A Talent For Murder

by Andrew Wilson

‘This – this can’t be true,’ said Una. Suddenly, she felt nauseous and giddy, as if she were out at sea on an unsteady boat. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘Oh, it’s true all right. Do you not remember those policemen who called at my house yesterday to tell me the news of my wife’s death? Do you not recall the sad look on their faces? I can assure you it is true. The news had been sent by telegram from Harrogate to the local force, who—’

  ‘Harrogate? So Mrs Christie was in Yorkshire?’

  ‘Oh, yes, all the time. Staying at the Swan Hydropathic Hotel. Do you know it? A first-class establishment, I believe. I’m sure the stay has done her the world of good. She will probably continue to enjoy their hospitality for a few more days before she returns home. Obviously, her marriage is in tatters, but—’

  ‘So Mrs Christie is not here?’

  Kurs looked at her as if she were speaking a foreign language that he did not understand.

  ‘In the retired nurse’s home outside Swanage?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh no. That was just a ruse to get you out here. I knew you wouldn’t be able to resist. Curiosity, you see. That was your sin.’

  The words of Miss Fromer from boarding school flashed through her mind. She had said something along the same lines to her once.

  She focused on what Kurs was saying. Surely this couldn’t be true? It must be one of those queer episodes where her mind was unbalanced, just like the one she had experienced after she had learnt of her father’s death. She squeezed her eyes shut, but the terror she felt was all too real, and when she opened them again Kurs was standing before her, smiling.

  ‘Curiosity and naivety,’ Kurs continued. ‘You can’t remember, of course, but I discovered everything about you when you came to see me at the surgery. When you were asleep I searched your handbag. Everything I needed to know was there, in your notebook. I couldn’t risk you ruining my plan, you see. So much work had gone into it. You do understand, don’t you?’

  She had to think quickly. No, it wasn’t too late. She still had a chance to escape. She took a deep breath and with all her force launched herself forwards, intent on running across the grassland and back towards Swanage. But Kurs was too quick for her. He grabbed her arm and she stumbled, catching her face on a gorse bush.

  ‘Look, you’ve hurt yourself,’ said Kurs, bending down. ‘Let’s see. Nothing more than a scratch, but painful nevertheless, I should think.’

  Una could not bear to look at him or listen to what she now knew to be his sickly compassionate tone of voice.

  ‘Do you believe you are going to get away with this? I mean, the whole thing is quite ridiculous. The police will—’

  ‘The police will do nothing,’ snapped Kurs. ‘You forget, Mrs Christie is highly unlikely to deliver herself to her local police station and confess to the murder. And there is nobody else who knows anything of the plan.’

  ‘And what about me? Don’t you think I—’ The rest of her sentence dissolved inside her, the words eaten away by the fear that felt like acid burning from within.

  She pushed herself up and bolted forwards again, but Kurs grabbed her ankle and tugged her back towards him with such force it felt as though her leg might be pulled out of the hip socket. From the corner of her eye she saw he had something in his hands. She felt something pull on her left leg, restricting the movement below her ankle. She kicked out with her other foot, hitting him in the face. She felt herself rise forwards once more, she was free to get up and run – she had escaped – but then something jolted her back down to the ground. The smell of the damp earth hit her nostrils.

  She turned to see Kurs pulling on a line of green tape, binding her feet together. She kicked out again, but only hit Kurs in the shoulder. Using all the strength in her hands she clawed at his face, scratching his cheek. She struggled to stand up, even though her feet were bound, but a moment later she felt something slam into the side of her head. Kurs hit her again with a small rock just above her right eye. She felt a trickle of warm liquid run down her face and the taste of blood filling her mouth. She turned her head in panic as her vision distorted and blurred. The sound of her breathing – like an animal in a trap – made her scream out. But then something hard hit her around the head once more and she could not move.

  As she lost consciousness she slumped back onto the ground. Kurs smoothed down her blue cloth dress that had gathered around her knees and pushed her notebook into his medical bag. He took her slight form in his arms and walked towards the cliff. Una regained her senses just as Kurs dropped her over the edge. She stretched out her arms in a desperate measure to claw herself back towards the side of the cliff. But it was too late. She felt nothing but a terrible emptiness.

