I stayed ensconced in Ashfield, which had become a repository of memories, a museum of the lives once lived here rather than a house brimming with life itself. Every one of its five bedrooms, the library, the study, the dining room, and the sunroom brimmed with boxes of remembrances, some of which had been locked away for years as the space Mummy inhabited at Ashfield dwindled. Only the two sad rooms in which she’d existed in her final months were free of the detritus of bygone times. In the weeks after her passing, as we decided what to do with our family home, I became the cataloguer and caretaker of Ashfield’s past.
I never knew what a box might contain. It might be stacked with letters between Mummy and Papa from their courtship days. It could be crammed with moth-eaten evening gowns Mummy had worn on balmy Torquay evenings. It might be stuffed with old board games and the Album of Confessions that recorded years of our family pastimes. It could be heaped with Auntie-Grannie’s possessions, including lengths of silk she’d been saving for some long-past ball. With each fresh opening, I was assaulted by the past.
But I continued, burying my tears for Rosalind’s benefit. I plowed through the piles and the trunks and boxes without comfort from anyone, not even my husband. I tried to bolster my dark moments and growing disappointment over Archie with my mother’s words—if you put aside unworthy thoughts about your husband and cast your eyes upon him lovingly, you will earn his love—but then I remembered that the sage advice came from my mother, and I was plunged back into my grief. Yet I persevered.
Although the smell of mold was ever-present at Ashfield, the scent was magnified by the day’s storms. I tried to ignore it as I worked my way through the trunks in the dining room and the serving items stashed in sideboards and cupboards, but it became overwhelming, and I had to avoid certain hallways and back rooms as the rainwater started to trickle down the walls. I had to retire to the kitchen, because there, the aroma of cooking masked some of the smell of decay.
Rosalind was holed up in the corner, using pencils and a sketchbook on the rough wooden kitchen table in front of her. “Will it ever be sunny again?” she asked.
I sat across from her and held her small hands tightly. “Of course, darling,” I reassured her, but I wondered myself. The Torquay of my childhood seemed an endless blur of bright days and sparkling waves, but Torquay now seemed plagued by endless rain instead. Rosalind had been confined to the house for days, and even though she was a serious child who busied herself with projects of her own making, it was becoming tedious. “I think we shall have sun tomorrow. And we will play on the beach, I promise.”
She sighed and returned to her drawing. “All right, Mama.”
“Thank you for being such a good girl while I’m occupied with this work, Rosalind.”
“You’re welcome,” she said without glancing up from her sketch. “I just wish Papa was here to play with me on the weekends.”
I thought she hadn’t noticed Archie’s ongoing absence. How perceptive she is, I thought. “Me too, but I’m enjoying our summer together, Rosalind,” I said. While this unexpected time alone with my daughter hadn’t exactly bonded us as I’d been bonded to Mummy, the absence of Charlotte and Archie had yielded a certain understanding and camaraderie between us.
She gifted me with a small smile, and I felt a surge of triumph. Perhaps this period wasn’t all mourning and black thoughts. Perhaps a strong connection had indeed been forged.
Peter interrupted this notion with his barking, and when it didn’t cease, I wondered what rodent he was chasing now. Rosalind and I had found him staring down any number of squirrels and badgers over the course of the summer. I rose from the table and stared out the kitchen window, wondering if I’d have to hire a gardener to help with the pests and the overgrown lawn.
But Peter wasn’t hunting down an animal. He was barking at the arrival of my sister, who’d just pulled into Ashfield’s drive in her silver Rolls-Royce. For all the jealousies and rivalries that had passed between us over the years, all I felt in that moment was love and relief.
I ran out of the house. “Madge, you’re finally here!” I cried and embraced her as soon as she stepped out of her automobile.
“What a welcome, Agatha! I must say I hadn’t expected such a warm one after leaving you here on your own to sort out this mess over the summer.”
