Archie is irritated that his mother chose to discuss his personal business with his brother, and he is troubled by this peculiar letter from Agatha to Campbell. Why would she write to him? It’s not as if they were particularly close. And upon what did this strange letter focus?
Flustered at this turn of events, Archie instinctively asks, “What’s curious?”
“That your brother didn’t reach out to you directly to inform you about the letter,” Kenward answers, delighted that Archie took his little bait.
Archie could smack himself for walking directly into Kenward’s trap on that question. “My brother and I are not in any usual habit of communication, but he does speak with my mother regularly. I presume that he wanted to speak with her first about it. There’s nothing curious about that.” Archie redirects the conversation, asking, “How did you find all this out? I spoke with my mother early this morning, and she didn’t mention it.”
“Mrs. Hemsley rang my office late this morning when she could not reach you. I gather you were out?” he asks with a single raised eyebrow.
He knows about Scotland Yard, Archie thinks. Kenward’s gesture telegraphs his feelings about Archie’s visit to London, but what does this more inscrutable Goddard think? Will Archie be somehow punished for trying to go around the local authorities to Scotland Yard?
“What did the letter say?” Archie asks the expected question.
“Your brother said your wife made some reference to visiting a spa for ill health. But it’s strange,” Kenward comments and then pauses for a long moment. Archie will not be lured into inquiring again, so Kenward is forced to continue. “He threw out the letter, so we don’t know what she actually wrote. We only have his word for it—and his recollection.”
“I suppose it makes sense that he wouldn’t keep it, as he didn’t know she was missing.”
“True enough. Although he did make a point to keep the envelope in which the letter was posted. It’s all very peculiar.” He stares at Archie. “Perhaps your Friday morning argument is the reason for her feeling ill?”
Archie chooses to treat this as a rhetorical question. “What did the postmark show?”
“That the letter was postmarked at 9:45 a.m. on Saturday morning in the SW1 area of London, which means that it had been posted sometime in the early hours of Saturday. It suggests that she was alive and well on Saturday morning.”
Archie tries to tamp down his annoyance at his brother’s interference, likely prompted by his mother. The word stalwart from that damn letter his wife left him comes into his mind, and he tries to follow its directive: You will have to be stalwart, even when the road is rocky. In an effort to react as a worried husband might and yet still draw Kenward’s attention away from his thought about the existence of other letters, he says, “But it’s wonderful news, isn’t it? It shows that my wife is fine somewhere, perhaps even London. And we can stop this terrible search through the fields and forests.” He thinks but does not say that perhaps it will deter the reporters as well. Without the possibility of a gory body to find in the fields, maybe the story of Agatha’s disappearance will be less intriguing to them.
Kenward opens his mouth in protest, but Goddard inserts himself into the conversation. Finally. “You’re right, Colonel, this is a positive development, and it must be a massive relief to you. But we haven’t seen the letter, and we cannot be certain whether your wife wrote and posted it or someone did so on her behalf.” Goddard turns to Archie and says, “I don’t mean to upset you, sir, but we’ve got to think it through. Isn’t it possible that the letter was posted much earlier and postmarked later? And isn’t it also possible that Mrs. Christie entrusted someone else to post the letter? I was happy to see that this letter has come to light, but I’m not certain it’s dispositive on the timeline or on her whereabouts. Until we ascertain these facts—and actually locate her—we will have to continue with the search. It’s standard protocol.”
Even though this Goddard delivers the unpleasant news that the search will not cease—with all the attendant press coverage it generates—he shares it with a softer touch than Kenward. As if he thinks there might be a chance Agatha is still alive. As if, unlike Kenward, he hasn’t already decided that Archie murdered his wife.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The Manuscript
December 18, 1921
Ashfield, Torquay, England
“How lovely that Archie doesn’t mind you writing,” Mummy said. Sipping her steaming hot cup of tea, she sighed in satisfaction. Over the tea or my writing, I couldn’t be certain.
