Agatha Christie Investigates Omnibus

by Alison Joseph

  ‘And the ship?’

  He turned back and surveyed the wreck. The charcoal lines seemed to shine, washed by sea water and sunlight.

  ‘She belongs back there,’ he said, pointing out to sea. ‘She made her home in the depths,’ he said. ‘She should go back there.’

  ‘Will the museum let you?’ she asked.

  He smiled. ‘Probably not,’ he said. ‘Too many stories to tell.’ He turned to her. ‘Not that they’ll ever get to the true story. That’s lost in the depths too.’ He held out his hand. ‘It’s been a pleasure meeting you, Mrs. Christie.’

  She shook the offered hand, agreed that it had, indeed, been a pleasure.

  ‘If you ever want to write a story set at sea, you know who to ask.’ He touched his hat, gave a wave, headed away from her along the beach towards the sea wall. The villagers had gathered once more, and Agatha could hear fragments of song, snatches of music lost in the wind.

  *

  It was the ending of the day. Agatha left the beach and walked away, back up to the track.

  Kurt was standing on the path, in the late afternoon sunlight.

  ‘You had the same thought as me,’ he said. ‘To say farewell to the Lady Leona.’

  He fell into step beside her, as they headed back to the hotel.

  ‘That man they call the Bosun says the story isn’t over,’ Agatha said. ‘They’ve found a casket after all. Late last night. Just sitting in the stairs by the hold.’

  ‘Well, well,’ he said. ‘The casket promised to the ghostly maid?’

  ‘Apparently so.’

  ‘Complete with perfect leather shoes?’

  ‘Well, that’s the odd thing. There was a shoe, yes. One, single woman’s shoe.’

  ‘Heavens. In wonderful condition?’

  ‘It’s not bad,’ she said. ‘But the Boson says leather can do quite well in sea water.’

  ‘Just the one,’ Kurt said.

  She nodded.

  ‘Ah well.’ Kurt paused, looked out to sea. ‘Perhaps that’s the problem with real life,’ he said. ‘That the story never quite comes out right. Never a perfect resolution. Unlike your story,’ he added, turning to Agatha with a smile.

  She turned to him. ‘When you waited all night, at Langlands, in the old rose garden with a stone bench – did it have a sundial?’

  He turned to her with a look of surprise. ‘An old stone sundial. How did you know? It’s a private garden – I had to shin up a fence just to get into it.’

  She smiled. ‘Sometimes a fictional story can come true.’

  He laughed. His gaze turned back towards the sea. The shipwreck was a curve of black lines against the lowering sun. ‘I might paint it,’ he said. ‘Those dark arcs against that pink light, the sea reflected …’

  She glanced at him, looked back towards the ship.

  He spoke again. ‘Quentin says painting is like breathing. For me. That’s what he says. He says painting, it’s my vocation. For all these years it’s as if I haven’t been breathing.’ He looked at her. ‘Perhaps it’s the same for you, telling a story. Resolving things. No doubt your romance will have a happy ending too.’

  She thought about the pages heaped upon the table by the window. ‘I think,’ she said, ‘I think you were right all along. I shan’t write about love.’

  ‘About death, then?’ He raised an eyebrow.

  She looked up at him. ‘No, Mr. Farrar. I shall write what I always write. About the unmasking of a murderer, and the safeguarding of the innocent.’

  ‘And will the butler have done it, Mrs. Christie?’

  She smiled. ‘What do you think, Mr. Farrar?’

  He laughed. Beyond them lay the shimmering horizon, the white-flecked waves. A last look at the glitter of the sands, the pastel-painted walls of the nestling village. Then, they turned and walked back along the coastal track, towards the hotel.

  Acknowledgements

  Quotes from Antigone, from ‘The Tragedies of Sophocles’, translated by R. C Jebb, Cambridge University Press, 1904.

  My characters are all fictional, but for more about thecamoufleurs, see ‘The Neglected Majority: “Les Camoufleurs,” Art History, and World War I ’ by Elizabeth Louise Kahn, 1984

  Folk song lyrics adapted from traditional English folk song, ‘Just as the Tide was Flowing.’

  I wish to thank the staff of the British Library.