I closed the door for her and linked my arm through hers, and we strode into the house together, each carrying one of her suitcases. “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”
Despite her long drive and the August heat, Madge was impeccably dressed as always, in a sleeveless silk drop-waist dress with a navy cardigan slung over her shoulders like a scarf.
“Of course I’m here. Haven’t I agreed to stay with Rosalind while you and Archie holiday in Italy? Did you forget?” Madge looked at me, a concerned expression in her eyes.
When Archie had repeatedly offered up excuses for not coming to Ashfield—either that the general strike kept him working on weekends or that the travel expense was a waste of money as we’d see each other soon—he’d vowed to organize a trip to Italy for the two of us, and Madge and I had arranged for her to come the day before Rosalind’s seventh birthday. Archie promised to come to Ashfield to celebrate the birthday, then together, he and I would leave for Italy while Madge watched Rosalind and took over the chore of sorting through Ashfield.
How had I forgotten today was the day? I wondered. I’d lost track of time as I’d become more and more immersed in Ashfield’s past, and I hadn’t realized until she pulled up that the date for Madge’s arrival had come. Not that the time had passed quickly, mind. There were many afternoons I thought would never end and several long nights where I sobbed until dawn. But time didn’t feel exactly linear when I was knee-deep in years gone by, and I’d quite forgotten the calendar, even this journey.
Despite having stayed up late, sharing with Madge the treasures I’d discovered, I arose the next morning before dawn, my stomach churning with anticipation. To pass the hours until I heard the sound of Archie’s car wheels on gravel, I prepared breakfast, tidied the areas of the house I’d cleared of boxes, and then, while Madge played with Rosalind in the garden, I began wrapping her birthday presents. I almost didn’t notice when the Delage pulled up in front of Ashfield, but I jumped up in time to meet Archie at the door.
Mindful of his reaction when he returned to Styles from Spain after Mummy’s funeral, I greeted him with a light kiss on the cheek instead of a powerful embrace. But even this mild welcome seemed to overwhelm him. He recoiled from my touch.
“Hello, Agatha,” he said in a stilted voice, almost as if he were greeting a business colleague he’d never met instead of his wife whom he hadn’t seen in months. It was as if we were strangers.
As footsteps clipped down the hallway behind me, I realized something was terribly wrong. I didn’t have the opportunity to inquire, because Rosalind came rushing into the entryway. “Papa, Papa!” she cried, making clear that her allegiances hadn’t changed over these summer months.
Archie swung her around, suddenly warm and loving. This sea change in his attitude telegraphed an important message to me, but I couldn’t yet work out the lettering. I reached for Madge’s hand, and she gripped it tight, sensing my alarm.
Gently, he placed Rosalind back down on the floor and turned to me. “Agatha, may we talk in private?” he asked.
“Of course,” I answered, although I thought his request was strange and disconcerting. What did he need to discuss that he couldn’t reveal in front of Rosalind or Madge? And why must the discussion be undertaken the moment he walked into Ashfield?
He followed me into the library, and I closed the door behind us. I’d forgotten that this room, once a favorite where I spent long, lazy afternoons pulling books at random from the bursting shelves, was now devoid of furniture. We were forced to stand and converse.
He looked at me wit
h his bright-blue eyes. “I haven’t done anything about organizing a holiday for us in Italy. I don’t feel like going abroad.”
I felt momentarily relieved. Perhaps this was the source of his strange behavior: he was worried how I might react to this failure in planning. I rushed to reassure him. “It doesn’t matter, Archie. It’ll be just as nice for the two of us to holiday in England. Or even stay here at Ashfield with Rosalind. It’s been so long since we’ve been together as a family.”
“I don’t think you quite understand.” Beads of sweat formed on his forehead, and I gathered this perspiration wasn’t due to the heat. My own back started to sweat as nerves began to assume control. Something was wrong. “You know that dark girl who used to be Belcher’s secretary? We had her down to Styles once with Belcher, about a year ago, and we’ve seen her in London once or twice.”
