A Talent For Murder

by Andrew Wilson

  The sight of the woman lying on the marble slab stopped the words in his mouth. He blinked a few times, hoping the action would correct what he saw. The disappointment hit him like a fist in the chest and for a moment he thought he might suffer another attack. The woman lying before him was in her early twenties, short, only about five feet tall, with long black hair that trailed across her body like seaweed. Her skin was pale and translucent, on her left temple one could see a cluster of fine blue veins. She was also unmistakably pregnant.

  ‘Damn, damn you,’ said Kenward under his breath. He directed the curse not only towards the unfortunate drowned woman who had murdered her unborn child, but also to Colonel Christie and his missing wife.

  By the time Kenward went to sleep that night his dreams were haunted by horrific images. The drowned woman on the slab took on the form of Mrs Christie. In his dreams he went over and over how the Colonel had murdered his wife: he had strangled her at Newlands Corner, carried her limp body to the boot of his car, then he had driven to the dark canal where he had dumped her body in the water. He then returned home to his friends’ cottage near Godalming, to the warmth of his mistress’s bed, and behaved as though nothing had happened. It all could have been achieved within the space of a few hours. How long would the drive have taken him? It was around ten miles between Hurtmore Cottage and Newlands Corner and then another twenty or so miles from there to the canal, depending on the place where the body had been dumped. The Colonel could have done the whole journey – and committed the murder – in under three hours. Yes, it was possible. He awoke early thinking he had solved it all, only to realise, in the cold light of dawn, that he had solved nothing: the body that had been found was not that of Mrs Christie. Breakfast was a dismal affair; he was grumpy and snapped at Naomi when she had tried to cheer him up, and he had pushed his plate of buttered toast and boiled eggs away from him, uneaten.

  He arrived at his desk seething and full of anger, his resentment only softened slightly by the ingestion of a measure or two of whisky. He began the day by reading the newspapers on his desk. On the top of the pile was the Daily Express, where he read that his force was being criticised for not bringing in Scotland Yard. Was that the Colonel’s doing? Had he some influence in Fleet Street? Another newspaper carried a story about a so-called sighting of Mrs Christie – there had been so many of them he had lost count – but this latest one, from a woman who claimed to have seen the novelist wearing a spotted sealskin coat and had reported the sighting to Wokingham Police Station, carried with it a quote from Superintendent Goddard of the Berkshire Constabulary: ‘ “I’m afraid that not much importance can be attached to her statement,” he said, “but personally I think Mrs Christie is still alive.” ’ Damn that Goddard. Why couldn’t he keep his mouth shut? He was only playing into the Colonel’s hands.

  His sourness of spirit only dissipated when, after taking another drink, he read that Miss Neele had been named as a friend of the Jameses. That should do the trick, Kenward thought, that should begin to irk the Colonel. And sure enough, as he sat at his desk, a call came through from Christie. Kenward repeated that he had nothing to do with the leak of the name to the press and no, he did not have a clue about how they could have got hold of it. ‘Servants, most likely,’ he lied. ‘You know how they talk.’

  He spent the morning talking to his men and arranging the volunteer force that would help with the search. An operation like this depended on the goodwill of the public and it was extraordinary how many ordinary men, women and children were prepared to spend hours in windswept countryside, on a cold December’s day, looking for clues. No doubt many of them were inspired by the kind of silly books Mrs Christie wrote for a living; perhaps they saw themselves as amateur detectives on the hunt for information that would help them solve a murder. If only they knew how laborious the work really was; there was nothing glamorous about solving crimes. Let them stand in front of a mortuary slab and look at the bloated body of a drowned woman. Give them a hundred contradictory witness statements to take and read through. Once this was over, once he had solved the mystery of Mrs Christie, and solve it he would, perhaps he would retire. But what would he do? Police work had been his life. He wasn’t ready to go just yet. Not when he had Colonel Christie to deal with.

  He asked one of his men to telephone the Colonel to ask him whether he could drop by Newlands Corner at some point during that afternoon; after their previous heated conversation he reasoned that it would be better if the request came from someone other than himself. If the Colonel asked any questions about the nature or purpose of the invitation, Kenward told his man, he should try to keep the response vague and say that the Superintendent wanted to show him something at the site of the disappearance.

  Kenward then set off for Newlands Corner where he helped direct the search, which today would extend as far as the villages of Peaslake and Chilworth. During the morning the usual detritus was unearthed: a discarded piece of lady’s underwear (which was discounted as having belonged to Mrs Christie because of its extreme girth); a boy’s shoe; a couple of battered footballs; an old, moth-eaten tweed jacket that looked as though it had been worn by a tramp; and a batch of rain-stained love letters between a young servant girl and a local chauffeur. With each new cry from the crowd, with each new discovery, Kenward felt his heart expand and his breathing quicken; each inevitable disappointment manifested itself as a dull ache in the chest.

  The Colonel arrived at Newlands Corner just after lunchtime. Kenward watched as Christie, petulant and haughty as ever, stepped from the car, accompanied by Charlotte Fisher, together with her sister, and the family dog.

