‘Now don’t worry, Miss Crowe. Do you remember? You came to see me? I’m the doctor that you asked to see.’
‘Oh my,’ said Una, suddenly feeling like she wanted to be sick. ‘Please.’
‘Yes, here,’ said Kurs, passing her a bowl and a cloth. ‘You may feel some signs of nausea.’
‘Thank you,’ said Una. ‘But I can’t—’
‘You can’t remember. That’s totally normal. It’s one of the immediate side effects of the treatment. But I am sure you will begin to feel the benefits.’
‘I will?’ said Una, her eyes darting around the room. ‘I just feel so terribly sick. And I can’t remember talking to you.’ She started to raise herself from the chair, but immediately had to sit down again. ‘My head. It’s pounding.’
What on earth had happened? She could remember walking into the doctor’s surgery. She could recall having a conversation with his receptionist. She could picture that cabinet in the room next door.
‘When the nausea and the headache have worn off your spirits will be lifted. Many patients compare it to opening the curtains and seeing the sunshine in their lives for the first time. You will, of course, continue to feel sad about the loss of your father, but it will no longer affect you in quite the same way.’
‘My father?’
‘Yes, you came here to ask for some help in coping with the loss of your father. Don’t you remember?’
‘Yes – no,’ she said, feeling the tears on her cheeks. She opened her handbag to retrieve her handkerchief, but could not find it.
‘Here, please permit me,’ he said, taking a handkerchief from one of the drawers in his desk.
‘Thank you,’ said Una, pressing a corner of the freshly starched linen to her nose.
What on earth had she done with her handkerchief? She vaguely recalled giving it away to somebody, another lady. She felt a panic in her breast, the sense that she was in danger. She gripped the sides of the chair and steadied herself. Fragments of the last few days flashed into her mind: searching through Mrs Christie’s desk and the discovery of the letter about Nancy Neele; the visit to the dressmaker’s; the awful scene with Miss Neele herself. But she could not understand why she had made an appointment to see a doctor. It was true, she had been feeling very low about her father, but she had been certain that she had managed to put those feelings to one side.
‘And the next time you see Miss Neele, please give her my very best wishes,’ said Kurs. ‘I am only pleased that she saw fit to recommend my services to you.’
‘Miss Neele?’
‘Yes, your friend?’
‘Yes, yes, indeed,’ said Una, suddenly remembering the reason she had paid the doctor a visit. But what on earth had passed between them?
‘And please let me know how you progress with your career. A most interesting choice of profession for a modern young lady. I wish you every success.’
Una looked blankly at him. She could not remember telling him anything relating to her recent investigations, but she supposed she must have done. She suddenly felt so utterly stupid.
‘You know, I am quite fascinated by the disappearance of the lady novelist,’ he said. ‘I may have very little to offer in terms of professional insight, but you would be most welcome to hear what I have to say.’
‘Really? Yes, I would love to hear your thoughts on the subject,’ said Una.
‘Do you need any help? Should I call you a taxi? Or would you like to wait here for a while until the ill-effects of the drug have worn off?’
‘No, no thank you,’ said Una. ‘I will sit in my car for a while, I think.’
As Una turned to go she heard the doctor begin to clear his throat.
‘Have you spoken to many people?’
‘Yes, a good deal,’ said Una. It wasn’t quite the truth – she had indeed spoken to a handful of people, but the only problem was she had been unable to speak to anyone of importance. Apart from Nancy Neele, that is, and she had not given much away. However, she must not lose heart. She was still ahead of most of the newspapers, she was sure.
‘And of course, Nancy must have filled you in on a great many of the details?’
‘Yes, indeed,’ said Una nervously.
‘Where do you think Mrs Christie is now? Or do you believe she’s dead?’
‘Oh, I’m not sure. But I don’t believe she’s dead. Perhaps she went away to try and punish her husband. To try and make him feel a little of the pain that she had suffered.’