Mummy, Madge, and I were gathered around the worn, nicked tea table at Ashfield, a site shot through with memories. Madge had pushed for us to spend Christmas at her Dickensian manor, and in the past, the notion of retreating to Abney Hall, with its vast halls, endless nooks, and unexpected staircases and its decor of burnished woodwork and dusty tapestries, would have enticed. After all, Mummy and I had spent many wondrous holidays there with the Watts family after Papa died. But Archie felt uncomfortable at Abney, even though Madge’s husband and the entirety of the Watts family offered him nothing but an open-armed welcome, especially my dear friend Nan with whom I’d reconnected. Archie’s own background contrasted starkly with that of the Wattses’ heritage, and he perceived slights around every corner, even though I felt certain they were imaginary. This made an Abney Hall holiday difficult for me, so I’d entreated Mummy to host instead, and Madge and I had arrived at Ashfield early to help her with the holiday organizing and planning.
Madge exhaled cigarette smoke as she reclined on the sofa even further, ever assuming the pose of the confident older sister and first daughter. “Yes, I mean, imagine. Archie—of all people—allowing his wife to work.”
I knew better than to think Madge’s comment was a compliment; her barb about Archie’s lack of sophistication was hidden in plain sight. For the first time, I wondered if Archie’s sense of being mocked wasn’t paranoia after all. “Why ever should Archie mind if I write? It’s not as if it affects his daily existence in any way. I still arrange for his meals and dine with him every evening. The house and his wardrobe are well cleaned, and Rosalind is tended to beautifully. My writing is an invisible part of the fabric of our lives.”
I forced a confident smile upon my face, hoping to end this topic, as I knew it would devolve into a quarrel if the exchange went much further. Jealousy was motivating Madge’s thinly disguised critique. She was the one who’d shown the early promise in writing, getting her short stories published in Vanity Fair, and it irked her that I was now enjoying a modicum of writerly success. How apt were the title of those early short stories—Vain Tales—I thought to myself, and part of me was tempted to brag about the fifty pounds I was going to receive for the serialization of The Mysterious Affair at Styles from the Weekly Times. Shouldn’t I be able to share my small successes with my family in any event? But I swallowed the words, knowing that they would just exacerbate the situation.
“Oh, I can see that Archie is getting everything he needs,” Madge answered, not bothering to hide her snide smirk behind her cigarette.
I’d been willing to put aside her remarks the first time but not twice. Twice, she had to be called out and answer for herself. “What are you getting at, Madge?”
“Archie gets what he needs, but aren’t you stretched a little thin?” She took a long drag of her cigarette. “I’m just looking out for you, Little Sister.”
Madge’s attempt to hide her critique in the guise of protection of me was laughable. And insulting. “Your husband has allowed you to work when opportunity knocked,” I said. Then, because I couldn’t resist it, I added, “And if you had a book contract, I’m sure he would again.”
Her eyes narrowed as she understood my meaning. An angry spark ignited within those eyes, and she launched right back out into the battlefield. This time, using her financial superiority as a we
apon, she said, “Agatha, that’s completely different. I have a full staff.”
Sensing the sibling discord, Mummy interjected, “What matters is that Archie believes that he is the most important thing in your life, that he’s always made to feel first. Madge, it sounds like Agatha is doing exactly that”—she paused for a smile at her youngest daughter—“all the while managing a successful career. The serialization of The Mysterious Affair at Styles in the Weekly Times was quite a coup, Agatha, and I’m guessing a financially beneficial one as well, and I’m sure The Secret Adversary is the same. I only wish Auntie-Grannie had lived to see it.” Mummy’s eyes glistened with tears at the thought of her mother’s death, only a short while after Rosalind had been born. I was surprised to see this wellspring of emotion, because I’d always found their relationship to be cordial but not warm.
“At least she got to see Rosalind,” I offered, relieved that Mummy had taken the conversation by the helm and steered it to safer, more placid waters.
“Yes, that is something, isn’t it?” she replied.