  ‘Thank you for coming, Colonel,’ said Kenward, leading Christie away from the two women. ‘I very much appreciate the trouble you’ve taken to come out this afternoon.’

  Christie looked at him askew, unsettled by Kenward’s friendly and polite manner.

  ‘You may be wondering why I asked you here this afternoon, but I wanted to apologise. If you feel as though you have been intimidated in any way or placed under any undue pressure then the fault must rest with me.’

  As Kenward extended his hand the Colonel nodded his head.

  ‘You must be aware that during the investigation we have to look at all lines of enquiry and, at one point, we had to focus on you.’

  ‘So you are saying that you no longer suspect me to be involved in the disappearance of my wife?’

  Kenward looked over his shoulder.

  ‘If it was up to me, I would issue a public statement announcing your innocence,’ he whispered. ‘But you know how things are.’

  ‘Indeed,’ said the Colonel, as the muscles in his face began to relax. ‘And what made you change your mind, may I ask?’

  ‘Certain evidence has come to light, which I cannot share with you just at this time, which seems to show that your wife is still alive.’

  ‘Really? But where is she?’

  ‘We are not sure. But I believe we are quite near to finding her.’

  ‘My goodness. What a relief. You have no idea how pleased I am.’

  Certainly the Colonel looked like he was genuinely happy to hear the news, but Kenward knew how men, and women too, could dissemble their features to suggest the opposite of what they really felt.

  ‘Must have been a terrible business, what with the newspapers and their horrible muckraking,’ said Kenward.

  ‘Just awful, you can’t imagine. I feel like I’ve been a prisoner for these last few days. I can’t go out without a newspaperman trying to get some quote or a snatched photograph. People looking at me as if I am a common murderer.’

  ‘Have you thought about granting an interview? Perhaps that would settle things once and for all. You could get your point of view across to the general public. As I said, we have some information that suggests Mrs Christie is alive, but her whereabouts are unclear. An interview might help draw Mrs Christie out of hiding.’

  ‘I don’t know. The way the pres
s twist one’s words . . . ’

  ‘I know a very trustworthy chap at the Daily Mail. Your wife’s favourite newspaper, is it not? If she were to read some words from you in that newspaper then perhaps it might help.’

  ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Anyway, think it over. And as to this afternoon, I thought we might be able to take a walk around the site, see if we find anything.’

  ‘Of course, I will certainly do anything to help.’

  The two men started to walk across a ridge of heathland and down a gentle slope that led to a wood. Peter followed behind the Colonel, stopping to sniff at the occasional patch of ground. Apart from the cries of birds and the wind in the trees no sound interrupted the men’s conversation. By the time the Superintendent and his suspect reached a stretch of woodland that bordered a chalk pit no one could see them.

  ‘I can’t imagine what it must be like out here at night,’ said the Colonel. ‘To think that my wife was alone here, it doesn’t bear thinking about. Anything could have happened to her.’

  ‘Yes, that is what we were worried about.’

  ‘And what makes you think she is alive? I know you can’t really say, but could you give me a clue?’

  Kenward fell silent.

  ‘Is it a letter? Has she written to you?’

  The Superintendent held Christie’s gaze and lowered his chin as if to confirm the question, but yet he was careful not to say any more.

  ‘I can’t understand what can have come over her. Obviously, I think the episode must be related somehow to her mother’s death. As I have told you the loss did strike at the very heart of her. I was talking to a psychiatrist the other day and he told me how bereavement can sometimes bring about loss of memory, what he called total amnesia.’

  ‘The scenario is certainly possible,’ said Kenward. ‘And if that were the case then perhaps an interview, if it was seen by Mrs Christie, could restore her memory.’

  ‘Do you really think it might help?’

  ‘Look, Christie. I know you hate the press, and I do too in my own way. Have you seen the coverage today? The criticism of our force? It’s too much to bear sometimes. But in certain situations one has to face up to the fact that the press can be used to one’s advantage.’

  The Colonel looked uncertain.

  ‘Look, why don’t I put you in touch with this chap from the Mail and you can talk things over with him? I will tell him that you haven’t made up your mind whether to consent to an interview, but you wanted to meet him first to talk things over.’

  ‘Very well, you may be right.’

  ‘I think so. When I get back to the station I’ll make the call. Oh, and just one more thing, if you do decide to talk to the man from the Mail could you not mention what I have suggested today? The information about Mrs Christie being alive – it’s best if that remains between us for the time being.’

  ‘Yes, very well,’ he said. ‘Whatever you say.’

  Kenward watched as Christie bit the inside of his cheek. He was obviously nervous at the prospect of the interview, and so he should be; his contact at the Mail, George Fox, was one of the toughest, most ruthless operators on Fleet Street. Not that he was going to tell the Colonel that.

  ‘Don’t worry, I am sure that the interview will bring some positive results,’ said Kenward. There was a certain truth to that statement, he thought. He looked up and spotted a group of searchers moving slowly in a line across the brow of the hill. ‘Why don’t we join those men and see if they’ve uncovered anything of use?’

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Rosie knocked gently on my bedroom door and came in with the breakfast tray. I could feel her eyes watching me as I sat up in bed. Did she know my real identity?