  She felt herself falling, twisting, tipping, falling further; she heard the fury of the approaching sea, terrifying as it crashed against the jagged rocks below. A series of images flashed through her mind. She thought of Miss Fromer, of that poor dog who had died chasing after a rabbit, of Mrs Christie, and of the taste of that strawberry ice her father had once bought her. Her last thought was for Davison. How would he ever manage without her?

  Chapter Thirty

  When I arrived at Flora’s hotel I was surprised to see my friend in remarkably good spirits. A slight bloom of colour had returned to her cheeks and although she was still very weak Flora said that she felt extraordinarily well considering that she had very nearly died. The joke made her laugh, but I am afraid I could manage no more than a forced smile.

  ‘But it worked!’ said Flora. ‘You should be pleased. Your trick fooled them all. It was amazing.’

  ‘Yes, I know it did,’ I said, flinging my handbag onto the bed.

  ‘What now?’ Flora’s face darkened. ‘Today an undertaker or that doctor will call at the house and they will be suspicious if no one is there. They will contact the police who will no doubt break down the front door to find – to find that what they thought was a dead body has gone missing. It’s only a matter of time before Patrick will start to realise that something has gone wrong.’

  ‘Don’t worry about that,’ I said, trying to sound calmer than I felt. ‘You’ve been through a terrible ordeal. The last thing you need is more distress.’

  ‘Yes, but Agatha, what on earth are we going to do? He’s going to come looking for you, for us. Oh no, I can’t bear the thought of it.’

  I reached across and touched her arm; her skin had begun to feel warmer. I knew exactly what I must do, but I was loath to discuss it with Flora. ‘I’ve got it all planned,’ I said.

  In that instant, Flora understood what I meant. She did not say anything, but the playfulness with which she had greeted me had disappeared. She swallowed, grasped my hand and nodded.

  ‘You do understand I have no choice but to—’ I did not need to complete the rest of the sentence.

  ‘Yes, I do,’ she whispered. ‘I fear it’s the only way.’

  ‘It goes against everything I stand for, everything I believe in. I’ve tried to think of other possibilities, but there is no way out of this nightmare. I know I may very well suffer for all eternity, but if that is what it takes to save Rosalind then I am prepared.’ Tears stung my eyes like little drops of acid. ‘I’m sorry, Flora, for involving you in all of this.’ I suddenly felt so tired. ‘Sometimes I wish I had just killed myself right at the beginning, when Kurs first outlined his plan. It would all have been so much easier.’ But would suicide make things better? No, taking my life would achieve nothing. Flora would be left alone having to face a vengeful, dangerous husband; Rosalind would be motherless and would have to live with the shame of it for the rest of her life; my sister Madge would be devastated and the news would probably send my poor brother Monty over the edge.

  ‘Don’t talk like that,’ she said, closing her eyes. We sat in silence for a moment.

  ‘Are you still feeling the effects of the drug?’ I asked.

  ‘I am rather. I’m feeling quite thirsty all of a sudden. Would you mind getti
ng me a glass of water?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ I said, standing. ‘Will you ever be able to forgive me, Flora?’

  ‘There’s nothing to forgive,’ she said. ‘Apart from tardiness in fetching that glass of water.’

  ‘Of course,’ I said, trying to force a smile. ‘And what about breakfast? Some toast?’

  ‘No, just the water for now, thank you. I’m afraid both taps on the basin over there in the corner are only producing warm or hot water. I don’t know what the problem is. Something must have happened to the plumbing. So you’ll have to try the bathroom down the hall.’

  ‘Very well, I’ll be back in a few minutes,’ I said, picking up a glass and leaving the room. I returned to find Flora still lying on the bed where I had left her, but a few red blotches had appeared on her neck and the upper part of her chest. ‘Here you are, dear,’ I said passing the water to her. ‘I do hope you aren’t having a reaction.’ She looked at me oddly. ‘You seem to have developed a little rash on your neck.’

