I draw my shawl tightly around my shoulders—as if the delicate, embroidered fabric could serve as a protective shield—as the man takes a step toward me. “Might we have a private word over a drink?” he asks in a voice loud enough for the other gentlemen to hear.
His request disturbs the peacefulness I’ve enjoyed here at the Harrogate Hydro, and I desperately want to refuse. I know that if I acquiesce, my cocoon will be compromised. But I also know that if I decline, I cannot continue to cling to this unreal world. This is the moment to which I have been building.
“Just for a moment?” he asks, his blue eyes pleading.
I nod and lead him in the direction of the leather wingback chairs that are scattered around the lobby fireplace in sets of two. As we walk, I hear the clatter of heels, not only those belonging to me and the man but also the other two gentlemen. They are trailing behind us.
I purposefully stop midstep, causing one of them to nearly collide with me. The role I’m playing requires that I call them out.
Pivoting, I face them and ask, “May I help you?”
They glance at each other and then at the man, who nods. The heavier-set one says, “Please allow me to introduce myself, ma’am. My name is Detective Chief Constable Kenward of Surrey.”
“And you are?” I say into the awkward pause to the other, more meticulously dressed gentleman.
“I am Superintendent Goddard of Berkshire. It’s a pleasure to meet you, ma’am.”
“While it is nice to make your acquaintance”—I hesitate as I try to recall their names and titles exactly—“Detective Chief Constable Kenward and Superintendent Goddard, I must say, I am puzzled by your presence. You are both a long way from home, after all, and yet, you are uncomfortably close to me.” I force a giggle, as if the question I was about to ask was preposterous. “Am I in some sort of trouble?”
Kenward clears his throat and answers for both of them. “Not at all, ma’am. I think that perhaps once you two”—he gestures to the man with the blue eyes—“have had a chance to chat, the reason for our presence will become clearer. Are you comfortable being alone in the presence of this man while we wait over here?” The bulky police officer gestures to a lobby area that is near but not within earshot of the wingback chairs near the fireplace where the man and I had been heading before our little collision.
I nod after a brief, hesitant pause.
Before the officers sidle off, a familiar face inserts itself into our strange group. “What do we have here?” The elderly gentleman wags his finger at me as he glances at the three men in turn. “Are these ringers?”
The men give me a confused stare. Despite the odd tension between me and these men, I can’t help but laugh. Earlier today, over breakfast, I’d promised Mr. Wollesley a round of billiards after dinner. He has grown used to winning these nightly rounds, and I guess that the unexpected appearance of three rather burly men has him worried about his chances of success.
“Not to worry, Mr. Wollesley. Our billiards round will be as usual. Just you and I,” I reassure him with a broad smile. “And possibly Mrs. Robson.” I reference another hotel guest who joins us occasionally.
He returns my grin. “Well, that is a relief. I thought that perhaps you’d brought in the cavalry.”
“Not a chance. If I win tonight, it’ll be fair and square. Not that I’m expecting to win, mind you.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.” Mr. Wollesley looks at the gentlemen expectantly. Courtesy demands that I introduce them, a rule I have no intention of following.
“Will you please excuse us, Mr. Wollesley? My unexpected guests are here from out of town, and we may squeeze in a drink before dining.”
“Of course.” He gives us a little bow and then says, “Enjoy your dinner, Mrs. Neele.”
Chapter Forty-Six
Tuesday, December 14, 1926
Harrogate Hydro, Harrogate, England
Carefully choosing the seat that faces outward, I sit down, allowing the wingback chair to envelop me. I smooth the skirt of my georgette dress, tuck a curl behind my ear, and force a pleasant, expectant expression on my face. I hope I look attractive, I think, then chastise myself for the thought, as it shouldn’t matter what anyone but me thinks about my appearance. Then I wait for him to speak. I can hardly wait to hear what he has to say.
