‘When you should commit the murder?’
‘I wish you wouldn’t put it like that.’
‘I’m afraid that is what it is. You are, I know, rather a fan of straightforward sentences. I’ve read your books, Mrs Christie.’
‘Indeed,’ I replied.
‘So I thought by the end of the week might do very well.’
I was taken aback not only by the proximity of the deed in question, but also by the use of language; it was as if his request was as innocent and easy to achieve as the submission of a sponge cake or a pot of strawberry jam to the village show.
‘By the end of this week? No, that’s impossible, it’s just too soon,’ I said.
‘Well, I’m afraid you have no choice. It should all be quite manageable.’
‘But—’
‘Let me outline what I think might work best. I want you to leave your hotel and travel to Leeds, where my wife, Flora, has been living for some time, ever since the breakdown of our marriage. I want you to travel to her house and there I want you to kill her. As I said, I don’t care what method you employ, but I would advise you to choose one that makes it easy for you to slip away unnoticed. I don’t see why you should get caught for the crime any more than I should. And perhaps, I would have thought, you might enjoy the experience. It might even lend your books a greater degree of, how shall I put it, authenticity?’
Kurs took off one of his black leather gloves as he opened his briefcase. From this he withdrew a large brown envelope, which he held in his hands as he continued to talk.
‘Of course, after killing her you need to make sure you travel back to Harrogate, as we agreed. On notice of her death – which, of course, should be verified by a doctor – I will travel up to see her body, to confirm it for myself.’ He took a deep breath and as he exhaled he puffed out his chest in satisfaction. ‘I can’t tell you how wonderful this makes me feel. I do believe that there is divine providence at work, don’t you?’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘It seems appropriate that we are meeting here, in one of God’s holy places. It seems so fitting somehow. If all goes to plan it is as if God himself had overseen the whole thing.’
‘I think your view of God is rather different to mine.’ I spat the words out as if I had tasted something fetid in my mouth. I suddenly felt nauseous and weak. I stretched out a hand to steady myself on a gravestone.
‘Here, please let me help,’ said Kurs, moving towards me.
‘Please – no. I’m quite all right, thank you,’ I said.
His free hand hovered above my wrist; although my cut had begun to heal, I could not bear him to touch me. He let his hand remain there for a moment too long – it was obvious Kurs enjoyed my sense of discomfort – before he withdrew.
‘Perhaps a walk around the churchyard may help you feel a little better? Did you get a chance to study some of the gravestones?’
He started to lead the way along the grassy pathway, while I trailed behind him like an obedient, dead-eyed child.
‘I must admit I am something of a hobbyist when it comes to graveyards. It’s the first thing I do when I visit a new town or city. The things one can find out from a headstone – simply fascinating. And then there are the things that one can never know. I often play a game when I arrive at a graveyard for the first time. I take a walk around, just as we are doing now, and I like to imagine the lives of some of the people who are lying below. Take this grave here, for example. The grave of Marmaduke Lupton, born in 1799 and died in 1849. Who was he? His name – a rather lovely name, don’t you agree? – gives him the air of a burgher of the town. I imagine him as a rather solid character, as solid as the stone of Harrogate, a man with a set of fine whiskers and a strong moral character and an unflinching belief in God. But you see, written on the grave as plain as anything, is the fact that his daughter, Christana, died in 1828 when she was only one year old. How do you think Marmaduke coped with that? Do you think the death of the child shook his belief in God? Maybe he coped by telling himself that the everlasting Lord took only the best, the most innocent. You’ve gone very quiet. What do you think, Mrs Christie?’
‘I – I’m not sure.’
‘You are looking a little pale. I hope you are not coming down with influenza. Perhaps you should try the waters while you are here. They are said to be miraculous, but I don’t care for them myself. Have you tried them?’
‘No, no, I haven’t.’
He stopped and turned to me. I felt a blast of that breath on my face.
‘Before I forget, here are all the details for the arrangement on Friday. Everything you need should be inside: there is the address, a physical description of Flora, a few photographs and an outline of her daily routine.’
