Agatha Christie Omnibus
Murder Will Out, Hidden Sins and Death in Disguise
Alison Joseph
© Alison Joseph
Alison Joseph has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2018 by Sharpe Books.
This book is not authorized by Agatha Christie Limited.
Table of Contents
Agatha Christie Investigates Book 1: Murder Will Out
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Agatha Christie Investigates Book 2: Hidden Sins
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Acknowledgments
Agatha Christie Investigates Book 3: Death in Disguise
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Acknowledgments
Murder Will Out
Alison Joseph
© Alison Joseph 2014
Alison Joseph has asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.
First published 2015 by Endeavour Press Ltd.
This edition published 2018 by Sharpe Books.
This book is not authorized by Agatha Christie Limited.
Chapter One
‘Poison, you see,’ Sylvia Ettridge said, positioning herself firmly in an armchair and folding her arms. ‘That’s why they thought it was a natural death to start with. And then of course it turns out that something nasty has been put in his night time cocoa.’
Agatha Christie sipped at her cup of tea and rather wished her neighbour would leave her in peace. Mrs. Ettridge always had a view on the plots she was writing, and, true, she was writing a poisoning, but there was no need for Sylvia to tell her what to do next.
‘And of course, everyone at the vicarage is horrified.’
Agatha’s annoyance went up a notch. Had she told her she was writing a poisoning at the vicarage? She had no memory of sharing her new story idea with anyone apart from her husband, and he never listened in any case.
‘And what with the curate being my godson,’ Mrs. Ettridge went on.
Now this was a step too far. The idea that she’d write Sylvia into the play … although, as she looked at her bossy neighbour, sitting on plump cushions in her voluminous turquoise dress and matching turban, Agatha thought it might not be such a bad idea.
Sunlight filtered through the curtains. The view beyond seemed peaceful, summery, the spire of the village church visible just above the hedgerows.
‘So,’ Sylvia was saying, ‘I had to get involved. I went across there as soon as I heard, but it’s crawling with police officers, they wouldn’t even let me in to talk to Robert, I’ll have to try again this afternoon.’
Agatha stared at her. ‘Police?’ she said.
‘Well, yes, of course, after that poor young man was found dead at the vicarage, the vicar was bound to call the police, wasn’t he?’
‘But you said … poison?’ she said, weakly.
‘That’s what they’ve been saying. I told you, initial reports suggest he was poisoned. Certainly not natural causes. But no sign of any injury, that’s the point.’
Agatha got to her feet. ‘Mrs. Ettridge, are you telling me that there has been a murder at the vicarage?’
Now it was Sylvia’s turn to stare. ‘Have you been listening to a word I’ve been saying? And surely you’d have heard the commotion. The poor boy was found this morning, dead, lying on the floor of the library there. Surely you heard all the motor cars, the dogs barking? Although, you are rather tucked away here. Anyway, I told poor Robert not to worry, and how you’d be just the person to talk to, what with your expertise in these matters, and so I’ve arranged to take you across there now, if that suits you, Mrs. Christie?’
‘Robert?’ Agatha picked up the tea pot, put it down again.
‘The curate. My godson. Do try and concentrate. The dead boy is a chum of his from the clinic, Cecil Coates, he was just staying for a few days, and the awful thing is, while he was staying, this thing happens. Robert’s very upset, and it doesn’t help that the Vicar was already a bit dubious about Robert’s appointment, and this isn’t going to help, is it?’
‘Does Robert live at the vicarage too?’
Sylvia nodded. ‘It’s huge. The Vicar would just be rattling around there, with Eva the continental maid. The curate has a few rooms of his own, and that’s where this awful thing happened.’
‘And Robert’s your godson?’
Sylvia’s lips twitched with annoyance. ‘Do try and listen, Mrs. Christie. He’s the son of one of my oldest friends, Jean Sayer. When she married that man from Wellington, not our Wellington, unfortunately, the other one, and went off there to live, she entrusted me with his well-being. And now this. I’m going to look as if I really haven’t been paying him sufficient attention. And her antipodean husband always had a dim view of me, this really isn’t going to help. That’s why he simply has to talk to you. Shall we go?’
‘But – Sylvia…’ Agatha tried to keep her voice level. ‘It’s simply out of the question.’
Mrs. Ettridge gazed at her in puzzlement. ‘But – it’s what you do.’
‘Me?’ Agatha stared at her, appalled. ‘I write stories. I make things up. The idea that I might want to have anything to do with anything – real. I mean, that poor young man… I’m sorry, I can’t possibly come with you.’
Mrs. Ettridge was staring at her, frowning. ‘Oh, but you have to. I’ve told them all about you.’
‘Well, you can un-tell them, then.’ Agatha reached for her cup of tea, and sipped at it, even though it was cold.
There was a frosty silence. Then a ring at the doorbell, and a few moments later, a tousled woman in full riding costume was shown into the room.
‘Agatha – you’ve simply got to help.’
