Agatha Christie Investigates Omnibus

by Alison Joseph

  ‘I’m afraid it’s a disappointing outcome.’ Bosun Walker was standing at the foot of the steps. He waved towards the ragged frame of the old ship. ‘That metal box was indeed completely empty,’ he said. ‘Whatever secrets our ship here held went down with her. The villagers are still scavenging what they can, but I hold out little hope of anything of meaning. As Reggie Olds was saying earlier today, people will insist on clinging to their false hopes with these things. He said he blames the war. Everyone wants a story of redemption. Those poor men, those lives lost … people want to think it mustn’t be in vain.’ His gaze had travelled to the carcass of the ship, and his eyes seemed to cloud briefly with sadness. ‘Mind you …’ he turned back to her, all bluff good humour once more. ‘Reggie Olds has got his own story to sew up, hasn’t he just, with all these goings-on at the hotel.’ He began to lead the way, towards the shipwreck. She fell into step with him, following him across the shingle. Seagulls dipped and swerved overhead.

  ‘And as for that empty crate,’ he said. ‘We’ll never know about that one, I reckon. A closed book.’ They skirted the side of the ship, the holes open in her bow. ‘Odd thing, last night,’ he said, ‘We had help. Chap from the big house, don’t suppose you know him? Olds says he’s the secretary up there. Dark haired, artistic sort of chap. He was here. Carrying planks, along with that other man, friend of the lady up there at the big house.’

  ‘Robin Tyndall?’ Agatha said.

  A nod from the Bosun. ‘Aye, that’s the one. Couldn’t be more helpful. You’ve seen the weight of those things. Ferrying them to and fro for us, they were. One thin as a rake, the other with a gammy leg, but they worked as hard as any of my men.’ They were on the wet sand now, and he turned and surveyed the ship. The edges of the waves lapped against the wreckage in melancholy companionship.

  ‘It was as if they’d come for some other reason,’ the Bosun was saying. ‘That’s what I said to Reggie Olds. As if it were a cover for some other purpose.’

  Agatha watched a seagull perch on the broken mast.

  ‘Funny thing, see,’ Ted Walker went on. ‘They’ve been here before, the people from the big house. The woman from there. And then, last week, there he was, alone, the man with the stick, standing, waiting for a ship. One of my boys here saw him too. But no ship arrived. Standing there at dawn, and then heading back to the hotel where he chooses to spend his days.’ He gave a shrug. ‘Oh well. Funny old world. Not for me to question what folks get up to.’

  They began to walk away from the ship, away from the encroaching tide.

  ‘So you told Inspector Olds about Mr. Tyndall being here?’

  ‘Oh, aye.’ The Bosun took out his pipe, considered it between his fingers. ‘It made quite an impression on him. He pinned the boy down, too, wanted to know which day it was. Sunday night, it was, small hours of Monday morning. And then Reggie Olds, gives a little jump of joy. “Ha!” he said. Said it was the last bit of the jigsaw. Heaven knows what he meant by that. But I tell you, all the time I’ve known Reggie Olds, I’ve never known him make a mistake. Mind you …’ He took a pinch of tobacco from the pouch at his belt, tapped it into the bowl of his pipe. ‘... this case is far bigger than anything else he’s known. The only time we’ve had anything like this, it was back before the war, the old pharmacist down by Fowey caught poisoning his wife. But Olds brought the villain to justice then, and I don’t see any reason to suppose he won’t bring this chap to justice just the same.’

  They began to walk up the path, past the ruined cottage. He jabbed his pipe towards the thick cracked glass of the windows. ‘Shame we can’t ask her,’ he said, with a smile. ‘Young Tilly, our ghost here, she sees all the comings and goings along this coast. Waiting here, mourning for her sailor-boy. The story goes that he went out with a crew carrying tea across to Italy. He promised her a fine pair of shoes on his return. “A fine pair of leather shoes, fit for a lady,” the story goes. And he never came back. And that’s why, they reckon, whenever she’s been sighted, she’s barefoot. Some have her in her plain wooden clogs, waiting for her fine Venetian shoes.’ He shrugged. ‘That’s the story. For those that believe in ghosts.’

  ‘And do you, Bosun?’

  He stopped, his gaze settled on the ruined cottage.

