Agatha Christie Investigates Omnibus

by Alison Joseph

  His voice was loud. He allowed his gaze to alight on the assembled company, then continued, in a slightly softer tone. ‘Our investigations into the shipping of Bolshevik contraband will continue at the highest level. However, as a police officer, I owe it to my men to make sure that I consider the facts as they are in this case. So, ladies and gentlemen, let us return to the facts surrounding the death of Mr. Collyer. And the facts are these. Firstly, only one shot was fired. From only one pistol. Secondly, only one person was actually present at the moment of the death of Mr. Collyer. And thirdly, that person, who was present, had every reason to wish to silence Mr. Collyer. For it is the case, ladies and gentlemen, that Mr. Collyer’s pioneering researches into Dr. Adler had brought him directly into danger from two different sources, in a way that he couldn’t possibly have predicted.’

  Agatha glanced at Nora. Nora was staring at the policeman with a look of incomprehension, a small frown on her pretty face, as she tried to match the leaden writings of her dull chemist husband with this picture of daring scholarship.

  The policeman continued, ‘I have always said, that I stick with the facts. And in these modern times, we are aided in our quest by scientific methods. We now have the results back from the fingerprint matching of the murder weapon. And the facts, ladies and gentlemen, are these. That of the two sets of fingerprints found on the weapon, one belong to those of its owner, and the other – to Mr. Farrar.’ He waited for the effect of this statement to sink in.

  ‘And so,’ the Inspector continued, ‘we come to our conclusion. The facts are as I have outlined. Which means, that we only have one possible outcome. Which is to charge you, Mr. Farrar, with the murder of Mr. Frederick Collyer.’

  Everyone turned to look at Kurt Farrar, then back at the Inspector, who stood tall in the middle of the room, his sergeant by his side.

  But now Kurt jumped to his feet. ‘You can’t!’ Kurt shouted. ‘I didn’t … I had no reason …’ His fists were clenched, his breathing loud. Blanche reached out but he sidestepped her grasp, still shouting incoherently. Blanche then turned to Agatha, with a look of burning pleading in her eyes.

  Agatha took a deep breath, smoothed her hair, and got to her feet. ‘Detective Inspector,’ she said, and her voice seemed to settle the room. Kurt looked across at her, limped back to his chair, folded himself back on to it. Blanche put her hand on his arm once more.

  Agatha faced the police team. ‘There’s one part of the story that is missing,’ she said.

  The Inspector looked at her. ‘Mrs. Christie,’ he began. ‘I cannot imagine there is.’

  ‘Detective Inspector,’ she repeated, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘Perhaps I might just explain.’

  He tapped his fingers on his waistcoat pocket. He glanced around the room.

  ‘It won’t take long,’ she said.

  He gave a reluctant nod of acquiescence.

  She smoothed her skirt, settled her breathing. ‘So,’ she said. ‘As you say, it’s about ten to six in the morning, and Frederick Collyer has been called to the tennis court, by Mr. Farrar here. He’s expecting a game of tennis, as he wants to improve, and Mr. Farrar has offered to help. As you also say, Mr. Travers had already offered, but Mr. Farrar stepped in, rather oddly, as you’ve pointed out. But Mr. Collyer, with all due respect, had already made rather clear his view that Mr. Farrar was a better player than Mr. Travers.’

  She glanced at Sebastian, who gave his shiny, tennis-coach smile.

  She went on, ‘Now, what we know is, the revolver had been removed from Mr. Finch’s office, early that morning, and was in fact right next to the tennis court, just lying there, loaded, by the nets. Someone had planned this quite carefully, knowing that there would be a moment when there would be just the two of them on the tennis courts.’

  ‘Well, of course, we know all this,’ the Inspector said. ‘Mr. Farrar did just that.’ There was a tone of impatience in his voice. ‘He’d got rid of the tennis coach, he’d arranged a match very early in the morning, and so, there he was, alone with Mr. Collyer.’

  ‘That’s possible, yes,’ Agatha said. ‘But, given how early it was, an awful lot of the guests were already up and dressed. Mr. Tyndall, for example, as you’ve pointed out.’

  ‘We’ve dealt with Mr. Tyndall,’ the Inspector said, testily.