  ‘Oh, that’s nothing,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘A sip of water or two and I will be much better. Actually, you know, I do feel a little tired. Would you forgive me if I went back to sleep?’

  ‘Let me check your pulse.’

  Flora held out her wrist as I counted the beats of my friend’s heart.

  ‘It is running a little quickly,’ I said, looking at her with concern. ‘Well, that’s better than running too slowly, I suppose.’

  ‘I think I will feel better after a rest.’

  ‘Shall I come back at lunchtime? Perhaps you will feel hungry then? I could bring you something to eat.’

  ‘Thank you. You are really very sweet.’

  I was about to ask Flora what she would prefer – an egg sandwich, perhaps, or a plate of something more substantial – when she turned her head away from me and began to fall asleep. As I watched her, I envied her this moment of peace. I doubted that I would ever be able to feel comfortable or at ease with myself ever again.

  As I stepped out of the hotel I saw a cluster of men standing around a car, passing a newspaper between them and gesturing towards it in an aggressive fashion. Fearing that the men were newspaper reporters, I pulled my hat down further over my head. I was certain that I heard one of them, a short fellow with a bald head and black moustache, say my name followed by the words, ‘She’s dead now, that’s for certain.’ I couldn’t catch the rest of the sentence, but it seemed that the discussion centred on whether the death had been a result of suicide or murder. As I passed through the streets full of shoppers, many of them carrying Christmas presents and with faces glowing with joy, I felt as hollow and insubstantial as a shadow. But then, as I turned a corner, I nearly bumped into an old lady with silver hair and intelligent, china-blue eyes. The woman stopped as if she recognised me, but just as she opened her mouth to say something I turned away from her and hurried along, my chin buried in my coat, my eyes lowered. It was obvious that I wasn’t as invisible as I felt; I would have to continue to be mindful.

  As I entered my room, and took up my notebook once more, I thought about Kurs and how he would have reacted to his wife’s ‘death’. I imagined the policemen breaking the news to him, the insincere mask of grief that he donned, perhaps even a tear or two, and the sense of pleasure that would have flooded through his body after they had left. No doubt Kurs – who was due to arrive in Leeds to examine the body of his dead wife – thought that his master plan had worked, he had committed the perfect murder. Was there any way I could make him continue to believe that?

  I had thought of all sorts of outlandish possibilities: could I go to the hospital in Leeds and steal the corpse of a woman of Flora’s age and appearance? No, that would never work. Could I ask Flora to take the poison again and resume her position in her deathbed? I had been lucky in saving my friend once; I doubted whether Flora’s body would be strong enough to endure a second dose. Or could I give her a sleeping draught and just hope the attending doctor or undertaker wouldn’t look too closely? But what if Flora was carted away in a coffin? What then? I could hardly let my friend be buried alive. I had scored a line through the list of these imagined scenarios. No, none of these preposterous musings would do.

  I had known it for some time, but I had been afraid to acknowledge the inevitability of my course of action.

  I would have to kill Dr Kurs myself.

  Chapter Thirty-one

  It was, he already knew from his contacts in Fleet Street, being called ‘The Great Sunday Hunt’. It was a snappy enough title, and if this didn’t produce results, well, he didn’t know what would. Kenward had spent the last two days preparing for yet another search for Mrs Christie. Later that day the press would print appeals for volunteers to come to Newlands Corner and help in the hunt for the missing novelist.

  He had already amassed a huge force: if his calculations proved correct there would be fifty-three separate search parties, each headed by a police officer; an omnibus had been drafted in to ferry the volunteers from Guildford to Newlands Corner; search parties would also venture forth from the Clandon Water Works, Coal Kitchen Lane and One Tree Hill; a breeder of bloodhounds had contacted him offering his services in the hope that the dogs would sniff out a trace of Mrs Christie; and the men, thirty or so of them, from the Duke of Northumberland’s estate at Albury had promised to help again. It was their opinion that the novelist had committed suicide and they felt so protective of her body and reputation that they maintained they wanted to be the ones who found her so that they could deal with the situation with dignity and with as little scandal as possible.

