Agatha Christie Investigates Omnibus

by Alison Joseph

  ‘Yes.’ Agatha wondered what she meant.

  ‘He was here, wasn’t he. And then he went away.’ Mrs. Collyer was facing her directly.

  ‘Yes,’ Agatha said. ‘He had to go back to work.’

  ‘You seem to be managing without him. But it’s not final, is it,’ Mrs. Collyer went on, as if it had just occurred to her. ‘I mean, your husband, he’ll be back in your home, thinking about you, and you’ll be thinking about him, and he’s probably worrying about you, if word about all these terrible events reaches him. Whereas me …’ She raised tearful eyes to Agatha. ‘There’s no one now. No one to worry about me. Ever again. Well …’ She produced a white linen handkerchief, and wiped away her tears. ‘I shall just have to get on without him. I don’t know how. Mother will say I’ve only got myself to blame.’ She got to her feet and turned towards the door. The dainty click of her shoes against the parquet floor faded into silence.

  My husband, Agatha thought. Worrying about me. It was an odd thought. In her mind, a picture of the golf club at Sunningdale. Her husband, standing on the green in the summer evening light, pausing, mid-swing, to worry about his wife.

  Of course he’ll worry, she thought. Particularly if an account of these events reaches the London papers. I really must let him know I’m all right, she thought. Yes, she thought. Tomorrow. I’ll pop to the post office and send a telegram. Dear Archie, she thought, that will put his mind at rest.

  *

  Overnight, the wind had dropped. The day dawned grey and still, casting a melancholy silence over the hotel. After breakfast, taken alone in the muted dining room, Agatha set out to the village post office.

  Across the bay, the sun tried to break through the scudding clouds. The rough path descended to the village. Agatha saw, once again, the crooked form of the recovered ship, its black lines softened by the low mist. The Post Office sat at the centre of the village street, a square of creamy white amidst the blue-grey stone.

  That’s the colour, she thought. That’s what I need for my story, for the stone walls of the rose garden, where Captain Wingfield waits for Miss Hobbes the governess to pass by. He will watch her as she approaches, his heart beating in anticipation. She will walk towards him, graceful in her simple dress, and he will compose in his mind the words he wants to say to her …

  Agatha felt a quickening pleasure at the thought of her work waiting for her, her notebook on the mahogany table by the window in her room. She pushed at the door, which rang loudly with bell chimes.

  The Post Office seemed full of people, and they all, as one, turned to stare. She was aware of hats, ladies, fishing boots, overalls, beards. Then the murmur of conversation started up again.

  In her mind, as she waited, she composed the few words of her telegram. ‘Unfortunate events at hotel. Stop. All well. Stop. Will come back as planned. Stop.’

  ‘I’ll see you on Sunday,’ Archie had said on the station platform, holding her in his arms. ‘I’ll be counting the days,’ he’d said, holding her tight. Captain Wingfield will take Miss Hobbes in his arms and hold her tight. ‘I’ve been counting the days,’ he’ll say to her. ‘We were meant to be.’

  Agatha realised that all eyes were upon her, and that the post mistress, a fierce-looking, starch-collared woman, was waiting. She went to the counter and dictated her telegram, aware too that various hats, beards and overalls were listening to her every word.

  We were meant to be. She almost added it to the telegram. ‘We were meant to be. Stop.’ That would have given the audience of villagers something to wonder at. Instead, she thanked the post mistress, paid and left, sweeping out of the door to the ring of the bell.

  The mist had lifted. The little high street dazzled in sunlight. She blinked in the brightness, and almost collided with Detective Inspector Olds.

  ‘Mrs. Christie –’ He raised his hat.

  ‘I’m sorry –’

  ‘Quite all right, Madam.’ He faced her, standing in the village street.

  ‘I trust I’m allowed to come this far,’ she said.

  He gave a dry smile. ‘I didn’t mean you, Madam,’ he said. ‘I was just taking precautions regarding certain other guests.’ His lined face crinkled into a smile. ‘Come to see our archaeology have you?’ He waved a hand towards the ship reclamation.

  ‘Well …’ she began.

  ‘It is quite a tale,’ he said. ‘If you like a good yarn.’

