And now here she was dreading the moment she would be alone with James and listening to his recriminations. The trouble was that she, Agatha, had been brought up in the pre-feminist years, in the “yes, dear” generation. And now that she had a man in her life, all the old patterns had re-emerged. Also men were born with an enviable ability to make women feel guilty about the smallest things, although, she admitted to herself drearily, that telling a man whose wife has just been murdered that her will should see him all right had been a crazy thing to do.

She asked George many questions about his life in the Foreign Office, hoping to repair the damage by being as pleasant and social as she could. George, it transpired, had been desk-bound in London, no glamorous foreign assignments. But he talked and talked. He seemed to miss his old life and his stories were all about more charismatic characters than he was himself. There is nothing quite so boring as listening to someone happily reminiscing about people one has never met, but it had the advantage of taking up most of the evening and deflecting everyone’s mind from Trevor’s outburst.

At the end of the meal Olivia suggested they should all have coffees and brandies at The Dome. Agatha still did not want to be alone with James, and so she said that was a good idea.

She bolted for her car before James could get to her and drove off, fumbling in her handbag for her cigarettes. She no longer liked to smoke in front of James because he flapped his hands and coughed angrily.

She drove slowly along the coast road. By the time she got to the hotel, she decided it would be better to take James aside and get the row over with. Otherwise it would be hanging over her for the rest of the evening.

She found James waiting for her by the reception desk. “Before you start,” said Agatha, “I’ve an interesting bit of news. Before we arrived in the bar this evening, that lot were having a terrible row. Trevor accused George of having made a pass at Rose and Harry called Rose a slut and Trevor tried to punch him.”

His eyes narrowed. “How did you find that out?”

“Charles told me,” said Agatha, and then wished she had said a waiter had told her.

“So that’s what kept you,” said James furiously. “Let me tell you this, Agatha: This is a small, gossipy place, and you are the one who’s getting the reputation as slut.”

“That’s unfair. He came up to speak to me when I was getting in my car and then Pamir arrived and that’s what kept me. “

“I don’t believe you,” shouted James. “And what about your behaviour this evening? We were going to approach the subject of Rose’s money tactfully, remember? But oh no, you just blurt it out. Damn it, Agatha,” he roared. “I could kill you.”

A girl and a man behind the reception desk froze and stared at both of them, as did several tourists.

James muttered something and turned on his heel and headed for the bar.

Agatha stood for a moment, numb. And then she began to feel very angry indeed. How dare James go on as if he owned her? Why was all his passion confined to bad temper? Well, she was not going back to the villa tonight. She would take a room here and enjoy some peace and quiet.

She fished in her handbag for her credit cards and booked a room for the night. Then, feeling as if she had at last asserted her independence, she walked along to the bar. There was a silence when she joined the others and she had an uncomfortable feeling that they had been discussing her.

She sat down next to Harry on the opposite side of the table from James, avoiding his eyes.

Agatha asked for coffee but refused brandy, saying she had drunk enough.

“Oh, come one, Agatha,” urged Olivia. “The night is young, even if we aren’t.”

“Speak for yourself,” said Agatha. “But I am tired of rotting what brain cells I have left with booze.”

“That’s put a damper on things,” said Harry.

Agatha waved the waiter over. “I don’t want any coffee,” she said firmly. “No coffee.”

She stood up again. “I’m going to bed. I want a nice comfortable hotel room, so I’ve booked in here for the night.” And before anyone could say anything, she walked off.

James’s remarks were beginning to hurt and hurt badly, so badly she had a mad idea that she might have bruises on her stomach. She hesitated a moment, wondering whether to go back to the villa to get her night-gown and toothbrush and a change of clothes, but suddenly wanted the oblivion of sleep.

She collected her key from the desk. “Staying here, Aggie?”

Charles again.

“I want a quiet night,” said Agatha.

“Fallen out with James?”

“Mind your own business.”

He got his own key and followed her to the lift. “Come for a drink.”

“No,” said Agatha firmly. “I am going to sleep.”

“I can lend you a pair of pyjamas. We’re on the same floor,” he said, squinting at the number on her key tag. “And I’ve got a spare toothbrush, never touched before by the human mouth, still in its pristine wrappings.”

“That’s kind of you,” said Agatha gruffly. “But I’m not sleeping with you.”

“Did I ask you?” he said mildly.

In his room, he took out the pyjamas Agatha had worn before, freshly cleaned and ironed by the hotel laundry, and a toothbrush.

“Drink?” he offered.

“Oh, why not?” said Agatha. “I’ve had so much already but I still feel wide awake. May I smoke?”

“Of course. I smoke occasionally myself. I’ll have one of yours.”

They sat out on the balcony. Charles leaned back in his chair and looked at the stars twinkling over the sea and did not speak.

Agatha watched him covertly, wondering what made him tick. He was a remarkably clean man, tailored and laundered. Even his neat features and well-brushed hair appeared tailored and laundered. Like a cat, she thought suddenly, neat and self-sufficient.

At last she finished her drink and stood up. “Thanks for the silence, Charles. I really mean it.”

“I can be silent any time you like, Aggie. See you around.”

And so she left, half-amused, half-puzzled that he could be so casual, so unembarrassed.

At the reception desk, James asked, “Which room is Mrs. Raisin in?” The receptionist told James. “Can you phone her for me?”

The receptionist phoned and then said, “There is no reply, sir, but Mrs. Raisin went upstairs with Sir Charles Fraith. Would you like me to try his room for you?”

“No,” said James furiously. “Damn her.”

Agatha curled up in her hotel bed and thought about James. She desperately did not want him to be angry with her. He surely must be jealous of Charles. But how could the man be so jealous and be living with her and yet not make any move to make love to her?

She suddenly plunged down into a deep sleep. The night was warm but pleasant and she had not switched on the air-conditioning but had left the windows and shutters open.

At around three in the morning, the lock on her bedroom door clicked softly open. Agatha slept on. A dark figure moved softly towards the bed. With one swift movement, the pillow was snatched from under Agatha’s head and pressed down on her face.

Agatha awoke instantly and began to fight for her life. She thrashed and fought and then suddenly, with a wrench of her head, found her mouth free and screamed and screamed. She heard her door slam.

She switched on the bedside light, phoned reception and babbled for help.

An hour later, feeling sick and shivering despite the warmth of the room, she faced Pamir.

She tried to protest that she had told her story to the hotel manager, to various policemen and detectives, but he took her through it again.

When she had finished, he said, “We have taken Mr. Lacey in for questioning.”

“What?” said Agatha dizzily. “What has James got to do with it?”

“Mr. Lacey was heard earlier this evening threatening your life. He subsequently tried to call your room and when you were not there, the receptionist volunteered the information that you had gone upstairs with Sir Charles Fraith and might be in his room and volunteered to phone that number, but Mr. Lacey went off in a temper. We must not be sidetracked by the unsolved murder of Rose Wilcox. We think that Mr. Lacey, overcome with jealousy, may have tried to murder you.”