“Shall I share our findings with you?” Kenward says. “I know you want to do anything to help locate your missing wife.”
Archie still says nothing. What does Kenward know? The terror has frozen him.
“I’ll take your silence as a yes, Colonel,” Kenward says with a self-satisfied smile. “We will put aside the breakfast you shared with your wife on Friday morning for a few moments while we discuss what she did with her day after you left. According to the housemaid, Lilly, your cook, the gardener, and the family secretary and nanny, Miss Charlotte Fisher—”
“Charlotte?” The word escapes from Archie’s mouth before he can stop himself. He’s assumed the woman who serves as Rosalind’s nanny and his wife’s secretary would remain silent in the face of police inquiry. She’s been such a loyal employee, and he’s assumed her sister Mary’s presence at Styles would distract her. What on earth has she said to make Kenward so gleeful?
“Yes, Charlotte Fisher. She is a member of the staff here at Styles, is she not?”
“Yes.”
“After interviewing the members of your staff, we were able to put together a timeline of your wife’s movements on Friday in the hopes that it will help shed some light on her whereabouts now. It seems that after you and your wife spoke at breakfast—” Kenward reaches for his notes, and Archie wonders whether he’s imagining that the policeman used the word spoke with an ironic tone.
Holding his notes up, Kenward continues. “Here we go. After breakfast, she played with your daughter for a while before Miss Fisher took Rosalind to school, as per their usual routine. She then left the house in her Morris Cowley for a bit, presumably to run an errand, but returned for lunch. Afterward, she and Rosalind drove to Dorking for afternoon tea with your mother, whom Agatha told she was going to Beverly for the weekend. They left your mother’s around five o’clock to make the drive back to Styles. There, she played with Rosalind some more, did a bit of work, and then sat down to dinner. Alone. Then she received a call sometime after dinner, perhaps around nine or ten o’clock. The maid wasn’t sure of the precise time.”
“That all seems very normal. I’m not certain how that tells us what happened to her later Friday night.”
“I think it gives us a sense of her frame of mind, which in turn can help us understand what happened Friday night.” Kenward breathes in deeply, expanding his already wide chest. He does not bother to mask his pleasure at sharing the next bit of news. “Of course, the argument between you and your wife on Friday morning may have set the stage for everything that followed.”
Archie thought about denying the fact of the fight but knew it was fruitless. Presumably several members of the staff had heard the raised voices and would corroborate one another. But he could put a tourniquet on the wound to prevent it from being fatal. “What are you getting at, Detective Chief Constable Kenward?” he asks, as calmly as possible.
“I think you know what I’m getting at, Colonel Christie. You and your wife had a heated argument over breakfast on Friday morning about where you would choose to spend your weekend.”
“You have the details of our disagreement all wrong. I don’t know who told you that was the nature of our discord.”
“Every single member of your staff told us that. They all recounted the same facts: your wife wanted you to accompany her to Yorkshire, and you wanted to stay with your friends the Jameses at Hurtmore Cottage for a golf weekend. The staff was aware of this row because you and your wife were screaming at one another. Your voices could be heard all over Styles.”
I was right to not deny the fight, Archie thinks. But at least that’s the extent of what Kenward knows. “Married couples do have arguments, you know.”
“According to your staff, this was the worst quarrel between you two they’d ever heard.” He consults his notes. “In addition to the raised voices—‘yelling’ was the word used by your housemaid, Lilly—everyone heard the shattering of glass and china. When that same housemaid stood at the threshold of the dining room to clean up, you were gone, and she found your wife sitting on the floor of the dining room, crying with lacerations on her legs and hands from the broken china and glass. She summoned Miss Fisher before entering, believing that—given the close relationship between Miss Fisher and your wife—Mrs. Christie would prefer Miss Fisher to assist her. Lilly then reentered the room as Miss Fisher was helping Mrs. Christie up so that she could clean up the china.”