  ‘I – er –’

  ‘Some will say they scuppered it on purpose all those years ago, lured it on to the rocks to filch the treasure. Some will tell you a more ordinary tale, of high seas and stormy winds and the everyday tragedy of sailors drowned at sea.’ He was turned towards the beach, his eyes following the to-ing and fro-ing of the villagers.

  ‘And you, Inspector Olds?’

  He turned back towards her, and now there was a darker, sorrowed look about him.

  ‘I knew them,’ he said. ‘The three drowned men. The skipper best of all.’ His gaze turned back towards the beach. ‘Friends, you see. Me and Mikey. Went to Mitching School together. We’d take our bikes, hide out at Abey’s Bay. We’d fish, sail … that boy could make a seaworthy vessel out of a plank of wood and half an old bed-sheet …’ His eyes were clouded as he faced her again.

  ‘And which version do you believe? About the shipwreck?’ She spoke gently.

  There was a sudden fire in his expression. ‘Not a single one of these villagers would lure a sailor to his death. Not one. We are of the sea, we Cornishmen. We have saltwater in our veins. We look out there and gaze upon the waves, and know that what we see is both our friend and our foe. And knowing that, we love it still. No …’ He shook his head. ‘The Lady Leona was just steering the course that the fates had dictated for her. As we all must do.’ He gave a small smile. ‘Well, Mrs. Christie, I must get to work. I’m headed up to the big house to find out a bit more about poor Mr. Collyer.’

  ‘To see Frau Adler?’

  ‘I hope so. Not that she’s invited me. They’ve kept themselves quiet, they have.’ He began to walk up the hill. ‘People called them the Germans.’

  ‘She seems to know the kitchen boy.’

  ‘Young Hughes. Yes. We think warmly of her for that in any case.’

  ‘What happened?’

  Again, a shadow of sadness. ‘The war carried off a good few of our men. And Hughes, the boy’s pa, was one of them. And then the mother died, the flu she got, after the war. Young Olly was orphaned. And the Germans took him in. Raised him as their own. He’s doing very well now.’ They fell into step together, on the road that led away from the village. After a moment, he said, ‘This book, that the deceased was writing, about Dr. Adler …’

  She waited. He went on, ‘It seems, shall we say, controversial. I don’t know how much you know about the goings on here, but Dr. Adler, it is said, had connections with some scientists in Russia. And Mr. Collyer seemed to have got hold of some papers that were something to do with all that, and Dr. Adler’s wife had just recently asked for them back.’ He walked a few more steps, then went on, ‘These Soviets, see,’ he said. ‘We fight a war on one front, and then another one appears. Not that I want to go pointing any fingers. But the funny thing is, my friend Bosun Walker, who’s keeping an eye on things here, with this ship being stripped of all its rotten cargo, well, the Bosun said he’d seen odd goings-on on the beach here, one night last week. He said he saw a man and a woman on the beach here, and they seemed to be waiting, as if for a boat to come in. And he reckoned that the woman of the couple was Frau Adler. He said he hung about a bit, but there was no sign of any vessel, and after a while he left them to it.’ He paused in his walking. ‘Still, can’t start reading too much into things like that. They may be Bolsheviks, but in this country we’re all innocent till proved guilty, like it or not. So, that’s why I’m headed up to the House now, to have a bit of a chat with them. Just a friendly chat, see. The important thing, in my line of work, is the facts. That’s what I’m after
. The facts.’

  They walked on. It had become a bright, summery day. The sea was now a glassy blue.

  ‘Bolshies,’ Inspector Olds was saying. ‘You can’t be too careful. We didn’t fight a war just to have that lot creeping around amongst us, eh? My motor car’s just here. Can I offer you a lift? It’s no trouble.’

  Agatha smiled, shook her head, insisted she’d enjoy the walk back to the hotel. He started his car, jumped in, and with a loud phut-phut of the engine, drove away up the hill.

  She walked along the coastal track, reflecting on their conversation. She wondered whether she should have mentioned what Mrs. Collyer had told her, about the disputed papers being in her hotel room. The image came to her of the delicate, newly-widowed Nora. I couldn’t do that to her, she thought. The police must find that for themselves.