  Death in Disguise

  Alison Joseph

  © Alison Joseph 2016

  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 2016 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  This edition published 2018 by Sharpe Books.

  This book is not authorised by Agatha Christie Limited.

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘Oh, go on, it’ll be fun.’

  ‘You need cheering up.’

  ‘Agatha, do say yes, there’s a darling.’

  ‘It’s a theatre show, you can stay in Chelsea, even with dinner you’ll be home by eleven…’

  The voices rang in her ears. Other people’s voices. People wishing only the best for her. Her sister Madge. Carlo, her dear friend and secretary.

  ‘You’ve been so miserable all these months. Ever since… ever since The Event.’

  The Event, they called it. The Event that had no name.

  Ever since my husband…

  My husband.

  Agatha Christie sat in the corner of Fortnum and Mason’s restaurant with a pot of tea in front of her. Around her floated quiet conversation, the tinkle of the piano settling gently over the white linen and flowered porcelain, the single pink roses on each table.

  Outside, the bustle of Piccadilly, grey and streaked with recent rain.

  Divorce. That’s the word. The word they all avoid.

  The courts had declared it. Decree absolute, they said. Final. Terminal. The ending of my marriage.

  I am someone who doesn’t have a husband. I have his name, his daughter. But I am not his wife. There is another woman who will take that title.

  ‘…you need to forget about it.’

  ‘…take you out of yourself.’

  ‘Patrick is a good friend. And London is beautiful in the spring…’

  ‘I’ve heard good things about that variety show…’

  ‘…poor dear Patrick. No one to keep an eye on him all this time…’

  She refilled her teacup. She gazed at her untouched chocolate éclair, the rose in its crystal vase.

  My marriage ended long ago, she thought. I know that now. Now, all I have to do is make a decision never to be vulnerable ever again.

  She felt overdressed, in her taupe silk evening dress and diamond brooch, her fur stole draped over her chair. She was due to meet Patrick Standbridge, a family friend. She’d known him for years. A quiet, rather reserved man. A widower, an archaeologist, although his digging days were behind him. Now he wrote learned papers in his room at Kings College, and as he said, the nearest he got to digging would be a conference in a nice quiet hotel in Crete. An offer of a ticket to the Embassy Varieties seemed rather out of character. ‘Vaudeville,’ he’d said to her. ‘Laughter, magic and music. It will cheer us both up.’

  It had been nearly three years since his wife had died. Childless, he had spent those years in unwonted solitude, working on his retirement project, a definitive account of the Hittite civilization in Bronze Age Cilicia. He had become crumpled and disorganized, wearing oddly assorted clothes.

  Recently, however, he had seemed more cheerful. She’d bumped into him near Charing Cross not so long ago, which was when he’d suggested this theatre trip. She wondered now whether his sudden interest in the music halls was connected to his cheerfulness. A new, uncharacteristic direction.

  Perhaps bereavement did that to you, she thought.

  Certainly, loss changes everything.

  She took a mouthful of éclair. Her notebook lay on the table
, and now she turned over the pages. There were the early notes for the next novel. It was about a legacy, she’d told her publishers. The story will hinge on a Last Will and Testament, which will turn out to be a forgery. Like that case in the newspapers, about those two first cousins who’d taken their dispute to the courts, something about the inheritance of a racehorse stable in Newmarket and a very lucrative stallion.

  ‘Need to research probate law,’ she’d written in her notes. She’d added a list of characters, their motivations for the killing, suggestions for where it might be set. ‘A river…’ she’d written, ‘A woman found drowned… A lover scorned… The murderer revealed…’

  The murderer revealed.

  ‘The plot unfolds like clockwork,’ a recent critic had written of her work. ‘Mrs Christie certainly does not cheat her readers, and her readers reward her in turn, but this reader, for one, finds himself wondering why the public is so willing to suspend disbelief when faced with an account of events which, one has to admit, is utterly unlikely.’

  Utterly unlikely.

  The words hung in her mind.

  But this is fiction, she wanted to say. It is an invention. After all, what would it be like to write a story that reflected reality? There would be no neat ending, no resolution. Just continuance.

