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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2021 by Marie Benedict
Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks
Cover design by James Iacobelli
Cover images © Lee Avison/Arcangel Images, Sandra M/Shutterstock
Endsheet images © Hulton Archive/Stringer/Getty Images, Dave Hogan/Getty Images, PhonlamaiPhoto/Getty Images, Daily Herald (London) 15 December 1926/public domain
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Apart from well-known historical figures, any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
sourcebooks.com
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Benedict, Marie, author.
Title: The mystery of Mrs. Christie / Marie Benedict.
Description: Naperville, IL : Sourcebooks Landmark, [2021]
Identifiers: LCCN 2020007177 | (hardcover)
Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3620.E75 M97 2021 | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020007177
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
The Beginning
Part One
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Part Two
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
The Ending, or Another Beginning
Author’s Note
Reading Group Guide
A Conversation with the Author
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Back Cover
The Beginning
The letter flutters on the desk, almost keeping time with the footsteps thundering across the floor. Back and forth, back and forth, the feet pace, and the thick writing paper quivers to the same rhythm. The black, spiky words that possess the ivory page seem to come alive and pulsate with each heavy tread.
How do you want this story to end? It seems to me that there are two paths from which you can choose, the first involving a softer landing than the second, though neither are without bumps and bruises, of course. These small injuries are simply a necessary consequence of this entire exercise, as I’m sure you must understand by now. Or have I overestimated you and you haven’t guessed? No matter. My goal—which you will undoubtedly find utterly unacceptable—will be met regardless of your awareness. Freeing myself of the shackles of your judgment and your malfeasance will be a delightful result of your duplicity, a result you never intended. Because you only ever intended to serve your own needs and satisfy your own desires. I was never in the forefront of your mind, not even in the early days, even as I was told that you should always be at the forefront of mine.
The room, already dark despite the morning hour, grows even blacker. Seconds later, a gust of wind blows open the lightly closed but unlatched window, and the pages of the letter blow off the desk and onto the carpet. Darkness blankets its words until a crack of thunder sounds—how very fitting and typical that it is a dark and stormy night, the letter’s recipient thinks—and lightning suddenly illuminates the room. And the words make themselves known again.
Read on and follow my instructions closely if you wish the safety of the first path and the security of its conclusion. It will not be easy. You will have to be stalwart, even when the road is rocky and you suffer from doubts and shame. Only by following my directions at each crossroads in this journey will the story end well for us all.
Part One
Chapter One
The Manuscript
October 12, 1912
Ugbrooke House, Devon, England
I could not have written a more perfect man.
“Lose your dance card,” a voice whispered to me as I passed through the crowd and onto the dance floor. Who would dare say such a thing? Particularly since I was on the arm of Thomas Clifford, distant relation of my hosts, Lord and Lady Clifford of Chudleigh, and quite the focus of the unattached ladies at the Ugbrooke House ball.
Impertinent, I thought to myself, even rude. I imagined the scene if my dance partner had overheard him. Even worse, imagine if my dance partner was the one—our Fate, as my friends and I liked to describe prospective husbands—and had been distracted from his attentions. Still, a frisson passed through me, and I wondered who would hazard such impudence. I turned in the direction of the voice, but strains of Elgar’s Symphony No. 1 began to play, and my partner pulled me out to dance.
As we waltzed, I tried to identify the man from among the throngs lining the vast ballroom floor. Mummy would chastise me for not focusing my attentions upon the young Mr. Clifford, but from rumors, I knew that the eligible, well-connected gentleman needed to marry an heiress and c
ould have no legitimate interest in me anyway. I was nearly penniless with only the inheritance of Ashfield villa to offer, an estate many would consider a curse rather than a blessing, particularly since I had no funds to support it and the villa was in constant need of repair. A lost opportunity Mr. Clifford was not. But I had no doubt that opportunity would indeed present itself. Wasn’t that the destiny of all us girls? To be swept away by a man and then swept into the tidal pull of our Fate?
