A Talent For Murder

by Andrew Wilson

  ‘Would you care for some more tea? You look a little pale, which is not surprising in the circumstances.’

  ‘No, I’m sorry, I have a train to catch. I have to meet my husband.’

  ‘Really? I doubt very much that your husband will be coming home. Or if he does I don’t believe he will stay for very long.’

  ‘And what gives you that idea?’

  ‘I suppose one could say I have a source. A good one. You see, one of my patients is the same Nancy Neele that I just mentioned.’

  ‘Indeed?’ I tried to make myself sound confident, but I could hear my voice breaking with fear.

  ‘She first came to me with a problem with her digestion, I think it was. But it soon became obvious that the real issue was her nerves. She couldn’t sleep, felt terribly anxious and so on. And then, when we started talking, she told me everything. I’ve become quite her confidant.’

  Although I felt like fleeing I steeled myself to carry on with the conversation. ‘And what, may I ask, did she tell you?’

  ‘That she has been having an affair with your husband. That they are in love and that they plan to marry. That Archie would like to seek a divorce from you, but that he is worried about how you might react. I think they are concerned that, when faced with the news, you might do something stupid.’

  I had to force the words out of my throat, which was still dry. I knew I dare not take a sip of tea in case Kurs saw my hands shake. ‘And what have you advised her?’

  ‘I have, you will be pleased to hear, maintained a strict policy of impartiality. I serve as a mere sounding board, if you will.’

  ‘Does she know you were looking for me? Did she send you?’

  ‘Oh, my Lord, no. Not at all. She knows nothing about why I am here – or my intentions.’

  This last word sent a chill through me. Surely he could not possibly think I was going to take him seriously?

  ‘This is all quite absurd. All you’ve told me is what I already know for myself. That my husband has, temporarily, had relations with another woman who is not his wife. And that, Dr Kurs, is the end of the matter. It is an entirely private affair and I have every intention of keeping it that way. Also I think you will find that there is something called a doctor’s code of ethics. I am certain that breaking a patient’s confidentiality must be against such a code and if you insist on—’

  ‘Please do go ahead. Only I must warn you that I have in my possession a certain number of letters written by Miss Neele to your husband. I think you might find it highly embarrassing if any of these were extracted by some of the less savoury publications.’

  Was he telling the truth? It was difficult to know. I stared into his dark eyes and felt something I could only describe as evil. I knew it would be unwise to underestimate him or cross him. But I couldn’t let him get away with this.

  ‘Well, I will certainly need some kind of proof of what you say.’

  ‘Very well, expect something to arrive at your house shortly.’

  ‘My house? You know where I live?’

  ‘I know everything about you, Mrs Christie. It’s been an enjoyable process, watching you, following your every move. As I have said I’ve made quite a study of you. Not only your books, but your whole life. If you doubt me simply ask me a question.’

  I could not think of a single thing to say. I felt my throat closing up.

  ‘Very well, let me expand on that point,’ Dr Kurs continued, stroking his carefully trimmed beard. ‘Let’s just take something at random, shall we? I know, for instance, that you have an expert knowledge of poisons because of the work you did as a nurse and in the dispensary in the VAD during the war.’

  ‘Such work was extremely common, Dr Kurs, and I am sure such an insight can be gleaned from sources in the public domain.’

  ‘Indeed, Mrs Christie. But what is perhaps not in the view of the common man is your work with Dr and Mrs Ellis. I believe you learnt a great deal from them, particularly Mrs Ellis, did you not?’

  The revelation left me speechless. ‘And what about another chemist of your acquaintance? The one who used to carry around a sample of curare in his pocket. As you no doubt know, Strychnos toxifera is a rather pretty vine originating in South America. The natives there soon discovered it to be an effective poison and dipped their blowgun darts or arrows in the paste made from the plant. Once shot, a victim died from asphyxiation in a matter of minutes. What would you say, Mrs Christie, if I told you that, like that chemist of your youth, I too carry around curare in my pocket?’

