Chapter Thirty-four
My sleep was broken by nightmares, horrible visions of Flora and Kurs. In one dream she tried to poison him, only for Kurs to outwit her; after smashing the vial from her hand he grabbed her by the throat and squeezed every last breath from her. In another she succeeded in killing him, but was cast down to hell for her actions; as she felt the flames lick her ankles she called out my name, cursing me for what I had forced her to do. I awoke to feel the sting of my conscience spreading through my body like a nasty poison. Logically, I knew that Flora’s plan had been the best one – there was little point trying to persuade her out of it and I knew that she did not have long to live – yet that did not make me feel any better. I felt sick, sick both in mind and in body.
When Rosie set down my breakfast tray I turned my face away to avoid the smell of the toast and butter. When I raised my head to apologise for my lack of appetite she did not meet my eye, almost as if she were ashamed of something. Despite the shadow of guilt that was leaving its dark stain upon me I adopted a false, friendly manner and tried to engage her in light conversation. But her air of general joviality had been replaced by a hardened shell. The realisation came to me in an instant: it was obvious Rosie had finally told someone of the real identity of the woman in Room 105. As soon as the girl left the room I felt the familiar bird of panic flutter in my breast.
Last night I had seen two of the bandsmen looking at me in an odd manner. Later, after dinner, as I was on the way back to my room, I had caught a glimpse of the musicians talking to two other men who were obviously from the police but not in uniform. I could tell because one of them had the eyes of a man who had seen some terrible things and who clearly thought the worst of everyone. The other had a little pencil, the kind of thing constables used for the purpose of taking notes, poking out of the top of his trouser pocket.
I took up that morning’s paper in a bid to try to distract myself from the inevitable, but there I was, my name spread across the pages like a nasty rash. The newspaper was full of lurid details of what was now being called ‘The Great Sunday Hunt’. There was even some nonsense about how Arthur Conan Doyle had given one of my gloves to a medium in the hope that the spirit world could help pinpoint my whereabouts.
The whole thing made me quite angry – what was he doing with one of my gloves? – and I was just about to turn the page in disgust when my eye fell on a name that I recognised: Una Crowe, the girl I had met with Davison in London that day. The report stated that Miss Crowe, who was only twenty, had disappeared from her house in Chelsea on Saturday. The young woman had been suffering, or so the family said, from melancholia following her father’s death and they were worried for her safety. There had been times, at my lowest moments following my mother’s death, when I had been tempted to give in to the darkness. Had I not had Rosalind, and to some extent Peter, perhaps I might have chosen to end it all? Is that what poor Miss Crowe had done? I cut out the story and put it in the back of one of my notebooks.
I continued to turn the pages, pages that were thankfully free of any mention of me. I read about a police visit to the Kit-C at Club; the recovery of a precious fourteenth-century manuscript that had been stolen by thieves in France; the imminent death of the Japanese Emperor, who had been critically ill for some time; and a police chase of two suspected cat burglars across the rooftops of central London. Then, as I turned the page, a familiar name jumped out at me.
DEATH OF DOCTOR AND WIFE
Couple found in Leeds
Police discovered the bodies of Dr Patrick Kurs, a medical practitioner from Rickmansworth, and his wife, Flora, in a house in Leeds yesterday. Detectives say that the bodies of the husband and wife were found in a house in Calverley Lane. Although the situation is far from clear some reports suggest that Flora Kurs died on Saturday and that Dr Kurs took his own life after learning of his wife’s death. Detectives suggest that the doctor arrived at the house yesterday and discovered his wife’s body in bed. As the two bodies were found in the sitting room of the house it is thought that he must have moved his wife downstairs and killed himself yesterday in a fit of grief. The Leeds Constabulary are appealing for a lady thought to be in her thirties, a friend of the family who was believed to be with Flora Kurs at the time of her death, to contact them.
Initially, I read the story with a certain numbness, as if I had no personal connection with it whatsoever. Kurs was dead. The nightmarish ordeal was over. Instead of travelling south, as she had told me, Flora had simply returned to the house in Leeds. That had been my plan too – to meet Kurs at Flora’s house, where he was due to inspect her body. There, I would have tried to poison him, most probably with something that would leave little trace. Flora had relieved me of that ghastly task; in many ways she had saved me. How could I have carried on being a woman, a mother, knowing that I had taken someone’s life, even someone as vile as Kurs? I knew I should have felt elated at the news of Kurs’s death – like I should shout it out from the window of my hotel room – but instead I only felt hollow and empty.
