A Talent For Murder

by Andrew Wilson

  ‘And what did you do then?’

  ‘I went to examine the car and I found it in its present condition, just as you’ve seen it yourself. The lights were off and the battery had run right down. I’m a car tester, you see, so naturally I had an interest.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Kenward.

  ‘The lamp had evidently been left on until the current became exhausted. I looked around at the surrounding area and gathered that if anyone had accidentally run off the road at the top the car would have pulled up earlier. There was no sign that the brakes had been applied. I looked for skid marks – the ground is still soft, see – but I couldn’t find any.’

  ‘So your assumption is that the car was—’

  ‘Yes, been given a push at the top of the hill and sent down deliberately. I thought it was all a bit strange and knew it was a matter for the police and so I asked Alf, Alfred Luland who has the refreshment kiosk on the other side of the road, to look after the car while I went to the hotel, the Newlands Corner Hotel, on Clandon Road, to telephone the police.’

  Kenward thanked Mr Dore for his help and instructed his men to contact the Christie household to find out if she had made her way home yet. Perhaps, he surmised, she had merely staggered from the car in a daze and wandered down to the road where some Good Samaritan had taken pity on her and driven her back to Sunningdale. Yet he doubted it somehow. No, there was a great deal more to this case than that, a great deal more indeed.

  Chapter Seven

  Charlotte was at a loss to know what to do. She picked up the letter once more and tried to focus on the words. A sleepless night had left her with red, stinging eyes. She had interpreted every creak of the house or distant bark of a dog as a sign of her mistress’s arrival. In the weak grey light of dawn she had taken herself off to the kitchen and made herself a cup of tea. Perhaps she should call the police, she thought. After all, Mrs Christie had said that she had had to leave Styles because she felt somehow unsafe. It was obviously something to do with that wretched husband of hers, but even if he was a heartless devil, surely Archie would never do anything to hurt his wife?

  She walked into the hallway and picked up the letter Agatha had left for her husband. She even thought of steaming it open and had taken it into the kitchen for that very purpose before coming to her senses and returning it back to its original position.

  If only she had taken an earlier train, thought Charlotte. Why hadn’t she picked up the fact that Agatha had been feeling upset during that telephone call? To be honest, she had known all too well, but the truth of the matter was that she had been having too much of a good time in London to return. She was nothing but a selfish, superficial creature, she said to herself. It would serve her right if her mistress had done something stupid. No, she wouldn’t allow herself to think such a thing. What utter nonsense.

  At that moment, Charlotte heard a knock at the door. She rushed towards it – it would be Agatha, she had returned, she had simply mislaid her key – but she was shocked to discover a policeman standing there.

  ‘Is this the home of Mrs Agatha Christie?’ asked the young man.

  ‘Yes, yes, it is,’ said Charlotte.

  ‘Is Mrs Christie at home?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not,’ she said. ‘I’m her secretary, Charlotte Fisher. Why?’ Suddenly she feared the worst.

  ‘Her car was found abandoned early this morning, near Newlands Corner in Surrey. But there doesn’t seem to be any sign of her.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said Charlotte. She was too shocked to say anything more.

  ‘Is Mr Christie at home?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not. He is staying with friends.’

  ‘Could you provide me with an address for him?’

  ‘Very well,’ said Charlotte, feeling a mix of guilt and satisfaction. Mr Christie would, she knew, not thank her for giving the police the details of the Jameses’ cottage, where he was staying with Miss Neele, but perhaps it served him right. Maybe now he would come to his senses.

  ‘He is with Mr and Mrs Sam James, Hurtmore Cottage, near Godalming.’

  As soon as the policeman left, Charlotte picked up the telephone. She supposed she had better warn him. She asked the operator to connect her and a moment later Mrs James answered the telephone. She asked to speak to Colonel Christie.

  ‘Hello? Charlotte? Whatever is the matter? Is it Rosalind?’