  Real life. A story where nothing worked out the way you expected, where happy endings were cut short, snatched away from you…

  She picked up her pen, turned to an empty page. And what if I were to write a story about something random, catastrophic, unresolved? A story about someone who is just going about their business and then something happens, something they never expected, to change their life irrevocably.

  She put down her pen.

  Around her, the hum of conversation.

  ‘…my sister was completely infuriated by it, but then she’s always been one to take offence…’

  ‘…and then it turned out that he’d known all along and hadn’t bothered to tell me, can you imagine?’

  The Fortnum’s clock chimed the half hour.

  ‘…well, all’s well that ends well, I suppose.’

  It was time to go. Agatha retrieved her purse from her handbag.

  All’s well that ends well.

  That’s what people want. They want an ending. They want things to turn out a particular way. What would be the point of writing anything else? That’s the stuff of real life, not stories.

  Agatha finished her tea, paid and left.

  *

  ‘Agatha! There you are!’ Patrick Standbridge got to his feet to greet her, as she walked into the foyer of the Embassy Theatre, which was attached to the Embassy Hotel, just off the Strand. He was long-legged, slightly stooped with thick grey hair. She was pleasantly surprised to see him in a well-cut suit and black tie.

  The foyer was all crimson and gold, with a large chandelier. Around them drifted the loud laughter of the crowd, with their crisp black jackets and soft silk gowns. Next to Patrick stood a tall woman all in black, her hair pinned into an auburn swirl, her feet in silver shoes with bows. The woman was standing, waiting, and Agatha realized that she was with Patrick.

  ‘Isabella,’ Patrick said. ‘This is Mrs Agatha Christie. Mrs Christie, Miss Isabella Maynard,’ he said, with a vague wave of introduction. ‘Miss Maynard is from New York. She’s a dancer,’ he said. ‘Our mothers were old friends.’

  ‘You’re the writer.’ Miss Maynard gazed at Agatha with wide green eyes.

  Agatha felt the crowd tighten around her. She’d hoped to spend the evening in anonymity, not having to be Mrs Christie, famous writer of murder mysteries. She managed a smile. ‘Yes,’ she said, as they shook hands.

  ‘I’d love to talk to you about your work,’ Isabella went on, in her warm American tones, as Patrick ushered them towards the bar. ‘There must be similarities with mine. Although, perhaps differences too.’

  The theatre bar was pale pink and silver, with an ornamental clock and shell-shaped wall lamps. Patrick disappeared to find some drinks.

  Isabella was speaking again. ‘I guess your work is all about following the rules. Whereas mine is to break them.’ She led the way through the crowd to a table, arranged three chairs around it, insisted Agatha take a seat.

  ‘Doesn’t dance have rules?’ Agatha asked as she sat down.

  Patrick had reappeared with three cocktail glasses. ‘Miss Maynard dances in what one might describe as a freeform style, don’t you?’

  Isabella leaned back in her chair, one arm stretched out, her voice full of feeling. ‘My dance is all about my body. And my body has no rules. The only rule is that there are no rules. I must be free to express the truth of my emotions.’

  ‘I see,’ Agatha said.

  ‘Martini,’ Patrick said, waving his arm across the glasses.

  ‘Really, I won’t—’ Agatha began.

  ‘I’ll have two in that case,’ Isabella laughed. ‘And here are the darling cast…’

  They were approached by two young women, wafting through the crowd in their direction, giggling.

  ‘Cosmina, darling—’

  Agatha watched as she shook her hand, a tall, narrow-faced girl with straight fair hair.

  ‘…and dear Sian…’ The second young woman was also slim, with a lively smile and black hair cut short.

  Cosmina bent to Patrick, kissed his cheek. Her friend laughed again.

  ‘Have a drink,’ Isabella said. ‘There’s a spare cocktail here, look.’

  Sian shook her head. Isabella handed the glass to Cosmina.

  Sian nudged her, gently. ‘You be careful, kid. You know how it affects you.’

  Cosmina laughed, took a sip. ‘You’ll love the show,’ she said. She had a hint of an accent, Agatha noticed. ‘Though Georgie’s changed the order yet again. Mmm, this is nice.’

