The Mystery of Mrs. Christie

by Marie Benedict

  “I’m sorry to hear about the disappearance of your wife, Colonel Christie.”

  “Thank you, Commander Reynolds. I appreciate you taking the time to see me today.” Archie hopes his voice doesn’t quiver.

  “What can I help you with?” Although the commander’s expression is pleasant, his tone reveals a certain impatience. Clearly, he’d like to dispense with their visit quickly.

  “It’s about the investigation.”

  “Yes?”

  “I worry that your more”—he hesitates—“your more rural police forces don’t have the skills of the Scotland Yard officers, skills that may be necessary to locate my wife. As a result, the detectives have taken to baiting the press to get broad coverage.” After he says this, Archie thinks that a concerned husband might want that broad coverage and realizes he must shift the focus. “I’m worried that their lack of experience in more complicated police matters might not yield the desired result.”

  “I see.” The commander’s hands form a triangle, and he glances down at them as though deep in thought. He then abruptly looks up and says, “But Deputy Chief Constable Kenward did lead the investigation into the Frenchman Jean-Pierre Vaquier—the Byfleet murderer—to a successful conclusion, did he not?”

  Archie has no idea who this Byfleet murderer was or what role Kenward played, but he knows what he’s meant to say. “I suppose. But it seems that they could do with a bit of oversight. A pulling at the reins if you will.”

  “Ah, I do see.”

  Reynolds stands, walks around to their side of the desk, and leans against it as he talks to them. “Colonel Christie, I do not doubt that you are”—he forms his hands into the triangle again and considers them before continuing—“troubled by the disappearance of your wife and the rather overwhelming media coverage. But Scotland Yard cannot intervene in the investigation unless the Surrey or Berkshire constabularies who are in charge of the investigation request assistance. That is the law.”

  Perkins has intimated that Scotland Yard might not stick its nose in the investigation, but he has never mentioned it was actually against the law. Archie was assuming Scotland Yard’s policy of noninvolvement was an unspoken rule, so he plowed ahead with the meeting. But now he sees that this is a waste of time. And a potentially dangerous one at that. Why would his own damn solicitor not explain everything to him?

  The commander must take Archie’s silence as disappointment, because he offers, “Scotland Yard could place an ad for your wife in the Police Gazette alerting all the police stations across the country to her disappearance if you like?”

  “Your offer is much appreciated, Commander Reynolds, but I feel like the newspapers have already alerted all the police stations, along with the regular populace.”

  “And perhaps that was the intention of Deputy Chief Constable Kenward and his colleague Superintendent Charles Goddard?”

  “Perhaps,” Archie answers.

  “Is there a reason why you wouldn’t want broad newspaper coverage of your wife’s disappearance?” Reynolds’s arms cross and his brows arch, and Archie knows with complete certainty that he has placed himself in the line of fire by coming here. As soon as they leave Scotland Yard, he will have Perkins’s bloody head for not preventing him from calling this meeting.

  Archie cannot ignore the question this time with this man; there will be no sidestepping it as he had with Kenward. He says the only thing he can. “I do have a young daughter, sir. And she’s been finding the constant press presence and the chatter about her mother most disturbing.”

  “It seems to me that she’d find the absence of her mother even more disturbing, Mr. Christie.” His intimation is clear, and with that, the matter is closed.

  With a birdlike quickness, Reynolds turns toward Perkins. “I believe your client is in capable hands with Deputy Chief Constable Kenward. I have every confidence that he will solve this mystery.” Reynolds then stares Archie up and down, locking eyes with him, and says, “I will do you the courtesy of keeping your visit here today confidential and not informing Deputy Chief Constable Kenward and Superintendent Charles Goddard. I do not think it would bode well for your treatment in this investigation.”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  The Manuscript

  August 1919 to January 1920

  London, England

  Although my pregnancy was riddled with nausea and fear, a wave of relief washed over me when I made plans to stay at Ashfield for my final month and the planned delivery. Mummy would take care of everything, I told myself as Archie and I traveled home. My hopes became reality when Mummy swept me into her arms and the care of the nurse she’d arranged for the delivery and the baby afterward, the efficient and pleasant Nurse Pemberton. The two women fussed over me while Auntie-Grannie clucked happily in the background, and my fear turned to anticipation.