But he is speechless, it seems. His mouth opens and closes as if words are cycling through his mind but can’t quite decide whether they should form on his lips. I hold my tongue for a few long moments, but ultimately, it seems that nothing will emanate from his mouth. I am forced to take the helm, and I’m ready.
“Aren’t you happy to see me, Archie?” I ask my slack-jawed husband.
“Mrs. N-Neele? You’re calling yourself M-Mrs. Neele?” he stutters. Then his voice begins to rise. “What the devil are you on about, Agatha?”
“Do you mean by calling myself Mrs. Neele or in general?” I ask with a small smile. I know I shouldn’t bait him, but I cannot help myself. This moment has been long in coming. Keeping my tone even and light, I say, “You might want to wipe that anger from your face and replace it with a smile, Archie, or at least a look of concern. We may be out of the direct spotlight, but there are eyes everywhere.” I nod at a passing waitress and back at the police. “A man who misses his wife, a man who has been worried for eleven long days that she was dead, would be delighted and relieved when she resurfaced. He might even hold her hand or give her an embrace. If he had nothing to do with her disappearance, that is.”
Archie’s fists clench and unclench at his side, and anyone watching would see his fury mount rather than dissipate. As he works to manage his anger, I continue, “I’m certain you realize that photographers and journalists encircle the hotel? I saw them gather from my hotel room window before I came downstairs. And of course, there are police cars stationed outside from the local authorities as well as Kenward and Goddard’s men. I’m guessing that you are aware of this, despite the fact that they’ve sounded no alarms? So if you allow yourself to get angry, it will play right into everyone’s preconceptions about you.”
He doesn’t respond, and I didn’t expect that he would. My goal is simply to warn him against releasing the outburst clearly brewing within him. Not because I have any desire to protect him but because delaying his anger is important for the rest of my plan.
Instead, he says, “How could you?” The words are heavy with accusation.
His expression is incredulous, and I find his discomfort quite delicious.
“How could I? How could you? How could you have an affair with Nancy Neele? How could you leave me to my grief over my mother without a shred of emotion and then use that grief as an excuse for your affair? How could you abandon your family after asking so much of me?” I ask all of this quite calmly, making plain the irony of his comment.
His mouth opens and closes again as he considers and rejects any number of replies. I use his muteness as an opportunity to continue. I’ve been voiceless for far too long as it is.
“Perhaps I’ve misunderstood you, Archie. Are you asking not how could I use Nancy Neele’s name but how could I orchestrate my disappearance?” I pretend that he’s nodded. “Ah, well, that is an interesting question, isn’t it? But before I tell you the how, aren’t you curious about the why? Let’s reframe your question: Why did I orchestrate my disappearance?”
I pause, pretending to give him the opportunity to comment, but instead, I rush ahead. “You may think you know why, Archie. You may believe that I disappeared to punish you. But that would be incredibly narrow-minded and, unsurprisingly, very self-focused. The real why began the precise moment that you committed murder.”
“Murder?!” he practically shrieks, and I glance over to see if Kenward and Goddard have heard. They’re too busy whispering to each other. “Me, commit murder? What the hell are you talking about, Agatha? It’s you
that’s been framing me for a murder I didn’t commit, and your presence here today proves I didn’t harm you.”
Keeping my voice even and my face placid, I say, “You killed the innocent woman I once was—the one who believed she had a contented marriage and pleasant family life, the one who molded her entire existence around you and your happiness—just as surely as if you committed murder.”
“That’s, that’s not fair, Ag—”
As I speak to Archie, I’ve been keeping Kenward and Goddard in my peripheral vision. They’ve been hovering on the edge of the tearoom carpet, always respectfully far enough away that we can’t be overheard, engrossed in their own conversation. But now, they stop talking and begin to walk toward us.
I interrupt Archie. “Your detective friends will be here in a moment. I want you to tell them that we need more time alone, that I’m still suffering from amnesia. Just as I laid out in my letter to you. Follow the steps. All along, the timing and the actions you are meant to take—and not take—have been very clear.”