  Kenward, of course, had a different opinion. Frustratingly, the interview with Colonel Christie in the Daily Mail hadn’t given him much to go on. Kenward had telephoned George Fox to ask if Christie had behaved suspiciously or said anything odd, but even Fox seemed to have been taken in by the man. If he could just arrest the Colonel and question him properly he was sure he would break. But in order to do that they needed to find a body.

  There had been various offers to bring in mediums – he had heard that one newspaper was even running a stunt of this kind in the next day or so – but he didn’t want to get involved with any of that nonsense. Some of the stories whizzing around in people’s heads were quite extraordinary! He had even heard a suggestion that Mrs Christie had staged her disappearance in a bid to get publicity. There was no denying that all the attention boosted her public profile – he had seen an advertisement in that day’s Daily Mirror, announcing that tomorrow’s Reynold’s Illustrated News would begin a serialisation of her mystery, The Murder on the Links – but surely, nobody, not even the most fame-hungry degenerate, would dream of wasting police time in such a manner.

  As he planned the search, and organised the movements of the various interested parties, he was conscious that he did so with all the precision of a military operation. He had always liked detail and order. He would have been much happier if Mrs Christie had disappeared from her own home or a hotel room; in that way one could be methodical about the search and, with luck, one could find some evidence. The problem with the scene of this crime was that it was just so damned huge. Earlier in the day one of his constables, a lad who liked reading and fancied himself as something of an off-duty intellectual, had called the hunt for Mrs Christie an ‘epic’ feat of organisation. ‘You should try your hand at reporting,’ Kenward had joked. ‘You are wasted in the police force, my boy.’ That had got a few laughs in the station. But in truth Kenward did not feel like laughing, not one little bit. Although he would not admit it to anyone, he was beginning to feel like the hunt for Mrs Christie was perhaps a little too ambitious for him.

  Not only that, but Captain Sant, the Chief Constable of Surrey Constabulary, had telephoned an hour or so ago and his tone was far from friendly. He was on his way, he said, and would be in Guildford within the hour. There were a few things that he wanted to discuss with Kenward about the direction of the operation. He would, Kenw
ard told himself, have to stay confident; surely, if the men continued to search, they would find something, if not her body then at least some scrap of evidence, some trace, that would help explain the disappearance.

  Kenward was on the telephone to one of the officers in the Berkshire force when Captain Sant came into his office; he hadn’t expected him quite so soon. It was obvious from the impatient stare he gave him that he expected Kenward to draw the telephone conversation to a close.

  ‘All in place for tomorrow?’ said Sant.

  ‘Yes, it’s a devil of an operation, but it seems like everything is arranged.’

  There was a pause, a pause that made Kenward feel distinctly uncomfortable. Sant cleared his throat.

  ‘I won’t lie to you, Kenward,’ he said. ‘I’ve had a telephone call from the Home Office. They are beginning to feel anxious about the distinct lack of results. They have also raised questions, justifiably so in my opinion, about the cost of all of this. They tell me that the sum involved is now hundreds and hundreds of pounds and—’

  Kenward tried to interrupt, but Captain Sant raised a hand to quieten him. ‘And while this is not an issue if the case comes to a satisfactory conclusion it would become a serious problem if we were not to find Mrs Christie. Do you get my drift?’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Kenward, feeling that all too familiar, uncomfortable pressure around his heart. ‘I have every confidence that tomorrow we will find something. It’s a matter of continuing, and deepening, the search. Mrs Christie, or some trace of her, is out there, I am sure of it.’

  ‘You are totally confident in that regard?’

  ‘Yes, yes, sir, I am.’ Kenward felt anxiety begin to claw at the back of his neck.

  ‘Very well. Let’s talk again tomorrow,’ said Sant, turning towards the door. ‘But I don’t need to warn you, Kenward, of the pressure that I am coming under. You’ve been a good man, you’ve done splendid work through the years, your work on the Blue Anchor Hotel murder was first rate, but I would hate to see this be your last case.’