  I was tempted to tell him once more that he was mad, but something told me to keep my suspicions to myself. When I left the café I would go to the nearest police station and inform the authorities that there was a man who claimed to be a doctor in Rickmansworth who had lost his power of reason. The police would haul him off to the asylum and that would be the end of it.

  ‘Let’s just say I have my ways and means. Working as a general practitioner for the last twenty years does have its rewards. Many of my patients, you see, commute into London and some of them hold positions of power and influence. One can, if one puts one’s mind to it, find out almost anything about practically anyone.’

  ‘I see,’ I said weakly.

  ‘For instance, I also know a great deal about your dear unfortunate brother, Louis Montant Miller, whom you call Monty, and his experience after the war, his overindulgence of spirits, whisky particularly, and his abuse of opiates. I think the newspapers would be very interested to hear about the crimes and misdemeanours of a mystery novelist’s family. Their readers, I am sure, would come to the conclusion that you don’t have to look very far for your inspiration. One never knows, the publicity may do you the world of good. That is, if you decide to go down that particular route, which somehow I very much doubt.’

  I could stand it no longer.

  ‘I’m afraid that I really must go. I have a train to catch,’ I said, standing up.

  ‘Very well, Mrs Christie. It seems a shame to cut our meeting short, as there were so many other things I would have liked to have talked to you about. But we will have another conversation soon.’

  ‘We will?’ I said, as I caught another whiff of his metallic breath.

  ‘Oh yes, most definitely. In the meantime, go about your life as if nothing has happened. For instance, you must go with your secretary to Ascot tomorrow night as you normally would.’ How did he know about that? ‘And when you leave here I wouldn’t contact the police if I were you. I have left instructions that, on my arrest or detention, certain documents and information be released to selected editors of various journals.’

  ‘Goodbye then,’ I said, turning from him.

  ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘Those plans I talked about. All that has yet to be set in motion. A great deal of thought, as I am sure you must be becoming aware, has gone into the plotting of this.’

  Even though I loathed the very sight of him, I found it difficult to break away from his gaze.

  ‘And by the way, you didn’t faint. Rather, it was I who pushed you. But it was I who also saved you. One could say that I have the power to kill and the power to cure – an extension of my vocation as a doctor, I suppose. Expect a letter to arrive at your home on Friday. You may think you have a mind for murder, Mrs Christie, but you will soon find that you are not the only one.’

  I made it to the Ladies’ room just in time. I ran into the cubicle and just managed to shut and lock the door behind me before I fell onto my knees and was sick into the lavatory bowl. After pulling the chain, I stayed in the cubicle for longer than I needed as the nightmarish events of the morning continued to swirl around in my head. I knew I should go straight to the police, of course, but what if the horrible things Dr Kurs had said to me were true. The man had the power to ruin not only my life, but also the lives and reputations of my husband and my brother. Any gossip or scandal in the newspapers would almost certainly encourage Archie to break all contact with me. As for poor Monty, my
brother’s dependence on opiates was already dangerous; any more worry could result in even higher doses and almost certainly an early death. Could this man Kurs be nothing more than a lunatic, a fantasist? He was, without a doubt, mentally unhinged, but everything he said had been true, and there was a coldness and a heartlessness to him that frightened me.

  But then an awful thought occurred to me. What if none of it had really happened? Could I have imagined the whole dreadful scene? I recalled the incident with the cheque when my mind had been disturbed. Was I suffering from another, more serious, attack? I had to try to pull myself together.

  I took out my handkerchief and wiped my mouth. I dabbed some cold water on my face and contemplated myself in the looking glass. What a sight. My pale skin had turned an unnatural hue, almost like a ghost’s, my blue eyes were bloodshot and my hair quite unkempt. I pinched my cheeks to give me a little more colour and tidied myself as best I could. When I came out of the café, it took me a while to get my bearings – the encounter with Kurs, real or imagined, had left me as unsteadied and imbalanced as a compass out of kilter. I started to walk down Grosvenor Gardens, past a building that always reminded me of Paris, and then Grosvenor Place in the direction of the Forum. I still felt nauseous and weak, but I willed myself forward.