He stretched out his hand to pass me the envelope. I did not move. Kurs looked coldly at me, a gaze as heartless and deathly as that of a cobra I had once seen studying a lizard it was about to bite and devour. Kurs continued, keeping the envelope in his hand, but then a moment or so later, by a mound of fresh earth, he stopped. I followed his gaze to the headstone, newly engraved, which read: ELIZA REID, 1919–1926. A girl born in the same year as Rosalind.
‘Are you not curious to discover why the girl died?’ His dark eyes shone like jet stones. ‘No? That’s not like you, Mrs Christie. One who has always taken such a keen interest in death. Well, let me enlighten you. One day – I think it was September of this year – she was playing out with two friends here on the Stray. But the two friends, nasty little girls, Susan Potter and Jemima Pargeter, ganged up on her and ran off, leaving her all alone. I suppose a man found her crying and took pity on her. Perhaps he offered to take her home to her mama and papa, but instead of doing that he led her down to an outbuilding on the edge of town, where he—’
‘Stop,’ I said quietly. ‘I can’t hear any more. Please stop.’
‘Do you not want to hear the end of the story? Again, that is most out of character. I’m sure you will understand when you do.’
I felt so drained and empty that I let the words flow over me. I would not listen to the details of this depravity, nor give Kurs the satisfaction of indulging his sadistic pleasure in the retelling of the incident.
‘Have you finished?’ I said, finally meeting his eye.
‘Now, please take the envelope.’
I did not move my arm.
‘I do hope you are not having second thoughts. Remember what happened to poor Eliza Reid. By the way, the police still haven’t caught the man. And if you are wondering, no, I had nothing to do with it – as I have said it is not my thing at all – but I wouldn’t be surprised if an acquaintance of mine, one I have mentioned, knew something or other about the crime.’
I felt my legs collapse beneath me and I fell back onto a patch of damp earth. Again, Kurs reached out to help me but I refused to take his hand.
‘I’m just feeling rather faint. Sorry,’ I said. I did not want to admit to him that his nasty little story had affected me so badly. Without looking at him, I took the envelope.
‘Goodbye, Mrs Christie.’ He started to walk away, but turned to face me for a moment. ‘Oh, and please, you are very welcome to take notes. In fact, I would recommend it. You never know, one day you might even thank me for this. It might inspire you to write your greatest novel yet.’
By the time I had regained my composure and looked up, Kurs had gone.
Chapter Sixteen
Una stood outside Styles and wondered what to do next. What a horrible house, she thought to herself – flashy and vulgar, not at all the kind of place Mrs Christie would choose. Perhaps it had been her husband’s idea, thought Una. Her own mother and father’s taste had always been so, how could she put it, restrained. One took it for granted that one’s friends had money; there was no need to boast about it or go about buying houses or cars that screamed wealth. The family home in Elm Park Road was a case in point, packed as it was with threadbare Persian rugs, tatty leather armchairs and ancie
nt tables bearing generations of scratches, marks and stains.
Una knew that Mrs Christie belonged to the middle classes. There had been, she had learnt in the course of her research on her, a certain amount of family money, but Frederick Miller, the father, had got through it quickly enough. The Millers were respectable, but certainly not bohemian or intellectual, and she supposed little Agatha had grown up with particularly suburban taste. Of course, one could see this in her writing, thought Una. There was, after all, no attempt to experiment with form or do anything challenging or daring. Mrs Christie was no Virginia Woolf – that much was certain. And yet there was something about the plotting that was – how could she put it – rather subversive. She had never read a novel quite like The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.
There was, as Davison had said, a great deal more to Mrs Christie than the image she chose to present to the world. After all, not many middle-class girls grew up to write clever crime novels like Mrs Christie. She obviously had a side to her character that was – well, definitely not middle class, and so she’d be unlikely to feel at home in this kind of house. No wonder she had run away, thought Una.
She had waited outside for twenty minutes or so and she knew she would have to act soon before Colonel Christie returned. His car was not outside and she had telephoned earlier to ensure that he was out. The girl had said that the Colonel would return at 6.30. It was nearly six already. Una took a deep breath of cold air and walked down the driveway and knocked on the door. There was no sign of movement from inside and so she knocked again, louder this time. A shadow approached the door and then stopped.