‘Mary – what on earth has happened?’ Agatha looked at her friend, who was mud-spattered and tearful.
‘I’ve come from the vicarage, we were just doing a gentle trot, Myrtle and I, and then suddenly there was a paper bag caught in the hedgerow, and you know how Myrtle hates anything flapping like that, so she was off, and I was riding out with Phoebe, you know her, Shirley Banks’ daughter, and then both horses jumped the hedge into the vicar’s field, and my horse is now cantering around the vicarage garden, terrified, poor love – she doesn’t like religion any more than I do – and Phoebe’s barely staying on, she’
s on Jimmie who’s normally good as gold, but he’s such a follower, and then it turns out there’s been some awful commotion at the vicarage, apparently someone’s been found dead, and the worse thing is it’s some poor young man known to Phoebe, so I thought after we’ve rounded up the horses you can sit with Phoebe while these policeman talk to her and that way they’ll be kind to her as you know all about policemen…’ She stopped, breathless.
Agatha was aware of both women, waiting. Sylvia was still seated, slipping her gloves on, slowly, finger by finger. Mary was smoothing her hair back into its pins.
Agatha realized she had no choice.
‘I’ll tell Alice that I’ll be half an hour,’ she said.
Sylvia got to her feet. She nodded at Mary. ‘So you know Shirley’s girl. She must be pleased to have her daughter back from London. I gather Shirley’s got Mr. Fullerton to keep an eye on her, keep her out of trouble. Isn’t it funny how everyone knows everyone in this village?’ She picked up her turquoise jacket and turned to Agatha. ‘When we get there, have a chat with Robert, just the two of you, then he can speak in confidence. You can tell me everything he says tomorrow.’
Chapter Two
It occurred to Agatha that she’d never properly looked at the vicarage before. Of course, she’d always been aware of the large, red-brick building, the green tiling of the roof, the ornamental window frames. But she’d never really noticed the overgrown garden, the uneven fencing, the damp around the window frames.
The door was opened by a small, dark-haired woman, who gave a brief, unsmiling nod and ushered them inside.
‘As I said,’ Mrs. Ettridge said, in a loud whisper. ‘Continental.’
A uniformed police constable appeared to be standing guard in the hallway. Then the vicar was coming towards them, his plump hand outstretched, his face round and pink above his dog collar.
‘Mrs. Christie,’ he said, in a rather wheezing voice.
‘Reverend Collins,’ she said, taking the proffered hand.
‘I suppose you’ll want to see the body, what with your line of work,’ he said.
‘Absolutely not,’ she began to say, but he wasn’t listening. His hand was warm and damp, and she let go as soon as was polite.
‘Come along, come along,’ he began to say, but then a policeman suddenly stepped forward, his arm outstretched. ‘With all due respect, Sir, that is a crime scene in there. My orders are to let no one in.’
‘But this is Mrs. Christie,’ the vicar said, his indignation implying that all crime scenes should be accessible to one such as she.
‘I’ll check with my Sergeant outside,’ the young constable said, and disappeared.
‘The horses have calmed down,’ the vicar was saying, turning to Mary. ‘Your young friend seems to have found her nerve again.’
Mary went out to the field, leaving Agatha and Sylvia standing in the hall.
Behind the vicar there appeared a thin, awkward-looking young man with dark brown hair. Sylvia went to greet him.
‘Robert, dear…’
He looked at her with apprehension. ‘Mrs. Ettridge,’ he said.
‘Your mother sends her love and concern,’ Mrs. Ettridge said to him. ‘And do call me Auntie Sylvia.’
‘How did Mother know?’ He stared down at her, frowning.
‘I told her, of course. I made a trunk telephone call.’
‘I’d rather she hadn’t heard,’ he said to her.
‘Oh, but –’
‘What’s done is done,’ Robert said. ‘Poor Cecil. It’s just unfortunate he was here.’
There was a harsh set to his face, Agatha noticed, but just then the young policeman reappeared, and she was called away to the library, where another, higher ranking officer was standing guard. He stepped to one side as Reverend Collins opened the door, still talking to her. ‘That sergeant they sent earlier said they’d be taking the body away as soon as they could find the right kind of vehicle. Odd man. Have you met him? Kind of twitch over one eye, never trust a man who twitches, anyway, here we are, poor chap, we had dinner together last night, the three of us, and then this. Nice young man, studied Greats, we had a rather good chat about Homer…’
He fell silent.
The library was large and surprisingly light, giving out on to the lawn side of the garden rather than the sprawling trees. The young man was lying on his back, next to a chair. One arm was flung outwards, and a book lay just beyond his fingertips. Agatha had the impression that he’d fallen from the chair while reading. His mouth was gaping open as if in horror, or pain. His eyes were staring, pale, blank and absent.
Agatha stood stock still for a few moments. Then she turned to the vicar.
‘I think I’ve seen enough,’ she said.