  ‘Yes,’ Agatha agreed. She turned to face Mr. Tyndall. ‘Bosun Walker says he’d seen you down on the coast, at first light that morning. He thought you were waiting for a ship to come in, but none did, and after a while you’d headed back to the hotel, he thought.’

  Robin Tyndall faced her, silently. The Inspector was tapping his foot. ‘We’ve established all this, Mrs. Christie. If you’ve nothing more to add –’

  Agatha again addressed Mr. Tyndall. ‘In fact, whatever the ship was that you were waiting for, seems to have come in last night. And three crated paintings were docked, and carried by you and Mr. Fitzwilliam up to the old house.’

  ‘Tyndall!’ The word was a loud shout, from Mr. Farrar. ‘You got them? Last night? Why in heaven’s name didn’t you tell me?’

  Mr. Tyndall turned, slowly, to face Mr. Farrar. ‘Quentin wanted to tell you himself. I assume he hasn’t yet done so.’

  Mr. Farrar’s expression settled, as he absorbed this information. He looked at Quentin Fitzwilliam, who was gazing straight at him but said nothing.

  The Inspector broke the silence. ‘Paintings?’ he asked. He stared at Robin Tyndall, then at Quentin Fitzwilliam. Then he appeared to gather himself. ‘But none of this,’ he said, ‘has the slightest bit to do with the death of Mr. Collyer. In the end, there was only one man on the tennis courts at the point of the poor man’s murder, and I still maintain, that Mr. Farrar, in the end, was that man.’

  ‘No,’ Agatha said. ‘Mr. Farrar couldn’t be that man. Because Mr. Farrar was not present at the moment of the death of Mr Collyer. Were you?’

  ‘Mr. Farrar has insisted he was indeed present when the terrible events unfolded,’ the policeman spluttered.

  Kurt was staring at Agatha, wide-eyed.

  ‘I put it to you, Mr. Farrar,’ she said, ‘that you had only just arrived at the hotel. After the shot had been fired. Had any of the staff ventured to your room so early, I imagine they’d find your bed hadn’t been slept in. The truth is, you had stayed at Langlands that night.’

  There was a collective gasp followed by silence.

  Agatha continued, ‘At the moment you arrived back for your meeting with Frederick, which was nothing to do with improving his tennis, and everything to do with the biography of Dr. Adler and his connection with your artist friends, you heard a shot. Just as you arrived. The sound triggered a kind of trauma in you.’

  Kurt’s gaze was unflinching, but his whole body seemed to tremble.

  ‘That’s why you were found, at the scene of the crime, apparently uttering words of guilt.’

  Blanche Winters was staring at Kurt. Now her voice cut through the silence. ‘Kurt – you slept at the house?’

  He was staring straight ahead. He said nothing.

  ‘Kurt – you’d promised.’ Blanche’s tone was distressed.

  Kurt began to speak. His voice was an odd, blank monotone. ‘I had to see him,’ Kurt said. ‘He was the only one who knew the truth. I’d forgotten the tennis game with Frederick, then remembered it just in time. Mrs. Christie is right.’

  Quentin Fitzwilliam had taken a step towards him. ‘Kurt,’ he said. ‘Where were you? Why didn’t you come in?’

  Kurt met his gaze. ‘The rose garden,’ he said. ‘The bench there. Watching the moon …’

  ‘I was awake,’ Quentin said. ‘I had a feeling …’

  ‘I tried to pluck up courage …’

  ‘You should have come in.’

  ‘I tried the front door. Once. About three in the morning … It was bolted …’

  ‘I heard it,’ Quentin said. ‘I heard the latch lift … I almost came downstairs to see. Thought perhaps I’d dre
amt it …’

  The two men’s eyes were locked. After a moment, Kurt turned back to Agatha. ‘And then it was the dawn. And I was sitting, chilled to the bone, on that stone bench. And then I remembered the tennis game … I got up and ran down to the hotel, got to my room, grabbed my tennis shoes and headed for the courts, just as – just as …’

  ‘You heard the shot,’ Blanche said.

  ‘I ran towards the noise. I found him. He was bleeding … terrible noise of his breathing. I don’t remember what I did … must have picked up the gun … the noise, the rattle of a dying man … Dying …’ Kurt’s words faded to an incoherent murmur then stopped. He stared emptily at the floor.