  ‘No, no, it’s Mrs Christie. A policeman has just called at Styles. She didn’t return to the house last night – I know I should have telephoned you earlier – but apparently the police have found her car, abandoned, in Surrey, near Newlands Corner.’

  ‘Oh, how frightful – did Mrs Christie say anything to you before she left?’

  ‘No, and you see I didn’t return from London until after eleven, or perhaps nearly twelve. By that time she had gone. She did leave me a note. She left a letter for you too.’

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘I’ll be back at Styles within the next hour or so.’

  He sounded nervous and on edge. Quite right too, thought Charlotte. If her mistress – her friend – had done something stupid she would never forgive him, the brute. What on earth did he see in that silly young girl? If only she could give him a piece of her mind. But from the nasty arguments that she had heard over the course of the last few months the marriage, it seemed, was doomed. But surely it wasn’t worth this? Perhaps Agatha had stayed out all night to give him a taste of his own medicine. Yes, she was sure that was it. She was trying to make Archie jealous.

  But then a series of hellish tableaux flashed through her mind: a body floating in water, a woman’s broken corpse at the bottom of a cliff face, a swollen-faced cadaver hanging from a tree. She told herself that Agatha would never do such a thing. But there was one method of death that her mistress might consider: poisoning. Oh please, God, no, she thought. Please not that.

  Chapter Eight

  Kenward did not like the look of this Colonel Christie. He could not yet tell exactly why that was, but he was sure that the man was hiding something. Whatever it was the Colonel was keeping back, Kenward was confident that he would draw it out of him.

  He had arranged for Christie, together with the secretary, Miss Charlotte Fisher, to accompany him to the scene of the disappearance. Perhaps if they were forced to see the abandoned car their memories might be jogged a little. At the moment neither of them was providing him with much information that was of use. Miss Fisher had hinted at marital difficulties between the couple, but when pressed on the matter she had sidestepped the issue. She had, however, shown him a letter in which Mrs Christie had used a telling phrase: having to leave the house because her head was fit to bursting or some such expression, a line which he interpreted as suggestive of the husband’s guilt in the matter. But when he had asked Christie about their marriage, the Colonel had looked at him with distaste, as if Kenward had just uttered an obscenity. Christie had maintained that, while the couple had experienced some difficulties in their marriage, these issues were minor ones. He had been worried about his wife, it was true, but not because of any marital problems. He feared that the death of his wife’s mother had affected the balance of her mind. There was, Kenward suspected, some truth in this, but by no means the whole truth. And as Christie was relating this information, Kenward noticed a certain shiftiness around the Colonel’s eyes.

  The driver stopped the car and Kenward directed Miss Fisher and Christie towards the abandoned Morris Cowley. Already the news of the incident had spread about the neighbourhood and a ragbag of curious sensation-seekers had gathered around the vehicle. Each of them no doubt had his or her theory, but as he passed them he saw a certain gleam in their eyes, an appetite for murder.

  ‘Here, as you can see, is the vehicle,’ said Kenward. ‘First of all, Colonel, can you identify this car as your wife’s?’

  ‘Yes, indeed it is.’

  ‘Not yours then?’

  ‘No, she bought it with the money she earned from selling one
of her books to a newspaper.’

  ‘So, it’s a profitable line of work, this writing business?’

  ‘It has its rewards, but it’s also rather a precarious way of making money. I know my wife was worried that she would not be able to repeat the success of her earlier books.’

  ‘Is that so?’

  ‘Indeed. She was also suffering from lack of inspiration. Ever since her mother died.’

  ‘Miss Fisher, you can confirm that?’

  ‘Yes, I can. On both points. I know that she was having trouble writing her next book, The Mystery of the Blue Train.’

  Kenward led them nearer to the car and opened the door of the driver’s seat. He noticed that Charlotte Fisher gasped as she saw the fur coat and the dressing case, an object she said she had last seen laid open and empty on her mistress’s bed a day or so before.

  ‘As you are aware last night was quite cold,’ said Kenward. ‘I’m told the temperature around midnight was only thirty-six degrees – and like you I’m curious to know why Mrs Christie would leave the car without her fur.’