  ‘What I think is, people need their stories. But no.’ He shook his head. ‘I think the dead are gone from here. No need for them to stay.’ He looked as if he might say more, but instead he gave a smile, doffed his hat. ‘Well, I bid you a good morning. If I were you, I’d get back to the hotel. Reggie Olds seems to think he’ll be making an arrest later on today.’

  With a rough squeeze of her hand, he was gone. She watched him make his way back to the listing hulk, watched him issue orders, watched the villagers scurry at his word.

  Chapter Thirteen

  She turned away, began to ascend the hill, past the village. The sea whispered softly. Sunshine flickered on white-painted walls.

  So, she thought, an arrest is about to be made. The killer of Mr. Collyer is about to be unmasked.

  She wondered how Inspector Olds could be so sure.

  The sun beat down, as she reached the summit. The path forked, with one track continuing along the coast towards the hotel. The other path led away from the coast, and she recognized the copse of trees, behind which hid the ruin of Ince Hall. On an impulse, she turned and followed the path, appreciating the cool shade of the pine branches overhead.

  The door creaked on its half-rusted hinges. She pushed it open, found herself inside. It seemed different, now she was alone, now she wasn’t seeing it through Kurt’s eyes. She noticed new details; a rough-hewn alcove in which was carved a small stone image, Our Lady, Agatha thought, as she gazed at the veiled figure. The woman’s eyes gazed upwards in adoration, her hands clasped in intercession.

  Built by Catholics, Kurt had said, centuries ago. It certainly feels deserted, Agatha thought, as she wandered through the rooms. It seemed chillier, creakier. At her feet, dry leaves flicked and circled in the draught. She crossed the hall, walked down the passageway, came out into the studio where Kurt had taken her before.

  The studio, too, seemed darker now, without his presence. ‘Ghosts,’ he’d said, as if he’d made the room come alive, with his memories of the artists gathered there, their talents being pooled to help the war effort.

  Camouflage, she thought. Mimicry or disguise. She traced her finger along the peeling wallpaper, the sooty outlines where the paintings had hung.

  The war broke all the rules.

  She stood in the middle of the room, listening to the rustle of the mice, and wondered why she’d come.

  In the empty fireplace she could see three stacked frames, wooden-crated paintings, she realized, as she approached them. Clean, dustless – clearly only recently placed here, she thought. Certainly, they weren’t here before.

  She knelt down, peered inside the crating, tried to see the artwork within. Between the slats of packing, she could make out soft grey brush-strokes, an outline of a man in soldier’s uniform.

  She got to her feet, dusted cobwebs from her skirt.

  Bosun Walker’s words came to her, about the secretary from the big house being so helpful with the shipwreck. About Mr. Tyndall being sighted on the beach at night, waiting, ‘as if for a ship to come in.’

  Sunday night, the Bosun had said. And Mr. Collyer was found dead early Monday morning.

  And in the meantime, three paintings have appeared in this house.

  She left the studio, made her way back into the hall. She stood where Kurt had stood, in front of the dusty square, where the Antigone painting had hung.

  ‘As Hades and the dead are witnesses …’ The words seemed to whisper in the air around her.

  In her mind, she saw the absent painting. The three figures, anguished in love, united in death. The brother’s corpse, the sister prepared to sacrifice so much; her lover, pleading with her to come away.

  How heavy war still weighs, she tho
ught. How constant are the battles we still fight.

  The empty square stared back at her.

  Mimicry. And disguise.

  Reluctantly, she turned away, made her way to the front door. The figure of Our Lady sat neatly, benignly, in her alcove. Agatha paused in front of her, and the statue returned her gaze with a look of infinite understanding.

  The Mother of God, Agatha thought.

  Detective Inspector Olds is right, she thought. It is time to make an arrest.

  She left the house, latching the crooked front door behind her as best she could.

  She hurried back up the path, strode along the coastal track and arrived, breathless, at the hotel.

  She was met by young Hughes. ‘Mrs. Christie – they’ve been looking for you,’ he said. ‘I was sent to find you. The police are here.’ A shadow of anxiety crossed his face. ‘I don’t like it, Ma’am, I really don’t.’

  She placed a hand on his shoulder. ‘There’s nothing to worry about,’ she said. ‘I am sure justice is about to be done.’

  ‘You are?’ He looked up at her, with his wide brown eyes.

  She smiled at him. ‘I am,’ she said. ‘In fact, I have one question for you, if you don’t mind.’

  ‘Of course, Ma’am.’

