Agatha moved towards the door. ‘I’m heading back too,’ she said, firmly.
‘But –’ Sylvia was giving her a firm look. ‘What about Robert?’
Agatha looked at Robert, who returned her gaze.
Mary gave a little wave. ‘I must get on with the horses, dear,’ she said. ‘But I’ll see you for our outing, on Wednesday, won’t I?’
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world.’ Agatha returned her wave, then turned back to Robert.
‘Dear Mrs. Christie was going to help you talk to the police,’ Sylvia interjected.
He turned to her. ‘I’m perfectly all right, Auntie Sylvia,’ he said. ‘And the police have had all the information from me that they require.’ He glanced towards the officer, who had returned to his post by the library and who now gave a cheerful nod.
‘Oh.’ Sylvia stood in the middle of the hall. ‘Well, in that case …’ Her hands went to her coat pockets, retrieving her gloves once more. The party moved towards the front door. There was a gathering of coats, a picking up of bags, the crunch of shoes on the gravel drive as they left the vicarage. ‘Even so, I do think we should visit my friend Mrs. Cohen.’
‘Mrs. Cohen?’ Agatha said.
‘My friend who works so selflessly in the East End clinics. I think she might be able to shed further light on these events. Would tomorrow be convenient for you?’
‘Sylvia. You really don’t need me,’ Agatha said.
Sylvia’s eyes were wide with indignation. ‘Agatha, dear, you can’t leave us now. As far as I can see, the plot is thickening even as we speak.’
Agatha’s expression hardened. ‘I am not interested in plots,’ she said. ‘Not real life ones, anyway.’
‘You mean, you would be if this was a story, just a work of fiction?’ Sylvia’s tone had a certain harshness. ‘Well, perhaps you should look at it that way,’ she said.
‘You mean, for you it’s just a bit of fun?’ Agatha met her gaze.
Sylvia hesitated. ‘No, of course not. It’s just …’
‘I am not a detective,’ Agatha Christie said.
‘No, of course, I understand that.’
There was a silence. The vicar had gone back indoors. Arthur had disappeared round to his workshop. A chill breeze whispered through the rhododendron bushes.
It was Robert who broke the silence. He had been standing, quietly, behind them, and now he spoke.
‘Mrs. Christie,’ he said. ‘If I might have a word …?’
Sylvia flashed him a glance, but he had taken hold of the sleeve of Agatha’s coat and now led her away towards the garden.
‘I don’t know how to begin my explanation,’ he said. ‘And I don’t want to inconvenience you in any way … but there is more to this than it seems. I fear that it is very likely that I shall be inculcated in the death of my friend. I fear that it shall come to pass that the finger of blame will be levelled at my head. And I did not kill him, Mrs. Christie. I am asking you to believe me.’
Agatha took in the intense blue gaze, the thin, nervous face.
‘Mr. Sayer,’ she began. ‘I’m sure there is no question that you killed him.’
His expression was anguished. ‘We have been colleagues for these last few months. And very good friends.’ He took hold of her hands in both his own. ‘Forgive me, Mrs. Christie, but I need your help. You alone can rescue me from this unfortunate situation.’
‘Mr. Sayer,’ she said. ‘I am not a detective.’
‘But you are a kind, intelligent woman,’ he said. ‘And you know an innocent man when you see one.’
‘You are rather speaking in riddles,’ she said.
‘I hope that soon I will be able to speak more clearly,’ he replied. ‘Please – please come with us to Bethnal Green in the morning.’
In Agatha’s mind, she saw the image of her desk, waiting in her sunlit study. She saw the notebooks heaped upon it, the words traced across the paper, and within the words the characters all assembled, all waiting for their story to unfold, all waiting to speak the words that she will place upon their lips. Robert had let go of her hands and stood, waiting too. His eyes were pleading, tearful, almost.
‘Tomorrow,’ she said to Robert, ‘Tomorrow I shall come with you. And then, after that, I shall go back to my work.’
Chapter Three
Sylvia left her at the vicarage gate, pleading errands, ‘I’d love to accompany you, Mrs. Christie, but I promised Mrs. Edwards some advice on her delphiniums, and I’m already later than I said I’d be …’
Agatha walked alone along the lane.