  Sian giggled. ‘We do as we’re told, don’t we dear?’

  Cosmina took another mouthful, then placed the glass on the table. ‘And at least your ballet finds favour. Tradition,’ she added.

  ‘Tradition is all very well,’ Sian flicked a hand through her hair, ‘but Georgie knows that it’s your Latin stuff that gets the punters in.’ She laughed again.

  Cosmina gave a little shrug.

  Sian turned to the others. ‘Our manager, he’s quite temperamental. He’s always upsetting everyone. In Wales he made the illusionist the chaser, it was terrible, Luca’s not forgiven him.’

  ‘Ach…’ Cosmina tossed her hair. ‘Wales was a disaster.’

  ‘So you told me.’ Patrick smiled up at Cosmina.

  ‘Cardiff,’ Sian said. ‘We had an awful time. Everyone got a tummy upset, one of the drapes collapsed mid-show, half the costumes were delivered to the wrong theatre… Stefan said the show was jinxed.’

  ‘He’s so superstitious, your young man.’ Cosmina laughed.

  Patrick smiled. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting ready?’

  Cosmina looked up at the clock. ‘Uh huh.’ She patted his shoulder. He reached up and held onto her hand. Their eyes met, locked together for a second, before he released his grip.

  Agatha watched the two women trip lightly across the floor, still laughing.

  ‘Ballet.’ Isabella spoke with feeling. ‘Still the mainstay of dance in this country. That’s why I have to go it alone. Don’t I, Patrick?’

  Patrick’s gaze was elsewhere, fixed on the door that led through to the stage.

  ‘Patrick?’

  ‘Eh?’ He turned back to her.

  ‘My work,’ she said. ‘The opposite of classical dance.’

  ‘Oh. Yes,’ he said.

  ‘Ballet,’ she went on, ‘it pretends to defy gravity. Whereas me, I work with it. Barefoot. Grounded. That’s how I dance. It’s not always understood by my audiences, but I know what I believe.’ Her gaze followed the two dancers. ‘Such good friends,’ she said. ‘It’s been good for Sian, to have a soulmate. She’s been rather lonely. Her sister was in the troupe, Madlen, but she got offered work in Am
erica, and of course no one refuses Manhattan.’ She smiled. ‘I will go back one day, when they’re ready to understand my work.’ She spoke with a quiet assurance, as she turned to Agatha. ‘You must have the same in your work,’ she said. ‘Wherever it takes you, you must follow.’

  Agatha met her eyes. She wondered if she was being mocked, but the gaze that met hers was steady, thoughtful. ‘I mean,’ Isabella went on, ‘however unlikely anything seems in your stories, you yourself must believe it could be true. That must be what your readers respond to.’

  Agatha considered this. ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Although…’

  ‘Although what?’

  ‘I have been thinking about writing something more… More real,’ she finished, aware it sounded odd.

  Isabella smiled. ‘Reality,’ she said. ‘One has to be careful with such things.’ She laughed, as the bell rang for the audience to take their seats.

  Patrick rose to his feet. ‘Ladies—’

  He ushered them through the bar, through the gilt-framed inner doors.

  *

  The theatre felt small and intimate, despite the rows of stalls, the balcony above. Below the red-curtained stage, the orchestra was tuning up.

  As they headed down the aisle, a man turned and noticed them. Agatha saw the flash of recognition in his heavy-lidded eyes, as he approached them, portly and moustached, hand outstretched. She braced herself, all ready to thank him, oh, you preferred that one did you, well, of course, I do like the characters…

  His hand was outstretched. ‘Miss Maynard,’ he gushed, as he brushed past Agatha and went to shake the dancer’s hand. ‘You won’t remember me, but I came to see you at the Victoria Palace Theatre. And at the Piccadilly Varieties in January too, I was in the front row. I love your work, Miss Maynard. I love your piece called “Three Machine Studies”… I think the world of dance has changed, madam, irrevocably. And you are a shining star…’

  Isabella Maynard bowed her head, bestowed a gracious smile on her fan as she towered over him. ‘Thank you so much,’ she said. ‘It is wonderful to be…’ she fixed him with a dark, emotional gaze… ‘Understood,’ she finished.