  Both Charlotte and the Colonel remained silent. Kenward then held up the driving licence.

  ‘This was also found in the vehicle. A strange gesture, don’t you think? Again, I must ask you why Mrs Christie might do such a thing.’

  ‘I’m at a loss to explain it,’ said the Colonel.

  ‘It’s all so baffling,’ said Charlotte. ‘I find the whole situation so upsetting. To think of her out here at night and in the cold. What was she doing? I do hope she is all right. I mean, anything could have happened.’

  ‘I’m sure we will get to the bottom of it,’ said Kenward, casting a quick glance at the Colonel. ‘Well, thank you for coming out here. I will get one of my men to drive you back to Sunningdale. This afternoon I am going to organise a search of the immediate area. I have asked for the help of our special constables. As soon as I have any information I will, of course, let you know.’

  Kenward himself took part in the search, with a team of eight special constables overseen by Captain Tuckwell and his deputy, Colonel Bethall. He had instructed the men to look out for anything that might strike them as unusual – a lady’s handkerchief, scraps of paper, personal possessions, items of clothing, money and, of course, a murder weapon or a body. As the men beat their way through the undergrowth, they did indeed come across items of potential interest – the occasional empty bottle, an old towel, a child’s teddy bear missing one arm – but nothing that looked like it had any bearing on the case. He doubted the Colonel had murdered his wife, but one could never tell. In his career Kenward had learnt one very sad fact about human nature: the majority of people were driven by entirely selfish motives and there were those who when in a corner or a fix would resort to murder. Greed was always a motive, of course, and then there was jealousy or lust or vengeance, or a combination of all four. But he had to remind himself that, as yet, no evidence of a crime had come to light. A lady, suffering from a nervous condition, had disappeared in strange circumstances. The question was: would she be found dead or alive?

  Chapter Nine

  As the train pulled out of King’s Cross and started its journey north, I experienced an odd feeling, one of liberation. I was, after all, no longer Mrs Christie or even dull old Agatha Miller. I was now somebody else.

  The night before, in the gloom of Kurs’s car, I had been given a new identity. At first I had been horrified, appalled even. I had thought his suggestion too cruel, but when I had tried to complain – I told him that taking that name was simply out of the question – he refused to listen to my entreaties. As I sat there, with the wind rattling around the car, I felt as though I was being sucked down into a vortex.

  ‘I don’t mind what Christian name you use,’ Kurs had continued, ‘but yes, that is to be the surname you use to register at the hotel.’

  I could hardly bring myself to say it. ‘N-Neele. But why? Surely any name would serve as well.’

  ‘True. But I think it might do you good.’

  ‘Good?’ The word stuck in my throat. ‘How on earth could it possibly do me good?’

  ‘In an imaginative sort of way, but you know all about that. I just think that if you take on the mantle of Miss Neele you might find certain things easier to act out.’

  I had, I must confess, fantasised about what it would be like if Archie’s mistress were to die. I had even toyed with the idea – in a purely hypothetical way, of course – of how I might go about killing her. Poison was the most logical solution. Some kind of infusion or tincture which would cause a quick, but probably not painless, death and one that could not be traced in the body. Yes, I could imagine Nancy Neele as a victim of murder all too well. But as a murderer herself?

  ‘Do you mean to say that you want me to try and implicate Miss Neele in a murder? To raise suspicions that she is a killer?’

  As Kurs laughed the car filled with the stench of his breath. ‘My – your mind is much more wicked than I expected. I hadn’t thought of that.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I only meant that by taking on her name it might lend a certain – I don’t know – a certain allure which perhaps you have lacked recently.’

  I felt full of anger for this devil of a man sitting next to me. What did he presume to know about me? Unfortunately, his assessment was true enough. I had neglected Archie, turning away from him when he needed me, brushing him off with a polite peck on the cheek or the forehead when he desired something more. Yet those things were private, certainly not to be discussed with a complete stranger, let alone one such as this.