‘Sorry – no reporters. I’ve been told not to open the door to you,’ said a girl from inside.
Una had to think quickly. Luckily, she knew how to treat servants.
‘I’m certainly not a reporter. Now please open the door immediately.’
The door opened to reveal a nervous young woman with anxious eyes and fingers that twisted together like the bucketful of eels Una had seen on that fishing trip with her father to Scotland.
‘I’m from Collins, Mrs Christie’s publisher,’ said Una grandly.
‘Oh dear, please come in, ma’am.’
‘I will, thank you. It’s terribly cold outside.’
Una stepped into the hall and looked around her. Yes, just as she had expected – it looked like a compressed, and far newer and cleaner, version of a country house. The people who lived here wanted to ape the life of the upper classes, but while they had a certain amount of money, they had precious little confidence to decide on a style of their own. And yet it was called Styles! Simply incredible.
‘I’m afraid the Colonel is not at home, m’lady. But he will be back shortly, I’m sure.’
‘But it’s you that I’ve really come to talk to.’
‘Me, miss? I’ve got nothing I can help you with, I know nothing about the mistress’s books and the like.’
‘Well, why don’t we have a little chat?’
Una smiled, knowing that the deployment of that smile seldom failed when she wanted to get her own way. What was it Davison called it? Her secret weapon. Anyway, its deployment on this occasion seemed to work and the girl’s face softened and she immediately relaxed.
‘You really do have the sweetest face, don’t you know? In fact, I’m surprised nobody has approached you to be a model for the illustrated magazines. A great deal of money can be made, I’ve heard.’
‘Really? I’ve never thought of it.’ The girl blushed and started to giggle stupidly.
‘Is there anywhere we could talk?’
‘Talk, ma’am?’
‘Yes, as her publisher there are a couple of delicate issues I’d like to try and clear up.’
‘Oh, I’m not sure, miss. I think you should talk to the Colonel about that.’
‘Well, to be honest – what’s your name?’
‘Kathleen, or Kitty to my friends.’
‘To be honest, Kitty, it’s something rather delicate. Something best talked about away from the company of men, if you see what I mean.’
Kitty looked startled and confused, but she tried her best to disguise her sense of discomfort.
‘I see, well, perhaps you should come into the lounge, sorry, the—’
‘Indeed,’ said Una, smiling.
Even though Una was in a stranger’s house the innate superiority of her class meant that she assumed the role of mistress with ease.
‘Please sit down, Kitty,’ she said.
‘Oh, thank you, ma’am.’
Una looked the girl directly in the eyes and lowered her voice.
‘It must be a terribly distressing situation for you, what with all the attention from the press. A pack of jackals, the lot of them.’
‘Awful it is, ma’am. You wouldn’t believe how some of them carry on.’
‘I can quite imagine. As you know, as her publisher, I only have Mrs Christie’s interests at heart. I am sure once all this nonsense has been settled and the whereabouts of Mrs Christie come to light – as I am sure they will – there will be an appetite for what the newspapers call a follow-up story. You know the type of thing they do – full picture spreads of all the parties involved, along with detailed write-ups. All very well and enjoyable if you are a reader, not so pleasurable if you are one of the unfortunate people caught up in the drama. Am I right, Kitty?’
‘Yes, m’lady.’
‘The situation is this. The newspapers will be desperate for anything they can get their hands on. And these things – letters, diaries and suchlike – suddenly take on a value. Do you understand what I am saying?’
Kitty’s face darkened. ‘If you think that me or anyone else in the house would dream of selling such things to the paper, you are very much mistaken, I’m sure.’ The girl looked cross, her face as crumpled as a dry dishcloth.
‘I wouldn’t dream of suggesting such a thing.’ Una leant closer towards the girl. ‘But it’s come to my attention that a certain policeman, who shall for the moment remain nameless, is in the business of making a tidy little profit by selling certain things to the newspapers.’