The truth was an innocent woman had died because of me. As I thought of dear Flora tears welled in my eyes and began to stream down my face. She had been so kind. And such an awful way to die. That damned Roger Ackroyd. If I had never written that book none of this would have happened. After all, Kurs had told me that it was that novel in particular, with its doctor narrator, that had sparked his sinister interest in me. Perhaps it would be better if I gave up writing altogether. The idea was laughable, I realised, as I might not have a choice; I had not been able to write anything half decent since my mother’s death. My thoughts were interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Rosie who said that she had returned to collect the breakfast tray. I wiped the tears from my face. Now I was the one who could not meet her eye.
‘Not so hungry today, ma’am?’ she said as she picked up my tray. I sensed the embarrassment in her voice.
‘No, not so much,’ I said, trying not to sniff too loudly.
I did not know what to say and so we fell into silence. She slipped out of the room soon after. It was obvious that the game, as they say, was up. Perhaps later, when I went downstairs, I would find Archie waiting for me in the lounge. What on earth would I say to him? I could hardly tell him the truth. I could never associate myself with the death of Kurs and his wife in case I might be implicated. No, I would have to invent some kind of story that would explain my strange behaviour; whether people believed it or not was another thing altogether. I had once read somewhere of a woman who had gone missing after she had lost her memory. Yes, I could use that. I would maintain that I had suffered from an attack of amnesia. I would not be able to remember how I had disappeared nor how I had made my way from Berkshire to Harrogate. I would say and say again, until I was quite blue in the face, that I had been in a daze and at a loss to know what I had been doing in the northern spa town. But what of the letters that I had sent? I would deny all memory of them. Had I not read the stories of my disappearance in the newspapers? they would ask. I had seen them, yes, but I assumed that they were talking of some other lady. I would say that I had recognised the woman in the photographs, but when I stared at the newspapers it was as though I had been looking at a picture of an acquaintance, someone I knew vaguely or had met once or twice, a person I could not name.
I would maintain that I must have been suffering from a terrible attack of nerves, brought on by my mother’s death and the problems with my writing. After all, so much of this was true: I had been feeling terribly depressed about quite a few things. And what of the choice of name, Mrs Teresa Neele? Why had I chosen that? I would try to avoid that question, as the last thing I wanted was to bring scandal on the family, but if forced I would say that I must have heard the name mentioned somewhere, perhaps by my husband.
My one thought was for Rosalind, to make sure she was safe. I ached for her with a deep yearning, something more primitive and elemental than the need I had once felt for Archie. I just ho
ped the furore would soon be over. Part of me wanted to waltz downstairs and exclaim my identity, but I knew such a course of action would be unwise. No, it would be better to pretend that I was still suffering from amnesia until the authorities or the police or a stranger approached me. Until then, I would try to behave a little queerly when in public. That, I said to myself with a grimace, should come quite easily.
Chapter Thirty-five
Kenward was on the telephone to the man from the Daily Mirror when Sant walked into his office. He had spent the day trying to explain to a legion of journalists why Sunday’s search had failed to unearth anything significant; the last thing he needed was another interrogation from his boss. He could see that Sant wanted him to bring the conversation to a close, but he had only just begun the interview. Kenward brought up his hand to signal that he would only be on the telephone for one minute more, a gesture that was met by a withering stare from Sant.
‘You can take it from me that Mrs Christie will be found near Newlands Corner dead or alive,’ Kenward said to the reporter. ‘If she were in London or elsewhere undoubtedly she would have written, probably anonymously, to stop the search. We are so sure of ultimate success that from Wednesday an intensive, week-long search will be made over an area of forty miles.’ Sant moved around Kenward’s desk and came to stand behind him. Kenward could hear his superior breathing heavily, a noise that made him feel distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go. Can I telephone you back? Yes, good. Let’s talk again in fifteen minutes. Goodbye.’