Mummy’s efforts notwithstanding, Madge wasn’t going to let me win this little skirmish. “But we are ignoring the toll it must take on Agatha to perform this sleight of hand on a daily basis. To run the house, organize the meals, entertain the husband, oversee the child, while secretly writing books. On such a reduced staff.”
Enough, I thought to myself. Why can’t Madge let me have this one triumph? Can’t I enjoy the minor popularity of my two novels and magazine serials? Wasn’t it enough that she’d married into great wealth and had social standing I’d never attain as Mrs. Christie? Rage threatened to take hold as Madge clung on to her pretense of concern for my well-being, and I finally said, “It’s not a secret, Madge. I have Archie’s full support. And anyway, why are you speaking for me? I’m a grown woman, and if I tell you that I’ve reached a happy balance, then I have.” I hoped I sounded utterly self-assured, because in truth, some days, the so-called balance I’d struck overwhelmed me. Not that I’d ever let on to Archie, of course. Or Madge. I might be asked to stop writing, and I couldn’t do that, couldn’t let my family down.
“I think I know better than—” Madge continued.
“Girls, girls, that’s enough of your bickering,” Mummy interrupted with a rising tone. This was a familiar pattern. Madge ignited a heated discussion, and once I’d added fuel to the fire with my remarks, Mummy dampened the flames. She couldn’t tolerate dissension between her daughters.
Once we quieted, she reached out and squeezed each of our hands. “I am proud of both of my girls, and I’m tickled that you’re here at Ashfield with me for the holidays. This house has been empty of merriment for far too long.” She clapped her hands and practically squealed, “I know. Let’s play a game. We have an hour or so before Archie should arrive from the train—and then Rosalind and her nanny will undoubtedly be on the scene.” She wagged her finger at me. “Careful you don’t spoil the child, Agatha. You know a little neglect goes a long way.”
Ignoring Mummy—I’d heard her views about the importance of hands-off child-rearing often enough, which confusingly contradicted my own upbringing—I asked, “What shall we play?”
“Oh, I know,” Madge exclaimed. “Let’s play confessions.”
Mummy clapped with delight. “What a wonderful idea, Madge! It’s been an age since we played confessions.”
As we gathered the paper and pencils necessary to play the game, I was assigned scribe, and Mummy and Madge began calling out the categories in which we’d have to confess our truths. Favorite virtue, preferred color, beloved heroine, worst lie, present state of mind, perversion, chief characteristic, idea of happiness—the list went on and on. We laughed as we concocted our list and conjured up past remembrances playing with Father and Monty, who was due to return next year from whatever schemes he’d been up to in Africa. With all his absences, my brother was hardly part of my life, aside from whatever worries he caused Mummy with his gambling and dubious business deals.
Just as we settled down to play the game, one of the two remaining maids at Ashfield—the Marys—knocked on the door. “Mrs. Christie,” she called out through the crack in the door she’d just opened a sliver. “Mr. Christie rang. Work has detained him, and he will be arriving on the morning train instead of the one this evening.”
“Thank you, Mary,” I called back. I was disappointed, but what could I do?
Mummy eyed me and said, “Careful not to let him be alone too long, Agatha. He needs to be looked after.”
These last four words I repeated along with her. I’d heard them so much in my youth and my adulthood that I knew them by heart. “It’s not as if I’m in control of his work hours and obligations, Mummy. You know I tend to him whenever I’m given the chance.”
“I hope so,” she said. “And I hope you orchestrate chances so you can tend to him when he doesn’t present you with opportunities.”
Although she hadn’t joined us in this exchange, Madge now interjected. “Why don’t you ever say that to me, Mummy? That Jimmy needs to be looked after? That I shouldn’t leave him alone for too long? In fact, you encourage me to come visit you at Ashfield for long stretches even when you know Jimmy cannot join me.”
