Stefan glanced at her, his face expressionless.
‘Then,’ Agatha went on, ‘it was a matter of dispatching Alexei too. And that all seemed very lucky too, when Stefan overheard Patrick’s conversation about the loose curtain rail. All he had to do was watch Patrick loosen the rail, in the hope, as you’ve admitted, Patrick, that it might land on Alexei. Then, after Patrick had left the theatre to join us, you acted. It took a moment for you to appear, hit Alexei hard enough to knock him out, and then let the rail fall and land on him in such a way as to look as if it had killed him.’
Agatha surveyed the party. ‘I had been asking myself, why were there bruises on both sides of his face. Until I worked out that this was no coincidence. None of the contrived silliness of the old-fashioned detective story. But just plain old flawed human behaviour – just real life.’
Sian was still was blinking back tears. She looked up at Stefan. ‘I told you,’ she burst out. ‘I told you it wouldn’t work…’
‘Shut it girl.’ His voice was a hiss of rage.
Agatha spoke again. ‘It seemed too good to be true – and indeed, it was. I couldn’t work out why you both seemed so very shocked at the news that Alicia and Alexei had had a secret wedding. And then I realized that it wasn’t the fact that Alexei was married that surprised you, but who he’d married. And at first it suited you very well, the fiction about Madlen being in New York. But to keep your story realistic, you allowed everyone to think that Madlen was about to come back, eventually making it come true. But, as a writer of detective fiction once said, the cleverest killers are often easier to unmask than the stupid ones – they’re the ones who are so keen to make the plot work, they take a step too far, so complicating the puzzle that it becomes open to doubt.’
There was a silence. It was Patrick who stepped forward. He looked down at Sian, where she sat on the trapeze. ‘You killed the woman I loved,’ he said. ‘I believed in her. I believed her to be Cosmina, from Romania. I don’t care that she was deceiving me. To me she was beautiful, and talented, a light in the darkness. But you killed her. Your own sister. And you almost condemned me to be tried for murder. Do you have anything to say for yourselves?’
Sian was staring at her feet. She reluctantly raised her eyes to Patrick, still swaying on her trapeze. ‘It was him,’ she whined. ‘Don’t look at me like that, it was his idea…’
‘It was her family. Her damned aunt – her sister—’ Stefan raged, his arm twisting around the ropes.
‘He was the one wanting the money—’
‘She said she’d always hated your sister—’
‘He told me to do it—’
‘She told me to do it…’
Patrick turned to Agatha. ‘At least in your stories,’ he said, ‘the murderer can be elegant, heroic, warped – wrong, of course, but at least they can have a certain virtue about them. Here we are, with the worst that human beings can be. Mean, avaricious, spiteful, calculating and lacking any kind of morality at all.’
Sian swung sullenly to and fro, her trapeze slippers scuffing against the floor. Stefan glowered, his hands clutched into angry fists at his side.
There was a sudden crash as the door swung open, with a march of feet. Georgie had slipped out, and now appeared with a group of police officers. They moved in formation, a line of five uniformed men, swiftly surrounding the two suspects, and Stefan and Sian were marched out of the door, still blaming each other.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
It was a warm morning, a week later, as spring gave way to summer and Agatha was writing at the window of her Chelsea home, scribbling fast on the pages in front of her.
The will would turn out to be a fake, she’d realized. The whole plot would hinge on the readiness of the silly widow to be fooled. There would be a structure, a completion. There will be a detective, a central character, and he or she will carry the story, give it its shape.
There was a ring at the doorbell.
Agatha opened the door, aware of a rush of warm summer air, and a large bouquet of flowers, behind which stood Isabella and Patrick.
‘For you,’ Patrick said.
‘We owe you a lot,’ Isabella said.
‘We thought we’d call on you before we all go to the theatre,’ he said.
Isabella pulled at a stray rose leaf. ‘Unless we’re interrupting…?’
‘No, no, of course. Do come in.’
Agatha stood in her kitchen, placing the flowers in a vase of water. Patrick and Isabella hovered in the hallway.
‘I’ll be a couple of minutes,’ she said.
‘I can’t wait to see what Luca’s done now he’s on his own.’ Isabella talked excitedly. ‘And in such a funny little place – Shoreditch? I don’t even know where it is.’
‘It’s a derelict factory site, apparently,’ Patrick said. ‘He’s set it all up. It used to be tile ovens.’
‘There—’ Agatha emerged from her kitchen. ‘I’ll just get my coat.’
*
London was drenched in summer evening light. They walked across the bridge together.
‘And how is Georgie’s company?’ Agatha asked.
Patrick and Isabella looked at each other. ‘Well—’ he began.
Isabella laughed. ‘Georgie will always survive,’ she said.
‘And Sian and Stefan?’
Another glance passed between them. ‘Sian and Stefan are still blaming each other, apparently,’ Isabella said. ‘Sitting in their cells.’ She paused by the railings, looked down into the water which glittered gold and pink with the evening. ‘Sian says Stefan did the actual killing, which I guess is true.’ She glanced up at Patrick.
He gave a shudder. ‘One’s own sister…’
‘And such a complicated plot,’ Isabella said. She turned to Agatha. ‘As you yourself said, it’s the cleverness that gave it away.’
They began to walk again. ‘What I can’t get over,’ Patrick said… He stopped, glanced at the river, looked at Agatha. ‘I wanted that man dead. I believed it all to be true, to the extent that I was capable of planning a murder.’
Agatha touched his arm. ‘Patrick – it’s human nature. We’re all capable of vengeful rage.’
‘And we’re all easily fooled too,’ Isabella said. ‘As we’re no doubt about to find out.’