Why was he mentioning this inconsequential girl? Someone we’d only met a few times? She was pleasant enough—dark hair and eyes, midtwenties perhaps—but rather bland overall. She’d once served as secretary to Major Belcher of the Empire Tour fame, and she’d been part of a large group we’d invited to a party at Styles. “Yes, I know who you’re talking about. I can’t remember her name. She visited Styles with a crowd.”
“Nancy Neele,” he said, his cheeks flaming red. “Her name is Nancy Neele.”
“Yes, that’s it,” I said, but I wondered what she could possibly have to do with whatever unpleasant news he was about to deliver. I simultaneously wanted and didn’t want him to make his terrible announcement.
“Well, I’ve spent quite a lot of time with her during my summer in London.” His voice dropped to a near whisper, and his eyes were focused upon the black-and-white marble parquet floor.
“Well, why shouldn’t you? Some company to share the occasional meal while you’re on your own.” Was this flirtation his awful news? A guileless dalliance was certainly better than the cancer or the firing I’d envisioned. I wasn’t delighted that my husband was carrying on innocent tête-à-têtes with a girl of twenty-five when his own wife of twelve years had suffered the greatest loss of her life all alone. Anger flared in me, but I knew better than to express it. His news could have been far worse.
“I don’t think you understand, Agatha. This isn’t some innocent friendship. I’ve fallen in love with Nancy.” Finally, he looked at me directly. In those vivid blue eyes, I saw his disgust in me. His disappointment in my aging looks and heavier body, different from Nancy’s sweet, youthful visage and curvaceous but thin physique. His revulsion at my wild mourning for Mummy when Nancy was discreet and quiet in her manner. In an instant, I saw how the two of them fell in love over hushed, intense candlelit meals in London and on the golf course in Sunningdale. “I did tell you once that I hate it when people are ill or unhappy. It spoils everything for me. It spoiled us, Agatha.”
Was this meant to be his apology for an affair? I wondered, horrified and shocked at his words. If so, it was a poor one indeed. But then I realized from his expression and his tone that this was no apology; it was barely an explanation. If anything, it was an announcement.
“I want a divorce as soon as possible.” His tone brooked no hesitation.
With those words, I crumbled to the library floor, and my existence crumbled along with me.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Day Eight after the Disappearance
Saturday, December 11, 1926
Styles, Sunningdale, England
The laughter in the kitchen draws Archie’s attention. Since the police turned it into their central command, much to the cook’s chagrin, since she must still prepare meals there, it has hardly been a place of merriment. What on earth could be raucously amusing to ten policemen? Particularly after they’d just been chastised by Home Secretary Joynson-Hicks for not making faster progress?
He is supposed to be preparing a verbatim reconstruction of Agatha’s last letter to him—a task he will never undertake—but curiosity gets the better of him. He pads away from his study down the hallway toward the kitchen. Standing behind a thick wall near the butler’s pantry, he listens to the exchange.
“Come on, guv,” a youthful-sounding policeman with a particularly thick accent says. “You’ve got to be jokin’ us.”
Kenward’s familiar voice booms back. “Mind your p’s and q’s, Stevens. We might not be in police headquarters, but that doesn’t give you liberty to forget your rank and manners. Not to mention we’re operating out of someone’s home, so you should be especially mindful. There are children within earshot.”
“Sorry, sir. Your announcement made me forget myself,” the young policeman apologizes.
Kenward resumes where he must have left off. “I am deadly serious. We got a public scolding from the home secretary yesterday. He’s telling everyone we’re dragging our heels with this investigation, which, as we know all too well, couldn’t be further from the truth. You boys have been working around the clock, and some of you haven’t seen your families for days. But Joynson-Hicks has called for those London bluebottles—damn Scotland Yard—to step in if we don’t get results soon. So it’s all hands on deck to find this woman. But in the meantime, if Joynson-Hicks thinks Conan Doyle should be one of the hands on deck, it’s not our job to question his decision.”