Archie’s body goes rigid, hearing Friday morning recounted. It is as if Kenward is speaking about something that happened to someone else. This cannot be his life. Yet if he bristles or resists Kenward’s description in any way, he runs up against the boundaries set forth in the letter, the commands that he play the part of distressed husband.
Archie wants to say nothing, to run from this room and this nightmare and escape into Nancy’s arms. Only there can he find solace. But he knows he cannot. If he seeks her out, as he desperately wants to do, he will only lead the police directly to her and heighten their interest in her.
But he cannot allow the depiction of Friday morning to stay completely uncommented upon. Even a desperate, worried husband would defend himself to some extent. So he says, “The staff is prone to exaggeration, Deputy Chief Constable Kenward. I would not give them much credence on the details of my exchange with my wife. In any event, that morning and my wife’s disappearance are unconnected, and it sounds as though you may need to consult with your superior before you go too far down the wrong path.”
“You won’t have to worry about any lack of consultation on my part, Colonel Christie. You see, given that Styles sits on the border between Berkshire and Surrey counties, this case will be overseen not just by me but also by Superintendent Charles Goddard, who is head of the Berkshire Constabulary. As a result, two police forces—and two police chiefs—will be investigating your wife’s disappearance. There will be plenty of consultations before we go too far down any path.”
Chapter Seventeen
The Manuscript
October 18, 1916
New Forest, Hampshire, England
Archie pulled me back into the bed. The inn’s mattress was lumpy and uncomfortable, but we didn’t care. We didn’t really use the mattress for sleeping anyway.
With his arms wrapped around me under the warmth of the cotton coverlet, I felt safe. Nearly as protected as in those summer days of my childhood at Ashfield, where everyone I loved had gathered safely under one lovely roof. Feeling foolish to have ever doubted my husband’s state of mind, I surrendered into his embrace and indulged in the fantasy of this security, knowing it was only temporary and would vanish the moment Archie returned to the dangers of war. His survival thus far was nearly miraculous, and I feared that the odds were no longer in our favor.
“I have something to tell you,” he whispered into that vulnerable crook in my neck and then kept his face nestled there. His words sent a shiver down my spine. After the awkward, disjointed reunion on his last leave and the strange rages of his recent letters, we’d found one place where we understood each other perfectly—in bed.
“Something delightful I hope,” I whispered back.
He pulled away ever so slightly, enough to convey that this disclosure wasn’t the romantic sort, and I saw trepidation in his expression. What was he anxious to tell me? “You know how I’ve been struggling with my sinuses while flying?” he asked, burying his face back in my neck.
From the beginning of his aviation training, Archie suffered terribly in his sinuses—his ears never seemed to equalize, and the pressure was often unbearable in the air and on the ground—but he insisted on persevering. I’d found his bravery and fortitude in these circumstances awfully attractive, but I knew it made flying extra taxing for him. “Of course. You’ve been so strong to suffer through all that pain for the good of England.”
“I’ve been grounded. For good.”
&
nbsp; I understood now that he’d hidden his face in my neck because he couldn’t meet my eyes. He was devastated that his wartime contributions would be cut short and fearful that I’d think less of him. But he was thinking of the innocent young girl I’d been and how she’d been dazzled by the young pilot he’d been. Did he not realize that I was no longer her exactly, that I’d seen suffering and death, that all I cared about was his safety? Had this announcement been brewing while he wrote me that spate of disturbing letters?
I knew what I had to say, and I meant the words. “Thank God,” I cried.
Pushing himself up on his elbow, he looked down at me. “Do you mean it?”
“Of course. You’ll be safe. It’s the answer to my prayers.”
“You won’t be disappointed that I’m not serving as a pilot in this war?” His voice quivered.
“How could you think that, Archie? You’ve served as a pilot for two long years and survived, and I’m blessed in that. Our country is blessed with your service. But no more. This grounding is a gift. Your life means everything to me.”
“You are everything to me too,” he said. Leaning down, he kissed me long and hard, an indistinguishable blend of passion and relief. I allowed myself to be engulfed by him.