  They were standing at the side of the entrance steps.

  ‘On Monday morning, Master Hughes, you were already up.’

  He nodded, uncertainly.

  ‘You were first on the scene?’

  Another nod. He was chewing his lip.

  ‘And you saw Mr. Collyer, lying there.’

  He gave a shudder.

  ‘And Mr. Farrar standing over him?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘Can you describe what you saw?’

  ‘Oh, Mrs. Christie,’ he burst out. ‘It was horrid. So horrid. Mr. Finch took me away as soon as he could, but I saw him, Mr. Collyer, and there was a noise he was making, such a horrid, horrid noise. And then it stopped. And Mr. Farrar was standing there, staring at the body on the ground. And when I got there he looked at me, Mr. Farrar did, holding the gun, and it was like he didn’t see me. And he kept saying the same thing, over and over.’

  ‘And what was he saying?’

  ‘He was saying, “we must bury him.” He kept saying it, over and over, “we must bury him …” And then it was like he saw I was there, and he looked down, and dropped the gun, and then he just ran, ran away … Then Mr. Finch came and hurried me away, didn’t want me seeing such things he said.’

  ‘Did you see Mr. Tyndall, by any chance?’

  The boy’s face clouded. He gave a nod. ‘I remember thinking, what’s the gentlemen doing up so early. I told Mr. Finch I’d seen him there, and he agreed it was strange. Very strange.’

  ‘What was he doing, Mr. Tyndall?’

  Again, the troubled frown. ‘He was just standing, over by the old oak tree.’

  ‘Do you think he could see Mr. Farrar?’

  ‘He was looking that way, yes.’

  ‘And he was dressed, you say?’

  Another nod. ‘His jacket, and hat, Mrs. Christie. He always wears them.’

  ‘Did you tell the police, Master Hughes?’

  He nodded. ‘Oh, yes, Ma’am. Mr. Finch said we must make sure that we tell the Inspector, so we did.’

  She patted his shoulder. ‘Good,’ she said. ‘And now you must put it all behind you.’

  ‘That’s what Frau Adler said too. Everyone has been so good to me, Mrs. Christie.’

  ‘Hah!’ came a familiar voice. Agatha turned to see Mr. Farrar approaching the steps, as Oliver slipped away towards the kitchen garden.

  ‘And so we go in,’ Mr. Farrar said. He took a last inhale of his cigarette, stubbed it out on the stone balustrade. ‘I had considered fleeing, again,’ he said. ‘But then I thought, for all these years I have been on the run. And now, it is time to stop.’ He threw her a clear, grey look. ‘Last night I didn’t sleep. I sat outside, here –’ he waved his arm towards the hotel gardens – ‘and I reflected upon it. All of it. I asked myself, what is life for? Because I have to admit, Mrs. Christie, that for some time it has seemed without meaning.’

  ‘And what did you conclude?’

  He looked at her. He was crisply dressed and sober. ‘I concluded that the point of life is to punch you about so much that in the end you don’t fear death.’ There was a taut, bleak nervousness about him. ‘In brief, I realized that it was time to stop running away,’ he said, with an empty smile. ‘Look, here they all are.’ He pointed at the hotel’s front door.

  There were cars parked outside the hotel entrance. The old police Austin. The sleek Buick from the big house. Agatha felt Kurt tense at the sight of the cars. ‘Thus I meet my destiny,’ he said, quietly.

  Holding open the door of the Buick stood Robin Tyndall. He too looked anxious, waiting stiffly as Lillian Adler unfurled herself from the car, as Quentin Fitzwilliam followed her into the hotel.

  Kurt had taken Agatha’s arm, more for his support than hers, she realized. His grip as he leaned on her tightened, as they made their way inside.

  Chapter Fourteen

  They gathered in the Palm Court. The staff were assembled too, all in white, standing to attention by the baize door. Robin Tyndall pulled out a chair for Lilian Adler, then settled himself beside her, Quentin on the other side. Blanche and Sophie were already seated, with Sebastian in attendance, as ever, and Kurt relinquished his grip of Agatha’s arm and stumbled towards them, threw himself into a chair at their table.

  Nora sat alone, a novel in her hands, her attention completely absorbed in its pages. The shrill Scottish ladies were nowhere to be seen.