  Rosalind arrived with the pain and terror that I’d heard described by Madge and my friends. When the nurse placed my daughter in my arms for the first time, I cooed in delight at her tiny fingers and toes and her sweet rosebud lips, but I reminded myself that she could not become my focus. I could not allow her to dislodge my husband as my polestar. So I returned her to the care of Nurse Pemberton and allowed Mummy to coddle me.

  As I drifted off to sleep, exhausted from the labor, Mummy sat in the armchair next to my childhood bed, holding my hand. “Mummy, don’t go away,” I begged. “What if I should need you in the night?”

  “Of course not, darling. I’ll stay right here by your side.”

  And indeed she did. For the weeks of my convalescence, it was as if Mummy and I formed a cocoon around ourselves, not unlike that of my childhood, and Rosalind was an occasional visitor. On those nights when I longed to hold my baby in my arms, even sleep with her in my bed, I told myself that this distance was necessary practice. How else could I ensure that Archie maintained his position at the center of my affections? How would he take it if Rosalind got used to sleeping with me in my bed? In time, it became easier and easier, and I felt more like a daughter myself than a mother to a daughter.

  I kept my promise to Archie. Rosalind changed nothing. Nothing, as far as Archie was concerned.

  On our return to London, my first order of business was interviewing nurses, after finding a suitable flat for our small family, of course. I would only be able to maintain the balance I’d struck at Ashfield with live-in help for Rosalind and a maid to help with the house. After securing a flat—no mean feat in the postwar rush—and meeting and rejecting several nurse applicants, I finally found Jessie Swannell, and I set about creating the sort of life I thought Archie wanted. I located, rented, and decorated a four-bedroom flat for us so that Rosalind and Jessie would have ample space separate and apart from Archie and myself. I cooked him recipes I knew he’d adore, and we dined alone, focusing exclusively on his day in his new position with a financier in the City. Occasionally, we accepted or extended social invitations, even though Archie disliked mingling, but generally, it was just us two. I toned down my natural exuberance and chatter, because Archie found it cloying and more than a little twee. From the outside looking in, I’d fashioned a perfect life, one that Mummy, with her warnings and advice, would applaud. A perfect life for Archie anyway, and one that he seemed to slip right into as if nothing in our existence had changed.

  “There’s an official-looking letter for you on the table in the front hall, ma’am,” Jessie called out as I walked into the flat with my dark-haired, dark-eyed Rosalind. It was the sole weekday afternoon when I took the baby out for a walk in her pram instead of the nanny, because Jessie needed the day for the laundry.

  The brisk walk through Kensington with Rosalind in her heavy pram had been cold and exhausting, and I deposited her with the nanny as I went to retrieve the mail. At the top of the pile of letters for Archie’s attention sat an envelope for me with the return address of the Bodley Head Publishers.


  The Bodley Head? Hadn’t I submitted The Mysterious Affair at Styles to the publisher a lifetime ago? Why were they writing to me after nearly two years?

  My hands shook as I sliced open the envelope with my opener. Out spilled a letter from the Bodley Head publisher John Lane. Lifting the letter up to the rather dim gaslit lamp, I read, “We invite you to arrange a time to visit our offices to discuss your novel, The Mysterious Affair at Styles.”

  The Bodley Head wanted to see me about my book? The news was unexpected and nearly unbelievable. I wanted to dance around the apartment, but the respectable, orderly Mrs. Archibald Christie no longer engaged in the fanciful behavior of Miss Agatha Miller. Instead, I strode to my desk and wrote a reply to Mr. John Lane, informing him that I would visit his offices tomorrow afternoon.