This trip to London tomorrow. I could always back out of it, she thought. I could spend a quiet afternoon in the study, getting to grips with this new novel, and then tomorrow I can really get started on the opening chapters.
She thought of the young curate, his intense, troubled gaze.
I suppose it won’t take long. A morning in London.
It occurred to her that she needed some tea, and Archie was talking about buying a new watch, she could have a look in Burlington Arcade –
A woman ran across her path, pursued by a man. He seemed to be shouting at her, calling her name, ‘Bertha – listen to me –’
The woman was tall and dressed in black, her skirts flowing behind her as she ran. The man caught up with her, grabbed her elbow, and she attempted, feebly to shake him off.
Agatha was by now only a few feet away from them.
‘May I help?’ she said. She realized as she approached that they were both familiar. She’d seen the woman the day before, buying eggs at the dairy. And as for the man, she’d noticed him driving a new and shiny motor-car through the village a couple of times during the previous week.
They both stared at her. The man, with a polite, gentlemanly gaze. The woman, tearful and hostile.
The woman was shaking her head, but the man let go of her elbow and offered his hand to Agatha.
‘Clifford Fullerton,’ he said. ‘And you must be Mrs. Christie.’
She shook the outstretched hand and gave a brief nod.
‘And this is Miss Wilkins. I was just offering her a lift home. If you’ll excuse us …’ His voice tailed away. His hand went back to the woman’s arm. ‘We really must be going.’
He led Miss Wilkins away towards his motor-car which was parked further up the lane. Her steps were drooping and slow, as she bowed to his will. Agatha watched her get into the passenger seat, watched as he started the engine, revved it loudly, then drove away, up the lane away from the village.
*
The morning dawned drizzly and cold. Agatha saw Archie off to work. She played with little Rosalind, handed her, reluctantly, to Sefton, gave Alice the maid her orders for the day, then gazed with longing at the pile of paper on her desk in the study. There was a letter from her publishers worrying about Belgian characters, what with the memories of the War, and saying that a cheerful British chap might prove more popular. It occurred to her that Inspector Jerome was hardly what one might call cheerful. She was finding his moping around after Bunty Flowers rather wearing. Perhaps once the murder investigation gets under way he’ll find some vim, she thought. So far she’d mapped out that it involved two sisters, one of them now grief-stricken. Maybe I should write that scene first, she thought.
She was rather looking forward to sitting down with them again, but she knew that Sylvia would be calling for her to go to the station in half an hour, and she had to find a raincoat, an umbrella and suitable shoes for rain-soaked London streets.
*
The Charterhouse Mother and Baby Clinic was situated within a much older building, tucked away from the busy traffic of the Bethnal Green Road.
‘I mean, a medieval gatehouse is all very well, but a clinic really ought to be more hygienic,’ Sylvia said, as she strode through the archway, Agatha and Robert close behind. ‘I’ve told Matilda my feelings, and I’m sure she agrees with me. Don’t you?’ she said, loudly, as a woman approached them, arm outstr
etched in greeting.
‘Don’t I what?’ Matilda Cohen was tall and upright, her dark hair loosely piled into a bun, her skirt almost at her ankles, with a bright velvet jacket made from fabric that looked as if it had been destined for curtains before being stolen away by a maker of ladies’ fashion.
‘I was saying …’ Sylvia looked around her, as they made their way through the courtyard towards the entrance. ‘That you could do with some lovely hygienic new building rather than all this ...’
The courtyard was crowded with families, mothers with prams, some holding their children. Agatha saw faces smudged with grime and wide, hungry eyes.
‘We do our best,’ was all Matilda would say.
They went through the doorway, which gave on to a wide corridor. This, too, was lined with people, mostly women, the occasional man.
As they walked along the corridor, Mrs. Cohen explained the nature of the clinic’s work, the importance of teaching these mothers how to feed their children nutritious food, to teach basic cooking skills so that even on a small income, the family might be able to eat better. Agatha began to feel glad she’d come.