Kenward couldn’t possibly be talking about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Archie thinks. Why on earth would the home secretary think that Sherlock Holmes’s creator could help find Agatha? The very idea was preposterous. There must be some other Conan Doyle.
The kitchen grows loud with the buzz of the police officers chatting among themselves. Archie can hear a few men chuckling and one bold fellow call out “Sherlock Holmes” until Kenward yells, “Pipe down now, men. We’ve got work to do, and the pressure is on. Today, we start planning the largest manhunt England has ever seen. We launch the Great Sunday Hunt tomorrow, and we’ll mobilize not only the police from all neighboring counties but also any volunteer who wishes to pitch in. We expect thousands to show up.”
One bold officer ventures a question. “Um, sir, before we begin planning our manhunt, do you mind telling us what Sir Arthur Conan Doyle said? If he made any important contributions, I’m sure we’d all like to know.” His voice is hesitant; he knows he’s risking Kenward’s ire.
The detective chief constable lets out an audible sigh and then says, “I’ve been told that the home secretary contacted the famous writer through a mutual acquaintance. I believe Joynson-Hicks thought the writer might share the same skills as his famous detective. But when the home secretary asked the writer for his aid, Conan Doyle—who seems to be some sort of occultist—offered to consult a psychic friend on Mrs. Christie’s whereabouts. This psychic person, a fellow by the name of Horace Leaf, held one of Mrs. Christie’s gloves—”
One of the men interrupts, “One of the gloves we found in the Morris Cowley?”
“Now, what did I just tell you men about your p’s and q’s? You interrupted me, Sergeant.” Kenward’s voice is angry again.
“Sorry, sir,” the chastened policeman says.
“Yes, it was one of the gloves we found in her automobile,” Kenward says. “Where was I? Ah, yes. Without being told anything about the person who’d owned the glove, this Mr. Leaf said that the person who owns that glove is not dead but is half-dazed. According to the psychic, she’ll surface next Wednesday. For whatever that’s worth.”
Ironic, Archie thinks, that the esteemed Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has been called in to assist in locating Agatha, given her adoration of the author.
Kenward clears his throat. “Now back to business. Planning this manhunt. Cooper and Stevens, I want you two on flyers—”
Archie hears the clatter of shoes and turns around. Rosalind has arrived home after a walk with Charlotte and her sister Mary. His daughter’s cheeks are ruddy from the cold, and she has a smile on her lips that disappears when she sees
him. He doesn’t want them to know that he’s been eavesdropping or that he’s worried about the investigation in any way, so he tries to explain away his presence near the kitchen. “Have any idea where Cook is, Charlotte? I’d welcome another cup of tea this morning, and I can’t seem to find Lilly.”
“I believe Cook’s gone to the market, Colonel Christie. She’s altered her usual schedule and now does her shopping while the police hold their morning meeting. Less disruptive, I think. And less upsetting,” Charlotte says, not meeting his eyes.
Archie hasn’t thought about the staff being upset by Agatha’s disappearance; he’s been too focused on his own standing in the investigation to muse upon other people’s reactions other than Rosalind. Are they indeed worried about her? Should he say a few words to the staff? There is no protocol for this sort of thing, but he wants to behave in a manner befitting a man anxious about his wife. He must.
Charlotte stares at him, as do her sister and Rosalind. He forgot them as he mused on the other staff members. They are waiting for him to respond, and he needs to say something. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Rosalind pulls on Charlotte’s hand, and she looks over at his daughter in relief. She can’t wait to get away from him, he sees, and from the sour expression on her face, neither can her sister. How he wishes he never invited Mary to Styles. But he can’t dwell on that now, as he must discuss something with Charlotte.
The Mystery of Mrs. Christie Page 17