  By the time I announced myself to the Bodley Head receptionist the next day, all the excitement and confidence I’d felt the night before had disappeared; in truth, it began to ebb away as I tried on every suit I owned and found only one still fit after Rosalind’s birth, confirming Archie’s rather constant declarations that I still hadn’t lost the weight I’d gained with my pregnancy. My exuberance had been replaced with dread. Who did I think I was, telling Mr. Lane that I’d be stopping by his office at precisely one o’clock, as if he had nothing else to do than meet with a housewife? I’d utterly forgotten myself and my status when I wrote that letter, and now I’d have to reap what I’d sown. The only saving grace was that I hadn’t told Archie about the letter or my appointment, I thought, and would be spared the humiliation of my rejection here this afternoon. This thought made me momentarily sad, as I would have adored telling the old Archie about this promising, unexpected development and wouldn’t have hidden it away for my protection and his comfort. But this was a different Archie.

  Perched on the edge of the reception area chair, pondering my escape, I nearly jumped when a man called out, “Mrs. Christie?”

  “Yes?”

  An older gentleman with a trim gray beard and vivid blue eyes walked toward me with his hand outstretched. “I’m Mr. John Lane. Delighted to make your acquaintance,” he said.

  After we shook hands, he guided me into his office, a rather stark affair that was decorated with gloomy old masters paintings and dimly lit except for the pool of light on the surface of his desk thoughtfully provided by a green-shaded lamp. I supposed he needed the illumination to review manuscripts. I settled into the seat across from his desk and waited.

  “Well, Mrs. Christie. Apologies for the about-face on your manuscript.” He picked up a sheaf of papers, which I recognized as my own. “I’d initially declined the work, because the first few pages didn’t really lure me in. But then, last week, when I had the chance to read further, I began to believe that your book might—I only say might—have possibility.”

  “You, you do?” I blurted out, chastising myself immediately afterward. I should sound confident about my work, not surprised by the compliment.

  “Yes, I do. There would have to be some significant editing—as one example, you’d have to eliminate the courtroom scene with that detective fellow Poirot at the end—but it has real promise. With the right modifications, I think we might just publish it, likely as a serial. Your use of poison as the murder weapon showed ingenuity, that’s certain.”

  I couldn’t quite catch my breath, so when I answered him, I sounded strangely breathless. “That’s wonderful news, Mr. Lane.”

  “Even the edits?” he asked.

  Recovering the strength of my voice, I responded, “Those edits would be no problem at all, Mr. Lane. To tell the truth, for some time now, I’ve been thinking that the court scene should be removed.” I’d been thinking no such thing.

  Mr. Lane sat back in his chair and clapped his hands once. “Excellent, Mrs. Christie, excellent.” He fiddled with some papers on his desk and assembled a small pile. He then retrieved a fountain pen and handed me the lot.

  “I have confidence that we’ll be able to make good use of The Mysterious Affair at Styles,” he said with a nod toward the pile of papers on my lap.

  “And these are?”

  “Your contract with the Bodley Head, of course. It’s all industry standard. Ten percent on any English sale more than two thousand copies. The right to have the first look at your upcoming five novels.”

  My contract? Had he just said my contract with the Bodley Head? My heart raced, and I wondered if I should wait to consult with Archie. But what if Mr. Lane changed his mind in the meantime? Anyway, hadn’t Archie implicitly consented to this contract when he suggested that I submit my book for publication? I couldn’t stop thinking about what we could do with the extra funds. With Archie’s salary and my small income from a family trust, we were doing fine financially on a day-to-day basis, but if we ever wanted to own a home of our own, we’d need more. And this might just provide those funds.

  I pretended to skim the contract pages, but in truth, my head was swimming, and the words swam across the page along with it. I signed where indicated and then handed the stack of papers and the pen back to Mr. Lane.

  “Welcome to the Bodley Head family. You know”—he paused, looking at the ceiling for a moment—“we’ve had considerable interest in serials lately. You seem to have a sense of the genre.”