  Agatha took a table at one side. Inspector Olds and Sergeant Brierley were also seated, and now the Inspector got to his feet, cleared his throat, Sergeant Brierley picked up his notebook, and a hush settled on the room. Young Oliver was standing with the staff, and Finch stood protectively at his side.

  Inspector Olds began to describe the day of the killing, how it was at about six in the morning, how a gunshot was heard, how poor Mr. Collyer was found in the throes of death from a single bullet wound fired at close range, how Mr. Farrar was the only one on the courts and found with the body. He talked about how the day before, Mr. Collyer had arranged to have a tennis lesson with Mr. Farrar. He said that Mr. Travers, here, a qualified tennis coach had offered, but that Mr. Collyer, for some reason, had accepted Mr. Farrar’s offer instead. The Inspector went on to explain how Frau Adler, too, had arrived on the scene, having been driven to the hotel early by her secretary, Mr. Fitzwilliam, because of her anxiety about the papers that Mr. Collyer had acquired for his biographical work.

  Inspector Olds’ gaze settled on Mr. Farrar, as he explained that Mr. Farrar had admitted that he’d arranged the tennis game because he knew that Mr. Collyer had acquired papers relating to a group of painters, of which Mr. Farrar was a part. An event had taken place during the war, the details of which Mr. Farrar did not want revealed.

  Inspector Olds took a deep breath. ‘All we need now, is to show that it was you, Mr. Farrar, who wielded that pistol. Who’d lured poor Mr. Collyer to the tennis courts, and who now, in the hope of hiding his secrets once and for all, was prepared to kill. And,’ Inspector Olds went on, ‘I would say, that we have that proof.’

  ‘The pistol –’ Kurt’s voice as he interrupted was almost a shout. ‘You tell me,’ he said. ‘How did I get the pistol from Mr. Finch’s office on to the courts? I have no idea, myself, no memory of it at all …’

  Blanche placed a calming hand on his arm. Kurt quietened, shaking his head.

  ‘There’s more,’ Inspector Olds continued. ‘Mr. Tyndall …’ He turned to him. ‘You, too, were not far from the tennis courts at the moment of these unfortunate events, were you not?’

  Mr. Tyndall stared at the Inspector. He seemed about to speak, but said nothing.

  ‘I put it to you,’ Inspector Olds continued, ‘that you hadn’t been
to bed at all. That you’d been waiting on the shore, for a ship to come in.’

  Robin Tyndall’s voice was tight. ‘That is in fact the case, Inspector. But it has nothing to do with the death of Mr. Collyer.’

  ‘Oh, it doesn’t, does it?’ Reginald Olds began to pace the room, his thumbs tucked into his waistcoat pockets. ‘Even given the fact that Mr. Collyer’s researches had got too close for comfort?’

  Tyndall’s gaze was fixed on the floor in front of him.

  The Inspector addressed the room. ‘I may be a mere police officer, but I have the very great advantage of having lived in these parts all my life. And when it comes to nailing the facts of the case, this gives me what one might call the trump card. My Sergeant here will support me in this.’ He glanced at Brierley, who gave an obedient nod of agreement. ‘This shore line,’ the Inspector went on, ‘is like a second home to me. All its caves, and beaches, all its nooks and crannies, I’ve known them since childhood. And not just the places, but the people too. So, when Bosun Walker sees something he thinks I should know, he tells me.’

  Kurt was sitting, upright, calmer now, Blanche close at his side. Both had their eyes fixed on the policeman.

  ‘And what the Bosun had to tell me is of great relevance to the death of poor Mr. Collyer,’ the Inspector said.

  Nora Collyer, too, was still and attentive, her book closed in her lap. She gave a small wince at her husband’s name.

  ‘Ted Walker had noticed various comings and goings at night, over the last couple of weeks,’ Reginald Olds was saying. ‘People waiting for ships, odd lights being shone out to sea as if to give a signal.’ He paused, surveyed the room, the collection of faces all turned towards him. ‘And it is true to say, that our investigation has unearthed quite a chain of events. What started as the death of one unfortunate individual, has, shall we say, blossomed into quite a story. It’s a story that extends all the way to those Russian Bolshies, but has its heart right here amongst us. Yes, even here, in the quiet beauty of our Cornish coast, it turns out there are people with sympathies for the Soviet revolutionaries. I shall be making a report to my superiors in London on just this subject. As the Home Secretary himself has said, in these times where revolution is in the air, we must stop at nothing to prevent it taking hold.’