some classy hotel in Geneva.”

“Did you replace 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?”

“Fm 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.”