‘Yes, an interesting theory,’ he said, pausing. ‘Miss Neele mentioned a few details along those lines too.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, looking back, I suppose she did suggest such a thing. Quite a lovely young woman, don’t you think?’
‘Yes, quite lovely.’
‘Have you known her long?’
‘A good few years.’
‘Through your family?’
‘Yes, a connection through my father.’
‘And how do you feel about your father now? I noticed that when you came into the surgery the mention of his name brought tears to your eyes. I do hope you are much better now, after the treatment.’
‘Yes, I am sure I will feel the benefits in time.’
‘There is always the possibility that you may need another treatment, of course.’
‘I see.’
‘Perhaps we should make an appointment?’ Kurs consulted a diary on his desk. ‘I will check with Mrs Johnston, but what about Friday of this week? Eleven o’clock in the morning? Is that convenient?’
‘So soon?’
‘Yes, I find that the tonic works best when applied twice during the course of one week.’
Una looked uncertain.
‘And of course we could always talk about the Mrs Christie case after that appointment. However, I’m afraid you wouldn’t be able to use my name in connection with this. Anything I said you would have to use only for your own information and research. Would you agree to that?’
‘Yes, of course, thank you.’
‘I would like to continue the conversation now, but I am afraid I am due to see another patient. I doubt if she will last the day, the poor thing. Only a girl – what, how old? Eight years. Sometimes life can be unbearably cruel, don’t you find Miss Crowe?’
‘Yes, indeed. Goodbye, Doctor.’
‘If you see Mrs Johnston on the way out, please let her know that you will need that appointment on Friday morning.’
‘Thank you.’
Una tried to walk as calmly as she could out of the building, but she feared that at any moment her legs would collapse from under her. She did not pause by the reception desk of Mrs Johnston, merely nodded her head as she passed, and then rushed out of the surgery into the leafy street. She gasped for air as though she had just surfaced from deep water.
Chapter Twenty-two
Kenward thought it was time to ask Colonel Christie a few questions, difficult ones. He had done all he could to be polite and treat him like the gentleman the Colonel thought he was; Kenward had had his doubts about the man’s breeding and behaviour, but he had kept these mostly to himself. He had, however, employed a couple of men to follow the Colonel, but so far Christie had done nothing out of the ordinary: each day he left his house in Sunningdale and travelled to work at the Rio Tinto Company building in the City, returning home to Styles each evening. The scandal surrounding his wife’s disappearance had obviously put the dampeners on his friendship with Miss Neele, as his men informed him that the two had not seen each other since the news broke.
The nice, well-mannered approach had obviously not worked, and so it was necessary to try a different tack. He had asked his men to pick up the Colonel from Styles and bring him to the station for questioning. He had arrived half an hour ago, but Kenward thought it a good idea to make the Colonel wait for a while. He had often found that letting a man stew produced results. He stood up and asked the constable stationed outside to bring in the Colonel. A few mome
nts later, Christie stormed into his office.
‘What is the meaning of this?’ he said, shaking his hat at Kenward.
‘Please, Colonel, sit down.’
‘No, I will not sit down unless you tell me what you think you are playing at. Sending a car to my house and bringing me here like this. The reporters will have a field day.’
‘I am sure that if you’ve done nothing wrong you’ll have nothing to worry about.’
‘And what is that supposed to mean?’
‘Look, Colonel, if you will sit down then perhaps I can ask you a few questions.’
‘You don’t seriously believe I have done anything to harm my wife in any way?’
‘I’m afraid I really don’t know, but perhaps after our conversation I might have a clearer idea. Now, please, sir.’
The Colonel took a seat and Kenward returned to the chair behind his desk. He slowly opened his file and read through a couple of statements.
‘What I want to get clear is some of the chronology of the events on Friday night and Saturday morning.’
‘I’ve told you everything already. You know where I was and what I was doing. I have a cast-iron alibi.’
‘Yes, your alibi,’ said Kenward, taking up a piece of paper. ‘Supported by your friends.’