  As I caught a glimpse of Hyde Park Corner, I stopped for a moment. I unzipped my large handbag, took out a white handkerchief and pressed it to my mouth. The clean smell of the freshly laundered square of starched fabric reminded me of Ashfield and my mother. Instantly, I was a child again, safe in her arms. If only Kurs had pushed me down onto the tracks; at least then I would be with her.

  The memory of my encounter with him – which had felt so horribly real – coursed through me like quick-acting poison. I held out my hand to grasp hold of a non-existent support as my legs threatened to give way. Hot tears flowed down my cheeks and I heard the sound of myself sobbing. I was conscious of people walking past me, but I could not bear to look up to meet their gaze. Was I going insane?

  ‘Excuse me, is there anything I can do to help?’ The man’s voice was distinctly upper class and clipped, but carried with it an undernote of kindness.

  I looked up through my tears and saw a couple staring at me. The man was tall with a good head of blond hair swept back from a high forehead and fine features, and he was wearing a smart black suit and expensive shoes. The girl, who also had blonde hair, was much younger, pretty and as slim as a reed.

  ‘Sorry, I-I just had something in my eye, but I’m sure it’s cleared itself now,’ I said. ‘For a moment I felt completely blinded.’

  ‘Oh, how dreadful, would you like me to check?’ said the girl.

  ‘No, I’m sure I will be all right,’ I said. As I tried to move, my legs weakened and I fell back towards the wall that guarded Buckingham Palace.

  The girl cast a concerned glance at her male companion – was it her brother? – and reached out to steady me. ‘Here, please allow me,’ she said.

  ‘I’m so sorry to be a burden,’ I said as I blinked back the last of the tears. ‘I don’t know what came over me. I’m on my way to the Forum, it’s not far.’

  ‘Please, you must let us accompany you,’ said the man.

  ‘Oh no, I couldn’t possibly trouble you,’ I said.

  ‘It’s no trouble at all,’ said the girl. ‘Sorry, my name is Una Crowe, and this is my friend John Davison.’

  As I introduced myself, Davison’s intelligent grey eyes sparkled with acknowledgement and curiosity.

  ‘Surely not the famous author?’

  ‘An author, yes,’ I said. ‘Famous, no.’

  He told me how much he had enjoyed The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, which had been recommended to him by one of his colleagues at work, a man by the name of Hartford. Normally, I would have been delighted to hear his thoughts on the subject and enjoy the praise, but Kurs’s recent mention of the novel had left a sour taste.

  ‘I can’t believe you haven’t read it, Una,’ he continued. ‘It really is wonderful. It’s got the most extraordinary ending, quite surprising, but I won’t spoil it for you. But I must ask, with the Roger Ackroyd book, I wonder how—’

  ‘And what is that you do, Mr Davison?’ I said, trying to change the subject.

  ‘The Civil Service, Whitehall, terribly boring,’ he said.

  ‘Not that boring,’ said Una, smiling.

  He cast her a slightly cross look.

  ‘How long have you worked for your – your particular department?’ I asked.

  ‘Since Cambridge. It’s been my life ever since.’ It was obvious he did not want to elaborate.

  ‘I’ve always thought that being a writer must be the most thrilling thing in the world,’ said Una, filling the silence. ‘Sitting around all day dreaming up plots. I’d love to try my hand at it. Of course, I realise I need some experience first.’ Una continued to talk about her family, her brothers and sisters, her mother Clema and the loss of her father. Although he had died eighteen months previously she still missed him terribly, she said.

  Una’s voice seemed to melt away, almost as if I were hearing her from underwater. I remembered the time that I had first gone surfboarding with Archie. What fun that had been. How we had adored South Africa. I recalled that day when I had launched myself onto the board a little too enthusiastically. I had felt the energy of the wave die away but then had been completely unprepared for the enormous tidal swell that had swallowed me up and pulled me down beneath the surface. I had taken in a great deal of water, and heard Archie’s voice from beneath the waves. What had he been saying? I could not make out the exact words, but I knew that his voice was full of concern and worry. I had been sure then, on that holiday, that he had loved me. And that had only been four years ago.