The vicar drew his gaze away from the body. He shook his head. ‘Dreadful business,’ he said. ‘The reputation of the dear old C of E is sticky at the best of times, and this sort of thing really doesn’t help at all –’
He was interrupted by the loud ringing of the vicarage doorbell. He frowned as he heard the maid go to open it, took a few steps into the hall, then his face relaxed into a smile. ‘Oh, Arthur, of course,’ he said, as a tall, smart young man sauntered into the hallway, a shaft of sunlight behind him.
‘Terribly sorry, old chap,’ the young man was saying. ‘Good heavens, what’s all this? You look like a funeral party. And you can’t move for cars out there…’
‘Ah. This is Mr. Sutton. He’s working on a painting in the church. We’re convinced it’s a Holbein but no one will believe us.’
‘We’ll show ‘em,’ Arthur Sutton said, with a tap on the vicar’s arm. ‘So – what’s going on?’
Mrs. Ettridge broke the silence. ‘A dead body, in the library, that’s what’s going on.’
‘A dead…’ He looked from one to the other. ‘Is this a joke, Vicar?’
‘I’m afraid not. Our young guest seems to have been poisoned at some point last night.’
‘Good heavens.’ Arthur’s jollity seemed to drain from him. ‘That nice young man?’
There were nods from the assembled group.
‘Poisoned?’
There were more nods.
Arthur frowned. ‘They always say it’s a woman’s weapon, don’t they?’
‘Well, Mrs. Christie here will know all about that,’ the vicar said.
‘Are you a poisoner?’ Arthur turned to her with an attentive look.
She smiled, shook her head. ‘Only in my mind,’ she said. His expression was blank, as someone who had no idea who she was, and she felt a sudden relief that here was one person who didn’t expect her to be interested in these ghastly events just because of her reputation as a story-teller.
‘Oh, but surely you’ve heard of –’ Mrs. Ettridge began to enlighten him, but to Agatha’s relief she was interrupted as all eyes turned towards the passageway that led from the kitchen.
A thin young woman had appeared. She came and stood beside Robert, her shoulders hunched, her hands twisting together. She had brown hair that hung in untidy strands around her face, flat shoes, a grey skirt that clung awkwardly around her shins.
Mrs. Ettridge stared at her, then at Robert, waiting for an introduction. At last, Robert said, awkwardly, ‘Auntie Sylvia… This is Miss Holgate.’
‘Ah, Miss Holgate, there you are.’ The vicar’s booming voice cut through the silence, and Robert appeared to breathe again. ‘This is our little helper, aren’t you dear? Terrible time for you to have joined us, of course. But I’m afraid I’m not in control of everything.’ He laughed as if he’d made a very good joke.
Miss Holgate looked up at him. ‘I’ve done all those files now, Vicar. I thought I’d leave, if that’s all right. What with …’ She inclined her head towards the library door.
‘Of course my dear. Very kind of you to come in at all,’ the vicar said, ‘in the circumstances. Off you go. We’ll be back to normal by the morning, you’ll see.’
She picked up her hat
from the hat-stand, and with a shy backward glance at Robert, she went out of the door, placing her hat on her head as she went.
‘Bethnal Green,’ the vicar said.
‘Quite,’ Sylvia said. ‘I was thinking the same thing myself.’
‘Bethnal Green?’ Arthur looked from one to the other.
‘Mr. Sutton,’ the vicar said, ‘you’ll find there is a network of connections that spreads across the South of England. And at the heart of it, like a benign mother spider, is Mrs. Ettridge here.’
Sylvia gave a smile. ‘Well, I do what I can.’
The vicar went on, ‘Miss Holgate comes from a family of six, no mother to speak of, it was through Mrs. Ettridge’s connections that we found her. And what a helpful young woman she is, too. I’ve had heaps of papers building up, over decades, they go back years, the previous incumbent did nothing with them …’
‘A friend of mine works with the needy folk of London’s East End,’ Sylvia said. ‘I’m glad she found you someone.’
‘Miss Holgate has set to with the files. She’s a clever young thing under all that shyness.’ He turned to Mrs. Ettridge again. ‘And you knew this poor dead boy too?’ the vicar asked.
‘Not really. It just turned out he was doing some of his medical training at one of the clinics there where my friend helps out, that’s all.’
‘The whole village would fall apart without you, Mrs. Ettridge, the vicar said. ‘Even Arthur here depends on you –’
‘Only for supplies of turpentine,’ Arthur smiled.
‘I just happened to have a job lot,’ Sylvia said.
Arthur was staring thoughtfully towards the library door. ‘Bethnal Green,’ he said, again, as the front door swung on its hinges and Mary appeared. She seemed calmer and more composed, and she smiled at Agatha.
‘Everything’s all right after all. Phoebe managed to round up both horses. But they’re terribly over-excited, we simply must get them back to the stables, and poor Phoebe is very upset about this awful tragedy with the young man, I do think I should get her home. I’ve told that policeman he can talk to her when her mother’s present.’
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