‘You’ve spoken to them, I hear. Mr and Mrs James and—’
‘Yes, the other guest at Hurtmore Cottage that weekend, Miss Neele.’
‘I don’t want her name being dragged into this,’ said the Colonel. ‘She’s already been plagued by newspaper reporters – she telephoned me to tell me that one lady even pretended to be one of my wife’s cousins and managed to talk her way into Miss Neele’s home. Can you imagine? The whole experience has been most distressing for her and her parents are threatening to send her away, out of the country. Of course, I can’t see her, as I am sure you are all too aware.’ The Colonel said the last sentence in a particularly pointed manner, as if to draw attention to the fact that he knew that Kenward had been following his every move.
‘Well, there is, I am afraid, very little I can do to control the appetites of the popular press. Now as to your movements on Friday night, perhaps you could tell me once more about what you did – and when?’
The Colonel glared at Kenward, but the Superintendent met his gaze with a cold stare. The eye-to-eye duel continued for a few moments, until the suspect swore under his breath and began to talk.
‘As I have already told you, I arrived at Hurtmore Cottage, near Godalming, straight after work, so it must have been around half past six. There I met my friends Mr and Mrs Sam James and later we were joined by Miss Neele, who was to stay for the weekend. All four of us had drinks and then dinner and then we retired to bed at about eleven o’clock. I had a good night’s sleep and I knew nothing was out of the ordinary until the Saturday morning when I received a telephone call from Charlotte Fisher, my wife’s secretary, who informed me of Mrs Christie’s disappearance. But you know all of this, I’ve told you a thousand times. I really don’t see the need to go over it all once more.’
‘And you are certain you did not leave Hurtmore Cottage on the night of the third of December or during the early hours of the fourth of December?’
‘No, I did not.’
‘And your car – where was it?’
‘It was in the garage, the garage at Hurtmore Cottage.’
‘And you are quite sure you did not leave your friends?’
‘Yes, quite sure,’ said the Colonel with a heavy dose of sarcasm. ‘Now, really, I think it’s time you began to—’
‘Please sit down, Colonel. I am the one who will decide when this interview is over.’
‘And as to having men follow me day and night, it’s humiliating. It’s as good as being declared guilty.’
‘I’m sorry you think so,’ said Kenward. ‘But it’s a purely procedural matter.’
‘I don’t care. I feel I’m being treated like a common criminal.’
Kenward did not respond, letting the Colonel’s words speak for themselves.
‘Now, if I can ask you once again,’ Kenward resumed. ‘On the night of the 3rd of December – I can see here from these statements that Mr and Mrs James testify that they never heard you leave the house.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘But surely they would have been asleep?’
‘Indeed. But the family’s dog would have barked and raised the alarm if I had tried to leave the house and start the car.’
‘The dog?’
‘Yes, the dog. Handsome little thing. But noisy as hell.’
‘And Miss Neele. Would she have been in a position to witness whether you left the house or not?’
‘I am not sure what you are implying, but if you mean to insinuate—’
‘I don’t care what you do in your private life, Colonel. It’s my job to gather the facts. If you won’t answer the question I am afraid I may have to bring Miss Neele down to the station and ask her myself.’
‘You will do nothing of the sort. Nancy – Miss Neele is, as I have suggested, feeling rather a nervous wreck as a result of all this nonsense. My blasted wife! I wish she—’ The Colonel stopped himself.
‘Were dead?’
‘Don’t be so ridiculous! I was about to say I wish she had never brought this scandal into our lives.’
‘And perhaps she wouldn’t have if you had been more of a devoted husband.’
‘Poppycock. Mrs Christie is a highly intelligent woman, capable of the most intricate manipulations. I wish people would see my side of the story instead of jumping to these preposterous conclusions.’
‘So you categorically deny you saw her on the night or the morning she disappeared?’
‘How many times do I have to repeat myself?’
‘You didn’t steal out of the house that night and drive to Newlands Corner?’
‘No.’
‘Where you met your estranged wife?’