Later, we roused ourselves from the comfort—and delights—of the bed and decided to take a stroll in the New Forest, a royal forest since 1079 and a place Archie had reveled in exploring since his youth. Stepping into its woods felt like stepping back into the forest primeval. A wondrous mix of pasture lands, woodlands, and heath, alight with autumnal color, we proceeded hand in hand in rare, companionable silence, focusing on neither future or past but relishing our present.
After an hour or so, we stumbled upon a post hand-painted with the sign To No-Man’s-Land. Archie turned to me with a wide smile. “I’ve always wanted to follow that path.”
I smiled back. “Let’s follow it. Now.”
He looked hesitant. “Are you sure?”
“Positive.”
He grabbed me close and said, “God, I love your spontaneity and sense of adventure. Let’s go.”
We ambled down the dirt trail to the enigmatically named No-Man’s-Land. Eventually, the wild tangle of the landscape grew orderly, and we realized that No-Man’s-Land was actually a poorly tended apple orchard. The crimson apples gleamed, and we were tempted to pull a few off the trees. I urged Archie to wait for permission, and soon enough, we spotted a woman in the orchard.
“Good morning, ma’am. Can we buy a few of your apples?” he asked.
The woman, ruddy-cheeked from a life spent outdoors, could have been thirty or fifty. She smiled at us and, taking note of Archie’s uniform, said, “No need for payment. I see from your uniform that you are air force, as was my son. He was killed—”
Archie turned ashen, and I couldn’t stop from interjecting, “Oh, I’m so sorry, ma’am.”
She put up a hand to stop my flow of condolences. “He was doing his part for our country, just like your man here. Eat your fill and take as many as you can carry. It’s the least we can do,” she said and turned away.
We took her at her word, although her disclosure had turned the permission bittersweet, and Archie couldn’t start picking apples until he’d smoked a cigarette, a new habit he’d developed since his last leave. An hour later, bellies full and pockets stuffed with apples, we sat down on a stump, beyond satiated. We chatted about nothing—certainly not my work as a nurse or in the dispensary and definitely not his pilot service—until I decided to make my own disclosure to him. Without his personal confession about flying, I don’t think I would have had the courage.
“I have something to tell you,” I said.
“You do?” he asked, appearing simultaneously curious and alarmed.
“I’ve written a book.” I forced myself to say the words I hadn’t even said to my mother.
Archie glanced over at me as if he hadn’t heard me correctly. “A book? You’ve written a book?” His voice wasn’t judgmental, merely perplexed. He knew that I’d dabbled in writing in the past—I’d explained that after my aspirations in music faltered, writing filled the void nicely, with its ebb and flow not unlike performing music—but I hadn’t mentioned it for some time. It seemed silly and inconsequential in light of the war.
I gave him a small, slightly bashful smile. “Well, you told me to stay busy while you were gone.”
He laughed. A big, boisterous laugh, the sort I’d never heard from him before. “Did you bring it for me to read?” he asked.
“I did,” I admitted. “It’s back in the hotel room, in my suitcase.” I didn’t mention that I’d buried the manuscript in the bottom of my suitcase, uncertain as to whether I’d have the nerve to show it to Archie.
“What sort of story is it?” he asked.
“A murder mystery.”
“You?” He laughed again. “My sweet wife? You wrote a murder mystery?”
“Yes, it’s a story about a rich elderly woman who’s been poisoned at her home, a manor house, while several possible culprits are staying with her as guests. One of the houseguests, a soldier by the name of Arthur Hastings recovering from the war, enlists the help of his friend, a Belgian refugee by the name of Hercule Poirot.” I explained to him how the story and characters unfolded for me during the slow hours at the apothecary, in particular how my detective evolved from my experience helping the group of Belgian refugees who’d settled in the parish of Tor after a harrowing escape from the Germans. But, I explained, once I’d conceived of Hercule Poirot, he’d grown on the page of his own accord, as if he were a real person.