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ I said, as I poured the tea and then opened that morning’s Daily Mail.

  The girl lingered a moment or so longer than she needed. ‘That will be all,’ I said and she left the room and closed the door. I turned the pages of the newspaper, but then stopped when I saw page 9. I felt my face redden and my breathing quicken. The silly, stupid fool. What on earth had he been thinking? I couldn’t believe the words, nor the ridiculous headline, BELIEF IN VOLUNTARY DISAPPEARANCE, followed by ‘Wife’s boast that she could disappear’. I tried to read slowly, calmly, but I consumed the words greedily, a paragraph at a time.

  ‘It is quite true that my wife had discussed the possibility of disappearing at will. Some time ago she told her sister, “I could disappear if I wished and set about it carefully.”

  ‘They were discussing something that appeared in the papers, I think. That shows the possibility of engineering a disappearance had been running through her mind, probably for the purpose of her work.’

  Was he referring to that time Madge and I had been talking about a review of a detective novel that had as its central premise a staged disappearance? I think I had made some throwaway remark about this, of course never intending it to be taken seriously.

  ‘Personally, I feel that is what happened. At any rate, I am buoying myself up with that belief. You see, there are three possible explanations of her disappearance: Voluntarily; Loss of memory; and Suicide.

  I am inclined to the first, although of course it may be loss of memory as a result of her highly nervous state.’

  POISON

  ‘I do not believe this is a case of suicide. She never threatened suicide, but if she did contemplate that, I am sure her mind would turn to poison. I do not mean that she has ever discussed the question of taking poison, but that she used poison very largely in her stories.

  ‘I have remonstrated with her in regard to this form of death, but her mind always turned to it. If she wanted to get poison, I am sure she could have done so. She was very clever at getting anything she wanted.’

  The damned cheek of it. After all the sacrifices that I had made: living in Styles, a house that he had chosen and which had depressed me ever since we moved there; the set of friends from the golf club, Archie’s friends really, whom I had been forced to endure; and the news about the betrayal with a woman I had regarded as, if not a friend (no, certainly not that), part of our circle.

  ‘But against the theory of suicide you have to remember this: if a person intends to end his life he does not take the trouble to go miles away and then remove a heavy coat and walk off into the blue before doing it.

  ‘That is one reason why I do not think my wife has taken her life. She removed her fur coat and put it into the back of the car before she left it, and then I think she probably walked down the hill and off – God knows where. I suggest she walked down the hill because she always hated walking up hill.’

  That last sentence made me laugh – how well Archie knew me – but then the laugh changed into a whimper and then a sob. Through a veil of tears I stared at Archie’s photograph in the newspaper. That dimple in his chin, his square jaw, his handsome face. I had to admit to myself that I still loved him, still yearned for him even after all he had said, all he had done.

  I allowed myself to cry for a couple more minutes, before I wiped my eyes and then splashed my face with cold water. I could not allow myself to be weak, especially not today. I proceeded to dress, gathered my things together and when I looked as presentable as possible – my pale skin was still red and blotchy around the eyes – I dressed and went downstairs for a light breakfast.

  When I was eating my toast a member of staff walked over and gave me a letter that had just arrived. The sight of the familiar scrawl turned my stomach and I forced myself to take another sip of tea before opening the envelope.

  Dear Mrs Christie

  I do hope you are enjoying your stay at the Hydro and that you are finding it to your liking.

  I’m afraid that your period of rest and relaxation must face an interruption as no doubt you are aware the week is coming to a close. I do hope everything goes to plan, as we discussed. As you know, if anything does go amiss then there will be consequences.

  Once everything
has been taken care of I want you to let me know by placing a notice in The Times. I thought a simple advertisement, stating your name, Neele, would suffice; I will leave the exact wording up to you. As I have stated before I expect you to burn not only this letter, but also all my previous correspondence as well as any notes you may have made relating to this matter.

  I wish you all the luck in the world. I doubt after your task has been completed we will see each other again. But I will be sure to follow your career with interest, especially to see whether your recent experiences influence your writing in any way.

  Yours most sincerely

  Dr Patrick Kurs

  I stuffed the letter into my handbag and made my way to the station. It was another blustery day and the cold brought yet more tears to my eyes. I could hardly comprehend what I was going to do.

  As I stepped onto the train I felt as guilty as a murderer – or at least a murderer cursed with a conscience – and I avoided the gaze of fellow travellers. I pulled my hat a little further down over my forehead so as to cast my face in shadow and, after selecting a carriage that was empty of people, took out my notebook from my handbag. I knew that if I made the slightest mistake I would be responsible for the death of another human being. I would have committed murder. I wrote down the procedure in my book once more, hoping that seeing the formula in black and white might make me feel a little better, or at least not so desperately anxious. I thought of the bottle of laudanum hidden in the drawer by my bed back at the hotel; that would offer a more comfortable death than any of the other poisons in my possession. The image of the bottle and its promise of eternal nothingness acted as a balm to calm my nerves. But then I felt a rush of panic: if I did believe in God then taking my own life would result in never-ending damnation.