  Her stout shoes crunched the gorse underfoot. The wind had got up again, ruffling the long grass around her.

  To lose one’s husband, she thought. Not to have him waiting for you, not to have those arms around you, those sweet words whispered. So many of us suffered such a loss, she thought. So many soldiers, sailors, air-men, didn’t come back. But at least, with war, there’s a reason. Whereas a dull, portly man, shot dead on a tennis court –

  ‘I say! They’ve let you out, then?’

  The voice came from behind her, and she turned to see Mr. Farrar striding up the track towards her. ‘I suppose you don’t look like a murder suspect, Mrs. Christie. Unlike yours truly here. I had to give them the slip just to get a breath of air. Enjoying the sea breeze, eh?’

  She agreed that, yes, it was pleasant to be out.

  ‘Even dear Blanche agreed I should come out,’ he said. ‘She said I’d only drink again if not. Probably glad to get rid of me for a bit. So –’ he fell into step beside her. ‘What do you make of all these goings-on back at the ranch?’

  Agatha murmured something about the police investigation, about how she was sure they’d uncover the truth in due course.

  ‘How very trusting of you, Mrs. Christie.’ The smile was edging towards its characteristic sneer. She chose to ignore it.

  ‘Blanche is right, of course,’ he went on. ‘She always is. She knows I’m no good at boredom. Pathologically allergic to it, in fact. L’ennui, you see.’ His tone was conversational as he walked by her side. ‘Not just boredom. It’s the feeling of the age, in my view. Lethargy, despair …le cafard, we called it, in France.’

  He walked slowly, dragging his feet. The wind buffeted them, flicking the distant sea.

  ‘And did boredom drag you down to Cornwall, then?’ she asked him.

  He flashed her a glance. ‘Boredom,’ he agreed. ‘And relatives.’

  They reached a fork in the path. He pulled out his pocket watch with a theatrical gesture. ‘We still have time,’ he said. ‘Oodles of time.’

  ‘For what?’

  ‘For visiting the old ruined manor. The hide-out of the war-time artists. That was my plan for today. I’ve always meant to see it.’ He flashed her a look. ‘You could come too, if you like.’

  ‘Come where?’

  ‘Ince Hall, it’s called. It’s an old manor house, over in the woods there. Built by Catholics, apparently, about three centuries ago. It’s a ruin now. It’s where all the artists gathered at the start of the war.’

  ‘The camoufleurs?’ she asked.

  He nodded. ‘The camoufleurs.’ He reached for her hand. ‘Come with me, Mrs. Christie. It’s either that or a cold ham lunch back at the hotel with all the other suspects.’

  She smiled in acquiescence, fell into step at his side.

  They set off along the path that led away from the coast, across a rough field. The sun began to break through the clouds, and after a while Agatha began to feel rather heated.

  ‘Telegram, was it?’ His voice interrupted her thoughts.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘At the post office. Telling your poor husband that we’re all under house arrest now.’

  She stopped and faced him. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Actually. It seemed only sensible.’

  ‘Of course.’ A nod of his head in concession. He set off along the path again. ‘It must be nice to be needed,’ he said, after a moment. ‘To have someone who cares.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘It is.’

  ‘Soldier, was he?’

  ‘Airman,’ she said.

  The words stopped him. He turned to her, his eyes alight with interest. ‘Air man? Which squadron?’

  ‘Number Three Squadron,’ she said. ‘Royal Flying Corps.’ She wondered which version of Mr. Farrar she preferred, this taut, burning interest, or the phony-seeming lassitude of earlier on.

  He began to walk again, now striding, energetic, his hands in his pockets. There were trees either side of them, and the path had narrowed. ‘I know the turning is here somewhere, I stumbled upon it the other night – hah –’ he exclaimed, as they rounded a corner, all gnarled oaks and brambles. ‘Here, look.’ He pointed.

  In front of them was an arch in golden stone, half-smothered with ivy. A paved path led away from it. Nestling beyond she could see a mansion of some kind, a sprawling, gold-stone building with tall gracious windows and wide lawns.

  ‘Ince Hall. Come on.’ Boyish now, he loped ahead of her. As she followed, she realized that the house was a ruin, the windows cracked, the grand front door hanging at an angle, the curved lawns overgrown with weeds.