‘No.’
‘Where you then had an argument, an argument that became more tempestuous?’
‘No, that’s—’
‘And during the argument you struck her violently? Perhaps so violently you worried about the consequences?’
‘This is—’
‘And then you killed her? What did you do? Did you strangle her, Colonel Christie?’
‘No, honestly, I’ve said that—’
‘And then dispose of her body? Where did you take her? Did you bury her somewhere?’
‘No! I think you’ve lost your mind if you think that I would do such a thing. Really, I do think this is completely unacceptable.’ The Colonel pushed his chair back and stood up suddenly. Whatever handsomeness he normally possessed had been disfigured by the demon of fury. His face had turned beetroot red and his eyes were wide and bulging. ‘If you carry on like this I really must insist on bringing in my solicitor. In fact, I have every mind to contact him anyway. This is nothing less than intimidation. You know you have no evidence and the reason why you have no evidence is because I am innocent.’
Perhaps he had gone too far, Kenward thought. But what other explanation was there for the disappearance? Surely a woman could not simply vanish from the face of the earth without any trace? He sensed he was not going to get anywhere with this line of questioning – the Colonel was putting on too good a show – and so he would have to think of another approach.
‘I’m sure everything will become clear in due course,’ said Kenward, standing up. ‘I don’t mean to detain you, Colonel. But perhaps we can have another talk in the next few days?’
‘I don’t think so. If you want to arrest me, do so. Otherwise, I’m at a loss to see how I can help you with your enquiries. Good day.’
Kenward waited for the Colonel to leave the room before he took out the bottle from his desk drawer. He took a swift sip, then another, and then picked up the telephone. It was time to use more underhand measures. If the Colonel did not want to play fair then he wo
uld have to face the consequences. He dialled the number of the Press Association and asked to be put through to his contact on the crime desk, Alexander Massey.
‘Massey? Yes, it’s Kenward here. I think I may have something for you. Yes, it’s relating to what we talked about the other day. Yes, the Christie case. I think we may be able to get the husband to crack.’
Chapter Twenty-three
Happy people have no history. Who said that? Probably one of those gloomy Russians. I had never quite grasped the full meaning of it before, but now I thought I understood. I looked back at my earlier self as rather like a blank page. The days when I had been content – the hours spent playing in the sunny garden at Ashfield, the idle chats with my mother, the endless roller-skating on the promenade in Torquay – seemed insubstantial somehow. The death of my mother, then Archie’s betrayal, and now the shadowy presence of Dr Kurs had all crowded upon me, leaving their dark marks.
I recalled my mother talking of how each of us should meditate on death and live like a pilgrim or a stranger on the earth. We were merely passing through. ‘Tomorrow is an uncertain day,’ she would say, quoting from The Imitation of Christ, a book she always kept by her bed.
Perhaps this was Flora’s attitude. I was astounded by her resilience, and the fact that she seemed so carefree in the face of death. We had spent the best part of the day together and during that time I felt as though I had formed a special bond with her. Flora had, with a logic that defied argument, set out the reasons why it was right for her to sacrifice herself for the sake of my daughter. If the experiment did not work, and the dosage did not succeed in reviving her, then she would go to her death knowing that her passing was not in vain. She insisted, she said, in writing a suicide note so that, if she were to die during the procedure, I would not be blamed. She even stated that she was actually looking forward to the experiment; it might prepare her for her own inevitable demise, which was only a few months away. Despite this, I knew that even if the plan worked, Flora’s ‘death’ would only buy me a little time: the real horror would come later when she woke up. What would I do then?
As I girl I had always been fascinated by the story of Lazarus of Bethany, the man Jesus had restored to life four days after his death. I remembered my mother reading to me from the Gospel of John and weeping when she related the part about the rolling back of the rock of Lazarus’s tomb and the sight of the man still dressed in his grave clothes. I knew that to attempt something similar would be nothing short of sacrilege. And yet I had no choice. I just hoped I would not be cursed forever.
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