*
The venue was a tall warehouse building made of old brick. They picked their way across a yard, entered through an industrial doorway.
Inside, all they could see was a vast empty space, a few ladders, some makeshift rows of seats. Through high windows the sky appeared indigo blue.
‘Luca says it’s about the individual lost in the crowd,’ Isabella said. ‘He says it’s about the innocent clown, the essential solitude of the human condition.’
‘It always is with Luca,’ Patrick said.
‘How is Georgie managing without him?’ Agatha asked.
Isabella led them to three of the fold-down chairs. ‘Fine,’ she said. ‘Of course. He says they’ve got full houses for the end of the run now. He’s hired two new acts. Willie and his Whistling Whippet. He’s had his eye on him for months, apparently. He wanted a strongman routine—’
‘He tried to get Vulcana and Atlas but they’re much too grand,’ Patrick said.
‘So he’s settled on a new dance act to replace Sian and Stefan, two rather beautiful young men who throw each other up in the air a lot.’
‘So now he’s decided that he always preferred dance – “Artistry beats mere muscle,” he says.’ Patrick laughed.
‘Georgie will always make the facts suit his intentions,’ Isabella said.
*
They settled in their seats. Others were arriving, murmuring with conversation, finding places. The stage was sparsely lit, and long shadows were cast across its angular space.
‘You see?’ Patrick said. ‘The deserted ruins. Only in this case it’s a Victorian factory rather than a Bronze Age temple. But it’s still the layers of the past.’ He t
urned to Agatha. ‘You should join me on my dig. I’ll be travelling to Baghdad. You’d love it.’
‘An interest,’ Isabella said.
‘Like your moths,’ Patrick smiled.
‘I love my moths. Do you know – ‘ she turned to Agatha. ‘I saw a Lycorea in Regents Park today. Just flying past. Must have come in off a ship.’
‘And Baghdad?’ Patrick said.
‘An opportunity,’ Isabella said. ‘To fully embrace your status as a single woman at last.’
Agatha smiled. ‘I may yet,’ she said. ‘I need a holiday.’
The audience chattered quietly around them. Patrick leaned back in his seat. ‘A moral tale,’ he said. ‘That poor Welsh girl. And her wicked sister. And a silly old fool completely taken in. I’ve been asking myself, how could I have been so utterly stupid.’
Isabella touched his sleeve. ‘Patrick – it wasn’t stupidity. It was your innate goodness, to be trusting, to believe what you found in front of you.’
He shook his head. ‘If only that were true. In the end, it was all just a conjuring trick. All done with mirrors. And I was prepared to be fooled.’ He turned to Agatha. ‘You should write about it, about how often love turns out to be just an illusion. A mirage.’
‘But Patrick,’ Agatha said. ‘What about all the times it’s no such thing?’
He was gazing at his hands in his lap. Again, he shook his head.
‘Your marriage,’ she went on. ‘That wasn’t a mirage.’
‘No,’ he agreed. ‘Except it’s over now.’
‘But while it lasted,’ Isabella joined in. ‘It was a real and true relationship,’ she said. ‘Like any good marriage.’ She turned to Agatha. ‘Like yours too, perhaps?’
Agatha hesitated, wondering what to say.
‘Just because it came to an end,’ Isabella said to her. ‘That doesn’t make it null and void.’
Agatha met her eyes, aware of a sense of gratitude. ‘No,’ she agreed. ‘I suppose it doesn’t.’
‘It’s just the path that the story takes,’ Isabella said. ‘None of us can know how it’s going to end.’
Agatha leaned back in her seat. ‘No,’ she said. ‘You’re right.’ She smiled. ‘And talking of stories,’ she said, ‘I had a telephone call two days ago. From Hiram J. Beckenbauer.’
‘You did?’ Now Isabella was smiling.
Agatha nodded. ‘The last bit of the story. He said after my phone call he thought he’d better check the detail about the Jenkins sisters. Up till then he’d had it all on hearsay. So, he went back through the documents, found the sealed envelope that outlined the terms of the trust. And he said, you’ll never guess what? That Welsh aunt, Cicely – she died flat broke.’
Patrick looked at her. Isabella looked at Patrick. Patrick began to smile. Isabella laughed. ‘You mean…?’
‘It’s not funny really,’ Patrick said.
‘The aunt in Pontypridd, Merwen – she got herself into a state about a fortune that proved to be entirely fictitious,’ Agatha said.
‘And so did those silly girls, and that silly boy,’ Isabella said. ‘Only, of course, it was all worse than that. Much, much worse. When silliness turns to pure wickedness—’
‘A moral tale,’ Patrick repeated. He shook his head.
‘Hiram J. Beckenbauer insisted I put it into a story. On condition, he said, that I spell his name right.’
They both laughed.
The makeshift auditorium was full, and the houselights began to fade.
Agatha turned her attention to the makeshift stage. The innocence of the clown, she thought. The essential solitude of the human condition.
Well, she thought, I’m on my own. Anything could happen. A new kind of writing. A new name to write under. A holiday. To Europe. Or the Caribbean. Or perhaps, even further afield.
The stage was in darkness. One single spotlight cut through the gloom as Luca walked onto the stage.
Agatha sat back in her fold-up seat, aware of the towering walls around her, the shadows of the industrial past.
A different archaeology.
Perhaps I will go to Baghdad.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
In the Garden of your Heart. A song from the First World War, written by Francis Dorel and Edward Teschemacher.
*
I would like to thank:
The staff of the British Library
Dave Shawyer and all at the British Telecom Archives
Adrienne Gould
Agatha Christie Investigates Omnibus Page 36