‘And dear Cecil was a godsend to us,’ Mrs. Cohen was saying. ‘I don’t know how we’ll manage without him. Such terrible news, we were so deeply shocked. Mind you, he was rather distracted these last few days, of course.’
‘Distracted?’ Agatha asked. They’d reached an office, a small, disorderly space with paper piled on all the furniture, even on the old leather chairs. Another woman was there, with short, grey hair and a neat grey suit. ‘This is Mrs. Solomon,’ Mrs. Cohen said. ‘My cousin.’
Mrs. Solomon laughed, a merry, easy laugh.
Agatha was aware of Robert standing nervously at her side.
‘Why was Cecil distracted?’ she tried again.
Mrs. Cohen turned to her. ‘Oh? I thought you’d know. Breaking off that relationship of his. I think people thought they were engaged, but it was not to be.’
‘So terribly sad,’ Mrs. Solomon said, serious now. ‘He was destined for great things. So talented with the children here, and all the chaps who worked with him at the hospital spoke so highly of him.’
‘I was never sure about that woman,’ Mrs. Cohen said. ‘She was a lot older than he was. If I were his mother, I must say I’d be rather relieved.’
‘Oh, me too,’ Mrs. Solomon said.
‘Not that he had a mother,’ Mrs. Cohen said.
A sombre mood settled on the room. ‘And of course, we were to blame,’ Mrs. Solomon said, suddenly.
‘Because they met here,’ Mrs. Cohen said.
Mrs. Solomon nodded. ‘Miss Wilkins was training as a nurse and did an attachment here. That’s how they met.’
‘Miss Wilkins?’ It was Sylvia who spoke. ‘Bertha Wilkins?’
Both women turned to her. They nodded.
Sylvia shifted uncomfortably, and Agatha had the impression that she was not enjoying being told something about the village that she did not already know.
‘So, this Cecil,’ Sylvia said. ‘You looked after him?’
‘Well, when someone has so little family of their own –’ Mrs. Cohen said.
‘– and we have so much to spare,’ Mrs. Solomon added. Both women laughed.
‘And Miss Holgate?’ Agatha asked.
‘Miss Holgate?’ Mrs. Cohen looked uncomprehending.
‘The young lady at the vicarage,’ Sylvia prompted. ‘They said you’d found her.’
‘Oh. Yes. One of our helpers here. You remember,’ Mrs. Solomon nudged her cousin. ‘Gwendoline. Sweet girl, terribly poor, there was a request from Windlesham Parish for a filing clerk, and we found her the post there.’
‘Ah, yes.’ Mrs. Cohen glanced at Agatha. ‘How awful that this should happen when she’s just started. Still, she’s made of stern stuff. I’m sure she’ll get on with it.’
‘If you know of any other likely young women,’ Sylvia began, but was interrupted by a knock on the door.
A young man in a white coat put his rather timorous head around the door. ‘Ladies,’ he began, shyly. ‘The doctor is here about the vaccination programme …’
‘Ah yes –’
‘Of course –’
There was bustle, busyness, the shifting and sorting of heaps of paper, a move towards the door.
‘So kind of you to come,’ Mrs. Cohen was saying.
‘So kind,’ her cousin echoed.
‘Such a waste of a talented young man,’ Mrs. Cohen said, shaking hands, moving away along the corridor.
Agatha, Robert and Sylvia found themselves outside, standing by the medieval gate.
‘Well.’ Sylvia pulled on her gloves, emphatically. She began to walk ahead, leading the way towards the main road.
Robert turned to Agatha. ‘I knew it,’ he said. ‘I knew that something had happened with Bertha.’ His voice was deliberately low so that only she could hear. He stood close beside her and continued, ‘I believe Bertha to be unstable. Twice now she’s come to the vicarage, very upset, wanting to speak to the vicar. They closet themselves away, and she leaves about half an hour later, creeping out of the kitchen garden like a ghost. Frankly,’ he said, turning to follow Sylvia, ‘I was glad when Cecil said he wasn’t going to have anything more to do with her. But then … but then things got so much more serious. So dreadfully serious …’ His voice cracked. Agatha got the impression his eyes had filled with tears, but he was ahead of her now, catching up with Sylvia, and she couldn’t be sure.