“Why should I? Now that you’ve reappeared, I won’t be a suspect in your death. And anyway, those bastards aren’t my friends.”
“Do you think I’ve reached the limit of my power? Do you imagine that my reemergence absolves you from all responsibility, that I don’t have another plan?”
Archie’s eyes narrow as he assesses me, seeing me—with all my capabilities and all my determination—for the first time. I’m not surprised by his reaction. Only recently have I come to understand the breadth of my power myself. Why would I expect Archie—with his narrow worldview—to be aware of my capacity sooner than I was?
“All right,” he agrees. “For now anyway, I’ll do as you’ve asked.”
Kenward’s heavy step thunders across the floor as he gets closer to us. I glance up as if noticing him for the first time. “Why, Detective Kenward and Superintendent Goddard, you’ve returned.”
“It’s Detective Chief Constable Kenward.” Kenward is quick to correct me.
“My apologies,” I say.
Goddard jumps in, his eagerness evident. “How are you two doing here?”
“I think we might go on to dinner alone. My wife and I need some more time to talk,” Archie answers for us both.
I force myself to go wide-eyed at the word wife and watch as Kenward and Goddard take note.
As if on cue, Archie continues, “You see, we need a bit more time to get reacquainted.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
Tuesday, December 14, 1926
Harrogate Hydro, Harrogate, England
“A table for two, please,” I hear Archie say to the maître d’hôtel, who glances at me quizzically. The little man in his fastidious evening attire, who reminds me of my fictional Hercule Poirot in some ways, has grown quite used to me dining alone over the past week with a book or a crossword puzzle for company and seems confused by this change in my habits. Only after dinner do I typically join other guests for a congenial turn at the piano or billiards.
I nod to indicate my assent.
“Right this way, Mrs. Neele,” he says, and I watch as Archie’s back stiffens at the name.
We don’t get very far. Just as we cross the threshold into the dining room—a formal cream-and-sage-green affair with a lovely glass ceiling—I feel a hand on my arm. “Mrs. Neele, you have a dinner guest. How very nice for you.”
It is Mrs. Robson, always nosy about the comings and goings of the hotel guests. Before I can answer or explain, she asks, “Does this mean you won’t be joining us for billiards?” I’d discussed a round of billiards with her and Mr. Wollesley for this evening.
“I’m afraid I won’t be able to play with you tonight,” I say and begin following the maître d’hôtel again. But she doesn’t leave.
“Is your guest visiting from South Africa as well?” she persists.
Archie glances at me as I answer, “No, I’m afraid not. Enjoy your evening, Mrs. Robson.” She finally accepts this signal of farewell and departs for her own dinner.
The maître d’hôtel leads us to a small table in the back corner, flanked by columns. It is discrete, and I couldn’t have chosen it better myself. From a distance, I see that Kenward and Goddard have positioned themselves in lobby chairs that have a view of the restaurant’s entrance. Are they watching to collect evidence or to ensure that neither of us escapes? I wonder.
As I sit in the upholstered dining chair that the maître d’hôtel pulls out for me, he asks, “Shall I bring you and your guest glasses of the red wine you’ve been enjoying, Mrs. Neele?”
“Yes, please,” I answer, watching Archie wince at the name.
We don’t speak as the waiter arrives and pours us each a glass of garnet-colored wine in the crystal glasses already set out on the table. As he busies himself at our table, I glance at the diners around us, well-heeled men and women here for the spa waters and treatments who are engrossed in themselves and each other. I must take care that they stay preoccupied and do not become drawn up in the exchange Archie and I are about to have.
When the waiter finally leaves, I take a long sip, and just as I’m about to launch into my prepared speech, I suddenly feel bashful, even wistful. A deep surge of longing for my daughter surfaces in Archie’s familiar company. “How’s Rosalind?” I ask.