  The air settled around them in the stillness. Inspector Olds looked at Sergeant Brierley, then at the floor.

  ‘You’ve all been searching in the wrong place,’ Agatha said. ‘It turns out, this is a very simple story after all.’ She crossed the room and took Nora by the hands. Nora looked up at her, with a smile of warmth and friendship.

  ‘What people wish is for your happiness, Mrs. Collyer,’ she said. ‘And, without wishing to be indiscreet, your marriage was not always a source of happiness to you. You’d stayed here on three occasions, due to your husband’s research at Langlands, and each time, the people who coincided with you witnessed your unhappiness, the crushing of your spirit, the efforts you made to please a man who was determined not to be pleased. More than that, they saw your maternal soul, your wistful sense of loss about your chance to be a mother. To see that die away, to see you lose that opportunity, for people who cared about you, it was too painful to witness. And after a while, a very clear plan was formulated. Simply, to liberate you from this misery.’

  Nora was staring at her, uncomprehending.

  ‘There was the fuss about the steak, that evening.’ Agatha still faced her. ‘Your husband’s rough treatment of young Hughes. And then there was the pudding. All that trouble that someone had gone to, to make you happy. The strawberry meringue was the last straw, wasn’t it? That’s when the idea fixed itself in the mind of your husband’s killer. Frederick had already made a plan to have a tennis lesson, very early the next morning. And then, Mr. Farrar’s absence as the day dawned served the killer’s purposes all too well. After that, it was just a matter of making sure we all got distracted by these tales from Langlands, of secret affairs, missing papers and Bolshevik contraband.’

  Sergeant Brierley glanced at his boss, then put down his notebook with a defeated look.

  Agatha let go of Nora’s hands, and stood in the middle of the room. She looked around her, at all the expectant faces. ‘This is indeed a story of camouflage,’ Agatha said. ‘It’s a tale of the masking of the truth. One shot was fired at close range. That’s all it took. And then, it occurred to our killer that all he needed to do was leave the murder weapon exactly where it was, with his fingerprints on it – given that it was his own pistol.’

  The space shifted in the room. Around the table there were intakes of breath.

  She turned to Mr. Finch. ‘I couldn’t understand why everyone was fighting over this biography. When I read those drafts, at last, and realized how dull it was, I began to see that it was a pretence. This morning you mentioned how you’d had to tell the police that Mr. Tyndall was asking about the papers. I wondered, why would Mr. Tyndall have come to you about the papers. Then I realized, that it must have been you who approached him – you must have laid the ground some days before, by deliberately telling Mr. Tyndall that Mr. Collyer was due to reveal certain truths. Firstly, about the true nature of his relationship with Frau Adler. And secondly, about the shipping of certain British paintings out to the Bolsheviks in Moscow, and subsequent attempts to get them back. At that point, Mr. Tyndall panicked, and told you, Frau Adler. And then you, Frau Adler, insisted on getting the papers back from Frederick. You came to the hotel specifically to do so. At the same time, Mr. Farrar, too, remembered his tennis lesson, and realized that his absence would be noticed. That is why everyone had gathered on the tennis courts so early on Monday morning.’ She paused, walked over to the fireplace. ‘As I say, this is a story of simplicity. Our murderer fired the shot, from behind, put the gun down and left the scene. Within seconds there were two people at the tennis courts – Mr. Collyer, who was breathing his last; and Mr. Farrar, who had run towards the sound of gunfire. And then, a few moments later, the staff arrived, the police were called, and we know the rest.’

  She surveyed the room. ‘As Mr. Farrar said to me before, there are two paths to hiding what one wants hidden – you either cover it, or you make it fit in with its surroundings. Concealment or mimicry. All Mr. Finch needed was an alibi, which young Oliver dutifully provided, as indeed, Mr. Finch was with him almost all the time. Almost. But when poor Oliver confessed that he’d been first at the scene, I realized there must have been a moment before that when, indeed, Mr. Finch could have been anywhere. And I believe that Mr. Finch realized that too, which is why he spirited Oliver away to Langlands for a few days, to get him out of the way and avoid any questions.’