“Sounds very timely and ingenious, no doubt.” Shaking his head, he said, “Still, I can’t believe you wrote a murder mystery.”
I laughed along with him. “I’m sure it sounds far-fetched, but Madge bet me that I couldn’t create a mystery that a reader couldn’t solve—”
He finished my sentence, having grown to understand the nature of my relationship with my sister. “And you certainly wouldn’t lose a bet to Madge.”
I thought about the wagers Madge and I had made over the years, each one furiously fought and each one fixed with set terms. The backgammon games that went long into the night. The increasingly high horse jumps that required us to defy gravity. The book challenges that led to teetering stacks all over Ashfield. In retrospect, it seemed as if Madge, eleven years my senior, was trying to strengthen my courage and resolve, because Mummy was determined solely to cosset and baby me. I supposed I should thank her for her efforts, but that would spoil our ongoing game and give her an edge I wasn’t willing to yield.
“Certainly not.” I smiled but then hesitated. “Would you read it? To see if you like it? To see if you can solve it? I know it will take away from our time together, but—”
“I’d love to,” he said, then asked, “What’s it called?”
“The Mysterious Affair at Styles.”
Chapter Eighteen
Day Three after the Disappearance
Monday, December 6, 1926
Styles, Sunningdale, England
Archie settles at the breakfast table after a sleepless night. The usual order of the table—the silver and crystal arranged just so, his coffee poured and steaming, and his eggs waiting under the silver dome, which the housemaid lifts as soon as he enters the dining room—calms him. Until he reaches for the morning newspaper. There, emblazoned in enormous script, is the headline he has feared, the one that kept him tossing and turning all night: Mystery of Woman Novelist Disappearing in Strange Circumstances. The article sets out Agatha’s authorial accomplishments—her three novels and the magazine serial stories that made her a modest success, if not exactly a household name—followed by a blow-by-blow of her vanishing.
Nausea wells up inside him, and he has to turn away from his breakfast—those damnable runny eggs—in order to g
ather himself. How on earth did the reporters grab hold of this story so quickly? When Kenward told him that he’d circulated his wife’s pictures yesterday, he’d assumed that he had a few days to gain control of the situation before news leaked out, that the information would remain in the hands of various police precincts. The speed with which the press has seized upon the story and begun its own investigation is unprecedented.
What to do, what to do, he begins to worry, to avoid the inevitable. Stop, he tells himself. This is all down to Kenward’s obvious dislike of him, nothing more. He cannot let the dramatic headline of one newspaper rattle him.
Despite his efforts, the specific, familiar pain takes hold. Reaching like the nimble arms of an octopus, it penetrates his temples, his brow, and then finally, his sinus cavity. With the gripping, paralytic pain comes the past. Suddenly, the quiet sounds of Rosalind and Charlotte and the chatter of the police officers in the kitchen disappears, and the roar of a plane engine drowns out all other noise. He sees not the heavy silk curtains and patterned wallpaper of his dining room but the vast expanse of sky and cloud through the impeded view of his aviator’s goggles. The rat-a-tat of gunfire begins to sound until a loud thud interrupts his fully immersive memory. Glancing up, he sees not the edge of his pilot’s goggles but Lilly with a fresh pot of tea. And he returns to the present moment, although the headache lingers.
Hands trembling, he reaches for a cigarette and folds the newspaper so that he cannot see his wife’s face peering up at him. Instead, he begins reading an article on the forty-third council session of the League of Nations that is set to begin today in Geneva, anything to push this ordeal from his thoughts. He’s considering the focal point of the meeting—Germany’s request that the league abandon a military commission left over from the Great War—when he hears the phone jangling in the distance. He pays it no mind, as the phone has rung almost constantly since Saturday morning, and he knows that Charlotte will summon him if it’s necessary. In less than a minute, he knows it’s necessary. It is his mother.
The Mystery of Mrs. Christie Page 8
