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 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 at 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 teen-age 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 hullo?”

“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 Hilarión 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 Hilarión is best known as the honeymoon castle of Richard the Lionheart. Saint Hilarión 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 pay any attention to that, in the same way as the locals pay no attention to either speed limits or parking restrictions.

Agatha climbed out of the car in the car-park the following afternoon and looked all around. Far below her on one side stretched the blue Mediterranean; on her other side, the ruins of the castle reared up against cloudless skies. There was a smell of pine, and cicadas chattered with their sewing-machine busyness.

James had let her sleep late and had been unusually quiet on the journey up the long winding road to the castle. Agatha felt guilty about having slept with Charles. What had come over her? And what had come over him? Charles had not shown any sign earlier in the evening of having been attracted to her in any way. He probably regarded her as a convenient lay. Agatha blushed.

“Your face is all red,” said James. “Is it the heat?”

“Yes, yes,” said Agatha fretfully. “The sun is very strong up here.”

They walked together out of the car-park, past a small café and up steep steps towards the first part of the castle. Agatha felt bone-weary. She stumbled slightly. James caught her arm with unexpected roughness and said sharply, “I didn’t know you and Charles were such buddies.”