“She doesn’t know anything about what’s happened, aside from a few snarky remarks by classmates, so she is fine,” he answers with surprising warmth. But then, I suppose he’s always cared more about Rosalind than me, even though he forbade me from feeling that way.
“Thank God.”
“Well, it’s certainly no thanks to you.” The warmth disappears from his voice, and bitter coldness takes hold again.
I catch myself about to apologize and launch into a long rationale for my behavior, and I stop. I mustn’t backslide into sentiment and old patterns of behavior with Archie. Instead, I allow the same iciness I hear in his tone to pervade my heart and voice. And I begin.
“Let’s return to the why of my disappearance before we turn to the how, shall we? Although in truth, the two are inextricably intertwined,” I say.
When he doesn’t speak but only glowers at me, I continue with my speech, one I’ve practiced over and over in the solitude of my hotel room. I’ve been building to this moment for much, much longer than the eleven days I’ve been missing, but now that it’s here, I must steel myself against my feelings and my years of pliability and softness for Archie.
“Why did I disappear, Archie? I told you earlier because it was the necessary consequence of your murder of me. This must sound confusing to you, because here I sit across from you, alive and in person. But the murder of which I speak is the murder of my authentic self—that vivacious, creative spirit you first met at Ugbrooke House all those years ago. You killed her bit by bit, over days and weeks and months and years of tiny injuries, until she’d grown so small and weak as to almost vanish. That person clung to life, however, in some far cavernous reach within me until you delivered your final savage blow on Rosalind’s birthday at Ashfield.”
“You’re not making a bit of sense, Agatha. Maybe your sanity went missing along with you,” he says with a rueful laugh.
I ignore his snide remark. “The story of that murder lies in the manuscript I sent you. Did you read it?”
He gives me a begrudging nod. “I had no choice. Your letter threatened dire consequences if I didn’t familiarize myself with those pages. And if I didn’t follow your instructions about how to handle your disappearance—which I did.”
“Good. I won’t ask if you enjoyed it, as I know it’s hard to read about oneself, if you are even self-aware enough to see yourself in those pages. I suppose some might call that manuscript an autobiography, although you and I know there’s a bit of fiction in there. Not in the way you are depicted, of course. No, not there. Although I suppos
e you fought against your portrayal when you read it; none of us like to see our unflattering truths laid bare.”
I see from his countenance precisely how distasteful he found my manuscript, but I note that he’s not arguing about his characterization. Not yet at least. “In those pages, I revealed myself—from the girl I’d been to the woman I changed into, as well as the wife and mother I became—and I demonstrated how that woman grew increasingly unpleasant to you. How you shrank from my emotions, how you flinched at my animated conversations, how your eyes glazed over in boredom over my books, how you recoiled at my touch. And I showed you how the parts you found distasteful were killed off, one by one, until there was almost nothing of me left. I sacrificed my relationship with Rosalind most of all, because you couldn’t stand to have any competition for your attention. Not that I blame you entirely, mind. Mummy always told me that you and your needs came first—before those of my child and before my own. And for a long time, I believed her.
“Imagine my surprise when the ideal wife I’d molded myself into—what you told me was ideal, anyway—wasn’t good enough. Imagine my astonishment when, even though I’d shed every real part of myself and transformed into your perfect woman—except the weight you tortured me about shedding, as I couldn’t—I was still intolerable to you. Then imagine the deadly shock you delivered when you informed me that, in fact, there was an idyllic companion for you out there, and it wasn’t me but a younger, prettier, meeker, more ‘appropriate’ woman named Nancy Neele.
“So you see, you murdered that pure Agatha, just as many people out there believed that you murdered the physical Agatha. Your affair was just the final blow in a murder that took place over a long, long time.”
“This is madness, Agatha. Pure fiction. Just like one of your silly books.” His voice is quiet, but his face reveals a thunderous rage.
The Mystery of Mrs. Christie Page 21