Dozens of men in evening dress stood in the corner of the gilded ballroom, but none seemed a likely candidate for such a brash invitation. Until I saw him. A fair, wavy-haired man stood on the fringes of the dance floor, his eyes on me. Never once did I see him engage in conversation with any of the other gentlemen, nor did I see him attempt to escort any of the ladies onto the floor. His only movement occurred when he walked over to the orchestra and spoke to the conductor, after which he returned to his spot in the corner.
The last chords of the orchestra sounded, and Mr. Clifford returned me to my post next to my dear friend Nan Watts, who was breathless from a quick turn around the floor with a red-faced acquaintance of her parents. As the orchestra began the next song and a florid young gentleman swooped in to fetch Nan, I glanced at the dance booklet dangling from my wrist by a red silk cord to see with whom I was paired.
A hand appeared on my wrist. I looked up into the intense blue eyes of the man who had been staring at me. Instinctively, I pulled my hand away, but somehow, he slipped my dance card off my wrist and entwined his fingers in mine.
“Forget your dance card for just one song,” he said in a low, gravelly voice that I recognized as belonging to the brazen young man from a few minutes ago. I couldn’t believe what he was asking, and I was shocked he’d taken my card. Allowing another man to cut into your dance card lineup simply wasn’t done, even when that dance card had gone missing.
I thought I heard the distinctive chords of a famous tune by Irving Berlin. It sounded like “Alexander’s Ragtime Band,” but I knew I must be wrong. Lord and Lady Clifford would never have requested this modern song from their orchestra. In fact, I guessed that they’d be irate at this deviation from standard protocol; classical, symphonic pieces—paired with sedate dances certain not to inflame the passions of the young—were the order of the day.
He watched the expression on my face as I listened to the music. “I hope you like Berlin,” he said with a small, self-satisfied smile.
“You arranged this?” I asked.
A sheepish smile spread across his face, displaying his dimples. “I overheard you saying to your friend that you longed for some more up-to-date music.”
“How did you manage it?” I was astonished not only at his audacity but at his determination. It was, well, flattering. No one had ever made such a grandiose gesture for me. Certainly none of the ragtag suitors with whom my mother tried to match me in Cairo for my coming out two years ago, a necessary endeavor because the cost of coming out in London—the numerous fashionable gowns, the parties attended and hosted, the price of renting a town house for the season—was too high for Mummy’s reduced circumstances. And not even dear Reggie, whom I’d known my whole life as the kindly older brother of my dear friends the Lucy sisters but who only recently became much more than a family friend, had undertaken a similar effort. Reggie and I had formed an understanding—between each other and our families—that our lives and our families would one day be linked by marriage. An amorphous future marriage, but matrimony nonetheless. Although now, viewing that union in the context of this splashy wooing, it seemed a placid affair, albeit a comfortable one.
“Does it matter?” he asked.
I suddenly felt quite overwhelmed. Looking down at the floor, a fierce blush overtaking my face, I shook my head.
“I hope you’ll dance with me.” His voice was low and firm.
Even though I could hear Mummy’s voice in my head cautioning me against dancing with a man to whom I had not been properly introduced, never mind that he had somehow wrangled an invitation to the Ugbrooke House ball and laid waste to my dance card, I said, “Yes.”
Because really, how dangerous could one dance be?
Chapter Two
Day One after the Disappearance
Saturday, December 4, 1926
Hurtmore Cottage, Godalming, England
The precision of the Jameses’ breakfast table setting inspires in him a sense of rightness and contentment that he has rarely felt since his return from the war. The gleaming cutlery lies adjacent to the Minton porcelain, each utensil lined up exactly with the next. The delicately etched plates, a Grasmere pattern he believes, are an impeccable two inches from the edge of the table, and the floral centerpiece—a restrained yet elegant seasonal spray of winterberries and greens—is placed at the center. By God, he thinks, this is the sort of order that can put a man at ease.
Why doesn’t his home bear this level of perfection? Why must he be constantly assaulted by its lack of household rigor and the emotions and needs of its inhabitants? With these thoughts, a sense of righteous indignation blooms within him, and he feels perfectly justified.
“I do believe that a toast is in order,” his host, Sam James, announces with a nod to his wife, Madge. She in turn signals to the uniformed housemaid, who reaches for a bottle of champagne that has been chilling in a crystal bucket on the sideboard.