‘Really? Well, I said to Rose, the girl who works for the Sandwich family across the road, that one of the policemen who came here the other day was a rum ’un. Was the one with the slightly gammy eye and the—’
Una nodded confidentially and gave a slight wink of encouragement.
‘I see that you’re a very clever girl, Kitty. Nothing passes you by.’
‘I like to think so, ma’am. My mother used to say that—’
‘I suppose you didn’t notice anything unusual in the behaviour of Mrs Christie recently?’
‘I’m sure I couldn’t really say.’
‘Nothing out of character?’
‘Not that I can think of.’
‘And relations between Mrs Christie and the Colonel. How were they?’
‘Just as to be expected.’
Una could see that questioning along these lines would get her nowhere. She needed to see inside the desk of Mrs Christie. She was sure her private papers might offer some kind of clue to her disappearance.
‘Quite so,’ said Una. ‘As I was saying, it would be helpful, as her publisher, if I could protect the reputation of Mrs Christie. Some damage has of course been done, there’s nothing we can do about that, but we can certainly try to prevent certain aspects of Mrs Christie’s life from reaching the clutches of the popular press.’
‘I think the Colonel ought to—’
‘As a woman I am sure you will agree that there are certain things a husband would rather not see published in the pages of a less reputable Sunday newspaper.’
Kitty bit her lip and her face reddened.
‘If you could tell me where your mistress kept her writing things I will go and have a look so as to spare the blushes of the Colonel. Heaven knows, the policeman in question may have got his hands on some compromising material already. Let us hope he has not. And when the Colonel c
omes back I can have a conversation with him about the sensitive material and put his mind at rest that none of it will ever see the light of day.’
‘Very well, ma’am. Her desk is in her bedroom. By the window. I don’t look inside, but I know that’s where she sits sometimes when she does the writing of her books.’
‘Thank you, Kitty. You are doing your mistress a great service. I am sure she would be very proud of you.’
Una had to restrain herself from running out of the drawing room and bolting up the stairs. She glanced at the clock on the wall. It was a quarter past six. She would have loved to have taken her time, examining the room and its decor, but she knew she would have to be quick. She walked straight to the desk and began to rifle through the papers. There were bills for household expenses, sheets of paper with columns detailing incoming and outgoing expenditure, figures for sales of certain novels and some correspondence from her agent, Edmund Cork. Gosh – if that was how much a woman could earn from dashing off a short story Una thought she should pursue her dream of being a writer. There was a file of newspaper cuttings relating to her novels, reviews and the like, and a couple of notebooks full of scribbles. Una opened one at random; she could hardly make out the scrawl of the handwriting.
There was nothing of use here. She was wasting her time. Then, as she picked up another notebook, a letter fell out onto the desk. Again, the handwriting was difficult to decipher, but she could just about make out the signature, ‘Madge’. She started to read the letter. It was obvious, from even the briefest of glances, that the matter of the letter was delicate. Words jumped out at Una like poisonous little bullets: ‘marriage’, ‘difficulties’, ‘affair’, ‘liaison’, ‘crisis’, ‘Archie’, ‘divorce’, ‘that girl’ and ‘Nancy’.
Before she could read the whole thing she heard the sound of a car engine outside. It must be the Colonel. He had returned early. She quickly ran her shaking hands over the desk as if the action itself were enough to bring forth the materialisation of more intimate letters. The noise of the engine stopped. She heard a car door slam. She stuffed the letter inside her handbag and left the bedroom. What should she do? How could she explain herself? She would have to take a gamble. She wanted to run, run as fast as she could, but she could not be seen to panic. With a stately gait – wouldn’t Miss Temple at the Academy be proud of her posture now – Una walked down the staircase. She could hear the tread of the Colonel’s shoes approach the door. As she stood at the bottom of the stairs she saw, through a panel of glass, his shadow at the door. He was opening his briefcase to take out a set of keys. She turned to make her way to the back of the house, where she supposed the kitchen was located. Kitty looked up from the table where she sat, wide-eyed and terrified.
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