  Mr. Finch was staring fixedly at Agatha, stiff-backed and expressionless. Agatha glanced at him, then turned to Kurt. ‘So, Mr. Farrar, you were on the tennis courts, holding the murder weapon. It was at that point that you realized how things looked. You began to say that you’d just appeared at the scene of the crime. But your main alibi was not one you wished to reveal, believing, as you did, that it would raise more questions than it answered.’

  Sebastian was standing behind Blanche, his hands on her shoulders. Quentin was by the window, framed by sunlight. Lillian Adler was sitting upright and immobile, glancing from time to time at Mr. Tyndall.

  Agatha turned back to Mr. Finch. ‘In the end, this is a very simple story. And the true heartbreak of it, is that the very happiness you were trying to bring about is not a happiness that you will be able to share.’

  Mr. Finch was standing, his hands gripped into fists at his sides, his eyes locked with Agatha’s as he listened to her speech. When she had finished, he turned to look at Mrs. Collyer. His gaze settled on her for some moments, and his posture softened, his fingers uncurled, his shoulders relaxed. Then he turned back to Agatha, and gave a simple nod of his head.

  Detective Inspector Olds took a step towards him, but Mr. Finch held up his hand, and began to speak.

  ‘I acted only out of love,’ Finch said. His gaze went once more to Nora. He spoke again, his eyes fixed on hers. ‘And even now, I have no regrets. Even though I can never give you the happiness you deserve, Mrs. Collyer, at least now you will be free to find that happiness with someone. With a kind man, one who will give you the children you so crave. Nora, if I may …’ His voice cracked as he uttered her name. He went on, ‘I encountered you two years ago, when you first came here with your husband for his research. And then, again, last year, when once again you spent a few precious weeks in this establishment. I came to see things as they were, that a woman who should love music, art, literature, was being deprived of such things – that a woman who, it seemed to me, would be a wonderful mother, was being kept from such joy. As time wore on, I saw you begin to shrink, to shrivel, to atrophy. And it made my heart break. But now, you have a chance to live the life you should live. Now I shall think of you as the woman you really are, with a song on your lips, with the laughter of the young around you, a baby in your arms. Nora –’ Again, the tightening of his voice at her name. ‘Nora – I have no regrets.’

  There was a long silence. Nora was looking up at him, her eyes filled with tears, her hair shining in the sunlight.

  Detective Inspector Olds cleared his throat. ‘Mr. Finch – are you saying – are you saying that you are single-handedly responsible for the death of Frederick Collyer?’

  Mr. Finch stood proud, tall and soldierly. He faced the Inspector. ‘All this time I watched that man destroy the happiness of his wife. And as time passed, I realized that I loved her. That she was a woman worthy of love. That she
deserved better than that selfish bully that she’d had the ill fortune to marry. More than that,’ he went on, ‘I saw how virtuous she was, how hard she worked to make her husband content, how little he valued her efforts. Half the time he was too stupid even to notice them.’ He turned to Agatha. ‘As you so rightly say, Madam, it is a simple story. My mistake was in choosing to complicate it, by weaving a web of tales about Dr. Adler’s papers and Bolshevik paintings. But I have no regrets. All I wanted, was that the woman I love should be free to find happiness. I hope that by my actions she now will be.’ He turned to the policeman. ‘You may arrest me now. As far as I’m concerned, justice has been done.’

  He tipped his hand to his head in a military salute.

  With an awkward step, the Inspector approached him. He rattled a pair of handcuffs from their leather pouch, reluctantly locked Mr. Finch’s wrists, turned towards the door. The two of them walked from the room at a stately pace, followed by Sergeant Brierley, his head bowed.

  There was silence in the lounge. Even the sea seemed to have retreated, to whisper to itself far away.

  Kurt Farrar was sitting quite still, staring at the carpet at his feet. Quentin Fitzwilliam was by the door, gazing unmoving in his direction. Nora was weeping, silently, and now Lillian crossed the room to her and sat next to her, and put an arm around her shoulders. Mr. Tyndall sat on the other side of her, murmuring words of comfort.

  It was Blanche who broke the silence. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Now we don’t have Finch to organize tea for us, we’ll just have to do it ourselves.’

  She went to the baize door, and as she did so, Kurt lifted his head and looked across at Quentin Fitzwilliam. Quentin walked slowly towards him. Kurt got to his feet, and the two men embraced.