“Archie, we had wanted to toast your plans last evening, but the unexpected visit by Reverend—” Madge starts to explain.
A soft pink hue begins to spread across Nancy’s cheeks, and though she looks lovely with her cheeks aflame, Archie understands that the Jameses’ focus on their situation is the cause of her discomfort and wants to placate her. Raising his hand, he says, “The gesture is much appreciated, my dear Madge, but not necessary.”
“Please, Archie.” Madge holds fast. “We are well pleased with your plans. And you will have little enough opportunity to celebrate.”
“We insist,” Sam echoes his wife.
To protest further would be impolite, which Nancy implicitly understands. This sense of decorum is a quality they share, and he relishes it in her. It obviates the need for the firm guiding hand toward properness that he must exercise elsewhere in his life. His home, in particular.
“Sam and Madge, thank you. Your support means the world,” he answers. Nancy nods in agreement.
The crystal flutes sparkle with the honey-colored champagne as the maid fills each of their glasses in turn. Just as she finishes pouring the final glass, a knock sounds at the dining room door.
“Pardon the interruption, sir,” a woman’s voice, thick with a country accent, calls through the closed door, “but there is a telephone call for the colonel.”
He exchanges a quizzical glance with Nancy. He hadn’t expected a call so soon, if at all, particularly since he’d kept his weekend whereabouts as quiet as possible. For the obvious reason. Nancy sets her glass down and gently touches his elbow over the crisp linen tablecloth. It is a silent acknowledgment of their shared concern about the call.
“Pardon me,” he says with a nod to their hosts, who place their flutes back down on the table. Standing, he buttons his suit jacket and nods to Nancy with a confidence he does not feel. He strides out of the dining room, quietly shutting the door behind him.
“This way, sir,” the maid says, and he follows her into a tiny room tucked under the intricately carved main staircase of Hurtmore Cottage, a misnomer for the grand home. There, the candlestick telephone, its receiver sitting on the desktop, awaits him.
Sitting down at the desk chair, he places the receiver to his ear and the mouthpiece to his lips. But he will not speak until the maid has closed the door behind her.
“Hello?” He hates the uncertainty he hears in his voice. Nancy prizes his self-assurance above all else.
“My apologies, sir. This is Charlotte Fisher.”
What in the devil is Charlotte thinking, ringing him here? He had entrusted her with the Hurtmore Cottage information with the gravest of admonitions. Even though he’d gone to great lengths in recent months to curry favor with the family secretary and governess—necessary, he believes, to effectuate the smooth transition for which he hopes—he makes no effort to coddle her now by keeping the anger from his voice. Damn the consequences. “Charlotte, I thought I instructed you not to contact me here except in the case of an extreme emergency.”
“Well, Colonel,” she stammers, “I am standing in the foyer of Styles next to Constable Roberts.”
Charlotte stops speaking. Does she really think that the mere mention of the presence of a police officer in his home should explain all? What does she want him to say? She waits for him to speak next, and in the quiet, dread fills him. He can find no words. What does she know? More importantly, what does the constable know? Every word seems a trap he’ll spring.
“Sir,” she says when he does not respond. “I do believe that this qualifies as an extreme emergency. Your wife is missing.”
Chapter Three
The Manuscript
October 12, 1912
Ugbrooke House, Devon, England
A murmur of surprise rose up from the revelers as the Irving Berlin tune became more recognizable. While the older guests seemed uncertain about the propriety of dancing to such a modern song, my partner did not hesitate to pull me onto the dance floor. He led me directly into the bold one-step, and the younger set followed in our wake.
Without the intricate dance steps of the waltz to place distance between us, our bodies felt awfully close. It almost made me wish for the old-fashioned gowns with their armor of corsets. In an effort to create some sort of barrier between myself and this very forward stranger, however artificial, I kept my gaze fixed firmly over his shoulder. His eyes, however, never moved from mine.
Normally, my dance partners and I fell into easy chatter, but not this time. What could I say to such a fellow? Finally, he broke the silence. “You are even prettier than Arthur Griffiths described you.”
The Mystery of Mrs. Christie Page 1