  Kurt had run up to the front door and now stood with his hand placed flat against the peeling green paint. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘Who’d have thought?’

  Breathless, she caught up with him.

  ‘During the war,’ he said. ‘They were stationed here.’

  ‘Who?’

  He had pushed the door open, and now ventured into the hall. She followed.

  It was a tall, dingy space. The parquet of the floor was twisted with damp, strewn with leaves. The walls showed dusty squares where paintings had hung. High above, a beam of sunlight cut through the stale air.

  ‘“I shall suffer nought so dreadful as an ignoble death”.’ Kurt spoke softly. He seemed transformed, as if a calmer, quieter version of himself had emerged from behind the mask. He paced the walls, trailing his finger along the faded paper. ‘“As Hades and the dead are witnesses…”’ He traced a dusty square. ‘It was here,’ he said, ‘the painting. Antigone, the tragic Greek heroine. You know the story, Mrs. Christie? Sophocles wrote it as a play. Antigone risks her own life to give her brother a decent burial …’ His voice tailed off. He stared at the wall, as if a painting still hung there, his eyes fixed on the ghostly outline. ‘“... with thrice poured drink offering she crowned the dead …”’ He turned to Agatha. ‘Her brother, a soldier, left dead after the war. Creon, the King, her Uncle, forbids her to bury him – in Creon’s view, he deserves an ignoble death. But she goes back, you see … risks everything …’ His voice cracked. Once more his gaze turned towards the blank, damp wall. ‘They’ll have taken it up to the big house, I imagine. Keep it safe …’ He touched the wall, his finger drawing outlines on the peeling paper. ‘“Thy spirit hath fled, not by thy folly, but by mine own …”’ He broke off, and turned to her, as if surprised to see her there. ‘The worry is,’ he said, as if talking to himself, ‘the worry is, this darned biography written by that fool of a chemist. And now he’s dead. The loose ends, don’t you know, what’s concealed, what’s revealed. That’s the thing about camouflage – it’s either mimicry or disguise. You make something invisible, or you make it look like something it isn’t.’ A thin smile hovered round his lips. He began to pace the hall. ‘Ghosts,’ he said. ‘The conversations. About art, and war, and courage. About the distinction between foolhardiness and bravery. The rules of art, the rule of law, the breaking of the rules …’ He came to a halt in front of her. ‘“Dreadful is the mysterious power of fate; there is no deliverance from it by wealth or by war, by fenced city or dark, sea-beaten ships …”’ He lurched towards her,
and she was afraid he was going to take hold of her, but instead he loped past her, down a dark passageway, further into the house.

  She followed him. They came out into a wide, open room. More peeling yellow walls, the cracked wooden floor, the dry leaves wafting gently as the door swung shut behind them.

  ‘The studio,’ he said. ‘They were all here. If you could have seen it. A fire burning in the grate there, there were candles in holders on the walls –’ He pointed at the circles of soot.

  ‘Who were they?’

  Again, the dazed look as he met her eyes. ‘Artists. The French were ahead of us, thebonhommes, they were already established at the workshop in Amiens. But some of ours gathered here. Wilkinson, Tunnard, Chesney, even, before he went to France. Mind you, he fell out with them all, said a camoufleur had to be half soldier, half artist. He reckoned they weren’t brave enough. If he only knew …’ He was standing close to her in the damp chill of the room. She could hear his breathing. He spoke again. ‘The war changed everything, Mrs. Christie. And it changed what we thought of as art. Broke all the rules. Now the artist asks more of you, the viewer. We ask you to look again, to look anew …’

  He gazed at the wall, as if seeing the canvases still hanging there. Through the splintered glass of the windows came the sound of birdsong. At the corner of the floor was a rustle, of mice, perhaps.

  ‘The war broke all the rules,’ he said. ‘For better and for worse.’

  ‘We,’ Agatha said. ‘You said, when you were talking about artists, “we”.’

  ‘Did I?’ He gave an empty smile.

  She gazed up at him. ‘What brought you here?’ she said. ‘When this house was inhabited, when it was full of talk, and warmth and light?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Someone you knew?’

  He flashed her a look.