  ‘You are full of poison, Mr Kurs,’ I said.

  ‘We are kindred spirits then, aren’t we?’

  ‘What on earth—’

  ‘I know how your mind works, Mrs Christie. You may pretend to be all sweet and innocent, the hurt and wronged wife. But don’t tell me you haven’t wished Miss Neele a slow and painful death.’

  I felt myself blushing in the dark. I wanted to tell him that, while that may have been so, it was merely a game that I had played in my head to make myself feel better, certainly nothing I would ever have acted upon.

  ‘As I suspected. In fact, I have a pet theory, Mrs Christie. I would wager a considerable amount of money on something.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘This: that I am quite convinced that, had you not had the outlet of your books, books that are full of murder, poisonings, betrayals of the worst kind, you yourself may even have been tempted to commit a heinous crime.’

  ‘That is the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. Quite preposterous. Just because I make a small living out of writing about crime and its detection doesn’t in the slightest mean I could possibly do it myself.’

  ‘We will see about that, won’t we?’ Kurs smiled. ‘I think it will be quite the experiment, something I may have to write a paper about one day.’

  ‘The only reason I am sitting in this car with you, listening to your nonsense, is because of your threats to harm my family. There is, Mr Kurs, no other reason. If you suspect that I am of the criminal fraternity I must, I’m afraid, disappoint you. I hold life to be sacred and I believe there can be nothing worse than snuffing out the existence of another person.’

  ‘A very noble sentiment, I’m sure.’

  ‘And true, Mr Kurs. True.’

  As Kurs ran his fingers through his beard the whisper of his whiskers unsettled me. At any moment I thought I might let out an unholy scream.

  ‘I think it’s time for us to leave now,’ said Kurs. ‘But before we do let me just sort out your wrist. It seems you are bleeding a little.’

  ‘No, don’t worry,’ I said, but he ignored my protestations.

  I closed my eyes as I felt the surprisingly soft touch of his fingers on my hand. I heard the opening and closing of his medical bag, the sound of scissors cutting into a bandage.

  ‘Now, this may hurt a little,’ he said as he started to clean my wri
st with a piece of cotton wool and hydrogen peroxide. ‘Only a surface wound, but we wouldn’t want you getting an infection.’

  The sting came as something of a relief. ‘Where are you going to take me?’ I said through gritted teeth.

  ‘London,’ he said as he finished working on my hand. ‘I have some rooms there where you can rest. Don’t worry, you will be quite safe. There, that feels better, doesn’t it?’

  Kurs had driven me to Victoria, or rather Pimlico, to a rather shabby block of flats just off the Vauxhall Bridge Road. I knew it was only a ten-minute walk to the Stores, but the area felt run-down and squalid, not at all like Ealing where my dear grandmother had lived. As Kurs showed me into the dank little mansion-block flat, into that cold bedroom with a horrid iron-frame bed, I tried to comfort myself with memories from my childhood. Oh, how I had loved to crawl into Grannie’s huge mahogany four-poster in the early morning. Whenever I thought of my grandmother I always pictured her in the summer, the elderly woman proudly tending her roses. The secret to the glorious flowers had been a regular dose of the bedroom slops, she had said. That had made me laugh. And what was that game I had adored? A chicken from Mr Whiteley’s, it was called. I had pretended to be a chicken and my grandmother would converse with the shopkeeper about how best the bird should be prepared. How I had squealed that time Grannie had said that she rather fancied a skewered chicken and pretended to sharpen her carving knife so that she could cut me up into tasty little pieces. It hardly seemed so funny now.

  Unsurprisingly my sleep was fitful, my dreams haunted by awful visions of Archie and Miss Neele. But curiously, in the morning I did wake up feeling like a different person, as if I no longer had to carry around the heavy burden of myself. Somebody, even if that somebody was as vile and twisted a human being as Kurs, had given me permission to step away from my life. As I awoke I had mouthed the words to myself. ‘Neele,’ I said. ‘My name is Neele.’