‘We really are none the wiser.’ Sylvia’s voice carried above the noise of the London traffic, the horses, carts, and motor-cars. ‘Apart from this matter of a romantic liaison, which I have to say I knew nothing about … I can’t imagine it was that important,’ she finished. ‘Miss Wilkins has only recently come to stay in her poor sister’s house. I can’t see how she believed herself to be engaged to Mr. Coates after such a short time.’
‘They met here, though,’ Agatha said. ‘Isn’t that what Mrs. Cohen said? It might have been going on longer.’
Sylvia considered this, standing stock still amidst the city crowds. Then she shrugged, as if the very idea was now dismissed. ‘I think we should hail a cab, don’t you? We’re on the wrong side of town here, and it would be nice to get back to civilization.’
*
That evening the rain eased and the sky cleared. Archie lit a fire in the sitting room grate. They sat in silence, enjoying the after-dinner quiet. Rosalind was long since tucked up and sleeping in the nursery and Peter the dog was dozing on the hearthrug.
Agatha put down her notebook and stared at the low, flickering flames. Robert had been silent all the way home, as the suburbs of London had given way to the open green Berkshire fields, and she’d wondered why he had been so keen to visit the clinic, and why he’d been so insistent that she come too.
‘I suppose you can get some ideas from all this.’ Her husband’s voice interrupted her thoughts.
She looked up. ‘From all what?’
‘This adventure with the poor boy at the vicarage. If your publishers want another of your books, Thingie and Whatsername, or that French chap –’
‘He’s Belgian,’ she said, firmly.
‘Well, there you are,’ he said. ‘A body in the library. A secret love affair. A poor young man’s life cut short …’
Her voice was firm. ‘Archie, I make it up. I’ve had no need to borrow from real life. And I don’t intend to start now.’
He blinked at her tone. After a moment, he went back to reading the paper. She listened to the rustle as he folded the pages back. She looked down at her notebook. The page was almost blank, but she’d written the words, ‘creeping like a ghost’.
Chapter Four
The clear night gave way to a cloudless morning. Agatha walked towards the railway station. Her mother had admired a lavender plant in her garden on a recent visit, and Agatha had promised her that she’d try to find one for her garden too, and she was on her way to
ask Mr. Selby about a cutting.
The path led out of the village and up the hill. There was spring sunshine and birdsong. ‘Now, you will make sure you don’t tie yourself to your desk, won’t you?’ Archie’s parting words rang in her mind. He’d been saying such things rather frequently, as if the idea of his wife sitting at her writing desk was somehow troubling to him. But he’d greeted her recent modest success with pleasure, and his calculations of her potential royalties bordered on obsessive.
I will tell him I walked all the way to the garden nurseries and back, she thought.
Ahead of her a figure crossed her path. Agatha recognised the long black skirts, the bowed head. This time Miss Wilkins had a black bonnet shading her face against the sunlight. She stayed ahead of her, walking fast, and Agatha quickened her pace to keep her in sight.
The path led out of the village, towards the higher ground where the dairy cattle grazed. Miss Wilkins was walking with purpose, and now they were at the walls of Hainault Hall. Agatha expected her to go through the gate, but Miss Wilkins passed the gate and continued on the path, which was by now no more than a rough bridle track.
The trees were more sparse, and the path came out onto a field, a patch of overgrown green. Bertha Wilkins stopped. She stood still, standing in the sunlight at the end of the field. The spring flowers were out. Watching her, the thin dark figure against the blue sky, the daffodils bright against the green of the grass, Agatha felt herself come to her senses, felt herself intruding on this poor woman’s distress. Fearful of being seen, she turned away, and began to descend the path back to the village.
Someone was standing at the gate of Hainault Hall.
‘I say. Mrs. Christie,’ a male voice said.
Agatha recognized the artist from the vicarage the day before.
‘Mr. Sutton,’ Agatha said. ‘Good morning.’
‘What brings you up here?’ His smile was warm, as he raised his hat to her. It was a tweed cap which matched his jacket. His trousers were dark with odd splashes of colour, which she realized as she drew nearer, were paint.
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