“Isn’t it obvious, Madge? You don’t need to follow my advice. Your husband isn’t uncommonly sensitive or uncommonly handsome.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Day Four after the Disappearance
Tuesday, December 7, 1926
Styles, Sunningdale, England
The dawn of a new day does nothing to diminish the search for his wife or the press’s relentless pursuit of information. As Archie studies the pile of local and national newspapers over breakfast, he sees that the thirst for details about his wife and her disappearance has only grown. It seems as though the search has become an end unto itself for these reporters rather than one step toward resolution.
He shakes his head at the speed with which the press gathers and disseminates material, thinking, not for the first time, that only inside access could yield some of the more intimate details. Although he has no proof—and doesn’t understand why—Archie suspects that Kenward has been predisposed against him from the start and has been feeding the press salient particulars, perhaps in the hope of smoking out a reaction from him. But Archie knows that it’s more than one reporter’s simple desire to beat a rival reporter to the latest tidbit about Agatha’s zippered purse or the color of her fur coat that is causing the frenzy. The idea that his missing wife—now mythologized into the beautiful novelist happily married to the handsome war hero—has turned into the victim in one of her own mystery books is an irresistible tale to reporters and their readers alike.
What in the name of God is he going to do? How will he maintain the facade of the concerned, loving husband for much longer? How can he ensure that his relationship with Nancy stays secret? Styles is at the center ring of a very public circus, and everyone is looking to him as if he’s the ringmaster. And a caring ringmaster at that.
He rubs his pounding temples, searching for relief from his stress and the noise, when the dining room door opens with a slam, sending a stabbing pain across his brow. Who dare burst past the guards Kenward installed to protect Archie and Rosalind from the aggressive throngs of reporters staked outside Styles? Kenward explained that the guards were for their protection, but Archie suspects that the constable assigned the guards primarily to keep an eye on him.
It’s Kenward, of course. He brushes past the housemaid, Lilly, who has admitted him, and strides directly to face Archie. Goddard glides into the room in Kenward’s wake, an apologetic half smile on his face for the interruption.
“Will you be coming to the dredging? We’ve got to get started, you know. We have men and equipment lined up, so we can’t lollygag, Colonel,” Kenward barks, which elicits a wince from Goddard. “We’ve been standing around waiting f
or you.”
“The dredging?” Archie is confused. What is Kenward on about now? “I’m not certain I understand.”
“I know I told you. How could you forget?” Kenward says with a roll of the eye. “We are slated to drag nets through the Silent Pond and the Albury Mill Pond today. Just in case Mrs. Christie fell into one of the ponds after wandering around once her car broke down.” Either Kenward doesn’t comprehend the horrific scene he is painting for Archie, or planting that image in his thoughts is precisely Kenward’s goal.
Whatever his intention, even Goddard seems repelled. “Deputy Chief Constable Kenward, I think that might be a bit much. Perhaps Colonel Christie could sit this one out. We are talking about his wife, after all.”
Kenward looks over at Goddard as if he’s just realized he’s in the room. “But Colonel Christie could help identify the bo—” Goddard shoots him a scathing glance, and Kenward changes course. “Ah, yes. I see. I suppose it might be a good idea to stay behind.”
“Here’s an idea, Deputy Chief Constable Kenward. What if Colonel Christie spent that time with me? You have the dredging well in hand, and Mr. Christie and I haven’t had much of a chance to talk one-on-one about the investigation and the events leading up to the disappearance.” Goddard turns to him. “Is that agreeable to you, Colonel?”
If I have to spend the morning with another policeman, it’s more palatable, he thinks as he nods in agreement, to spend it with one who hasn’t already decided I’m a murderer.
Once Kenward and his men leave and Lilly pours fresh, steaming tea into the china teacups, Archie settles into his study chair and submits to another round of questioning. He assumes that it will resemble all the others—a barrage of inquiries focused on his whereabouts and those of his wife on the day she disappeared in a vain attempt to catalogue and comprehend each of their movements of the fateful Friday night. The police seem to believe that only then will they learn what’s happened to his wife. But Goddard doesn’t seem to be like the other officers.
The Mystery of Mrs. Christie Page 11