  Squaring my shoulders a little—I had a contract with the Bodley Head now, after all—I said, “I like to think so.”

  “Well, then, we just might make quite the writer out of you yet, Mrs. Christie.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Day Three after the Disappearance

  Monday, December 6, 1926

  Styles, Sunningdale, England

  How long has Kenward been waiting? Archie wonders as he spies the constable through the window, pacing the front hall of Styles. As he pulls the Delage alongside the drive, past the reporters camped out on the lawn, he considers whether the constable received word of his attempt to go over his head to Scotland Yard, despite Reynolds’s promise to the contrary. Girding himself with his litany of righteous defenses and ignoring the reporters calling out his name, he opens the door to Styles and steps into his entryway.

  “Colonel Christie,” Kenward greets him with an odd smile. There is another man, outfitted in a black policeman’s uniform but of a different design than Kenward’s men, standing to the left.

  “Yes, Deputy Chief Constable?”

  “There has been an interesting development. But before we discuss it, I’d like to introduce you to my counterpart from the Berkshire Constabulary, Superintendent Charles Goddard. I mentioned to you earlier that he’d be sharing leadership of this operation.” He gestures toward the other man. Not quite dismissively but not quite respectfully either. It is clear that Kenward believes himself to be in charge.

  As Archie shakes hands with the new officer, his mind is on this “interesting development” Kenward mentioned. What is it? Has Kenward discovered more about his relationship with Nancy through his incessant baiting of the press?

  Archie notices that this Goddard is meticulously dressed, finding his neatly pressed uniform, with its knife-edge crease along the pants, a welcome break from Kenward’s slapdash attire. When Goddard removes his hat, Archie notices that the constable’s near-black hair is as tidily tended to as his uniform. This similarity to his own grooming habits calms him and gives him hope that this policeman might be more inclined toward him than Kenward. More inclined to believe him innocent, that is.

  “So what’s this development?” he asks both men, trying not to sound overly concerned though possibly eager for news about his wife’s whereabouts.

  Ignoring Goddard altogether, Kenward says, “Seems your brother has received a letter from your wife.”

  How peculiar, Archie thinks. The two have always had a pleasant relationship, but surely he must have misheard Kenward. “My brother?”

  Ke
nward consults his ever-present notepad. “Captain Campbell Christie, instructor at the Royal Military Academy at Woolwich. He is your brother, is he not?”

  “Yes, he is,” Archie answers guardedly.

  “You don’t seem particularly happy about this communique,” Kenward observes.

  “It’s, it’s just that—” Archie searches for an explanation. “I’m surprised. That’s all.”

  “Was your wife not in the habit of writing letters to your brother? Is that why you’re surprised?” Kenward launches into questions before Archie can even ask about the letter’s content.

  “She did not have a regular habit of corresponding with him that I’m aware of. Except perhaps the odd invitation to dinner or something along those lines.”

  “Would she address her letters to his place of work or home?”

  “I cannot say, given that she had no such habit to contact him at all. But if I had to venture a guess, I assume that she would address correspondence to his home.”

  “So this letter from your wife to your brother—if such a letter in fact existed—would be doubly strange, not only in the fact of its writing but in that Captain Christie told us that the letter was delivered to his office. Triply strange, actually, if you think about the fact that she wrote a letter to your brother, not you, her husband.”

  Kenward’s words send a momentary sense of relief through Archie; he still hasn’t heard about the letter Agatha left him. This realization preoccupies his thoughts until Goddard clears his throat, presumably at the inappropriate comment from Kenward. Or perhaps Goddard objects to Kenward’s tone? The deputy chief constable seems oblivious to Goddard’s signals, because he rambles on.

  “Apparently Captain Christie was unaware of your wife’s disappearance, so when he received a letter from her at his place of work yesterday, he did not think much of it. But when he saw the newspapers today, he reached out to your mother, Mrs. Hemsley, and told her. Curious…” he says.