  ‘Mrs Christie? Mrs Christie?’

  It was Una. I felt a light touch on my arm, a touch that brought me back from my reverie. I focused on her superficially pretty face, but then noticed the semicircles of shadows that lay beneath her eyes. Grief even left its mark on the young. She was another version of me – of course, she was much more beautiful, far younger, but she carried around with her an open raw wound that would not heal. Did she also sense that I had suffered the recent loss of a parent too? Certainly, I felt some kind of strange, irrational connection with her; perhaps one day we would be friends.

  ‘I’m sorry, you must forgive me,’ I said, smiling at her. ‘I was daydreaming. A terrible habit of mine.’

  ‘Dreaming up one of your ticklish plots, no doubt,’ said Davison, smiling. ‘Bluff and double bluff, red herrings and the like.’

  ‘I’m afraid I was rather,’ I lied, as we continued to walk towards the Forum.

  ‘I know you must be terribly busy, but if at some point you could spare the time to talk to me, I would be grateful,’ said Una. ‘I’ve tried my hand at a few short stories, and a batch of poems, mostly about my—’ A look of utter desperation clouded her eyes and Davison placed a hand on her shoulder.

  ‘Of course, my dear,’ I said. ‘You are welcome to ask me anything you like, but I’m afraid I may not be the best person. I still think of myself as very much an amateur.’

  ‘I doubt that very much,’ she said as we came to a stop outside the Forum. ‘And I really cannot wait to read The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.’

  I gave Miss Crowe the address for Styles, my house in Sunningdale, and thanked her and Davison for their small, but important, act of kindness. We said our goodbyes and as I started to walk up the steps to the club I heard footsteps. I turned to see Davison, who pressed a thick cream-coloured business card into my hands.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed,’ he said before I could respond. ‘If you need to contact me please do not hesitate.’ He paused and looked around him. ‘I know Hartford, the man who mentioned your book to me, would be very interested in meeting you too.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  ‘He believes, and I am sure he is right, that you have a first-rate brain.’
/>   ‘I hardly went to school,’ I said. ‘My education is patchy to say the least.’

  ‘Nevertheless,’ he said, lowering his voice, ‘I think that you may be a valuable asset for the department. Perhaps you could come in and meet him. We could talk some things over in private. There are certain delicate cases that you may be able to help us with.’

  ‘What sort of cases?’

  ‘I can’t really say any more here, but I think you would make an excellent addition to the service,’ he said, glancing over at Una, who was waiting for him on the street. Everything clicked into place. Davison worked for some kind of secret department. ‘If you could write or telephone we could talk about it a little more.’

  I was almost tempted, but of course the timing could not have been worse. ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t be much use, especially at the moment.’

  ‘Writer’s block?’

  ‘Something like that,’ I said. As I looked into his intelligent eyes I thought about telling him something of my ghastly encounter with Kurs. But I still could not be quite certain whether it had not been more than the product of a frenzied, overactive brain. I opened my mouth to say something more, but then Una shouted over to him – if he didn’t hurry up she was going to freeze to death, she said.

  ‘Well, please bear us in mind when you feel you have a little more time. Goodbye.’

  As I entered the lobby I caught a glimpse of Mrs de Silva walking into the library. I was quite fond of my Sunningdale friend with whom I had travelled to London that morning, but I knew I could not face her and so I took the stairs up to my room at the top of the building. I quickly shed my clothes, changed into a kimono that had once belonged to my mother and walked down the corridor to the bathroom. As I waited for a bath to run I brought the sleeve of the silky blue fabric to my face and breathed in the comforting smell of lavender. If only my mother were still here; she would have known what to do.

  Since her death, in April, I had often felt my mother’s spirit close to me. She had regarded herself as something of a clairvoyant. What was it my sister Madge had once said? That, if she didn’t want Mother to know a certain something, she was careful not to stand in the same room as her. I willed my mother to come to me to give me a clue about what I should do, but there was an unassailable barrier between us: death.