Kenward hardly had time to place the receiver back down on the telephone when Sant exploded.
‘Another search? On Wednesday? Are you out of your mind?’
‘But it’s the only way forward, surely.’
‘Forty miles? Which will take a week? What are you thinking?’
‘Sir, let me explain the reasoning. If Mrs Christie was still alive then—’
‘Yes, I heard you, then surely she would have contacted us. Perhaps, but not necessarily. What if she is dead, which is still open to question by the way, but her body is lying in some garage in Guildford or Camberley or God knows where? Have you thought of that?’
‘If that is the case, sir, I am convinced that we will find some evidence that will lead us to that conclusion.’
‘I don’t think you realise the seriousness of the position. The future and reputation of the whole Surrey Constabulary is at stake here, don’t you see?’ Sant’s voice had quietened now, but it had taken on an icy quality that chilled Kenward. ‘I had another telephone call from the Home Office this morning. They had been assured that the resources we were expending were being put to good use and would guarantee a result. Now, am I to understand that not only did the so-called “Great Sunday Hunt” prove absolutely worthless, but also you intend to initiate another search, an even bigger search?’
‘Yes, that’s right, sir, but if you will let me explain—’
‘I doubt there is anything you will say that will convince me of the rightness of your actions. Really, Kenward, this has got to stop. You’re making yourself, and the force, a laughing stock.’
‘But it won’t cost that much more money. I have been pledged the help of eighty members of the Aldershot Motorcycle Club, and a London company has offered me the help of a diver to search the deeper pools around Newlands Corner. And we can draft in more volunteers, more people to help. You saw how The Hunt sparked the imagination of the general public. There were thousands who turned up yesterday. If we can just continue to tap into that then I am convinced we will find the clue that has so far eluded us. It would be foolish and short-sighted to give up now. What happens if we abandon the operation and then next week a dog walker stumbles across the body of Mrs Christie lying in some bracken or hanging from a tree? I can guarantee you then we will be the laughing stock of the nation.’
Sant hesitated for a moment while he considered the argument. ‘I don’t know whether to admire or pity your stubbornness, Kenward,’ he said, mellowing a little. ‘I must give you credit for determination, if nothing else. Very well, Wednesday it is then. But only for an operation that lasts another few days – a week is totally out of the question. And try and use as much volunteer force as possible. I don’t want this to end with questions being asked in Parliament and I am certain you don’t either.’
‘Thank you, sir. You won’t regret it.’
Captain Sant left the room without further comment. Kenward telephoned the reporter from the Mirror and halfway through the interview, just as he was detailing the specifics of the operation – which would focus on searching the Downs from Newlands Corner to Ranmore Common near Dorking and would also include areas such as Albury and Hurtwood – a constable placed a telegram on his desk. It was from his colleagues in the West Riding Police.
Kenward felt a shock run through him as he read that they had spotted Mrs Christie in Harrogate. She had been staying at the Swan Hydropathic Hotel there for the past ten days. What utter nonsense! He refused to believe it and pushed it to one side, firmly consigning it to the ever-increasing pile of miscellaneous sightings, mediumistic interventions and general crackpot theories. He wound down the conversation with the chap from the Mirror, hoping that the interview and others like them that he had done that day would go some way to avoid an impending public relations disaster. It was vitally important that he kept the people on his side. Out of habit his hand moved towards his desk drawer and although he was desperate for a drink, he managed to resist. With Sant on the warpath he needed to keep his wits about him.
Over dinner, Kenward regaled his wife with news of the meeting he had had with Sant.
‘He’s all bluster, that one,’ she said. ‘It’s obvious he thinks very highly of you, but cannot bring himself to tell you. That’s my opinion anyway.’
‘Do you think so?’ said Kenward in a self-satisfied manner. He was surprised, and more than a little pleased, with the way he had managed to turn the conversation round. ‘You’ll never guess the latest lunacy,’ he laughed. ‘I’m warning you, it’s a good one.’
‘What?’ said Naomi.
‘Just as I was finishing up the interview with the Mirror, Hughes knocked on my door and placed a wire on my desk. It said – wait for this – that Mrs Christie had been seen at a spa hotel in Harrogate!’
‘Harrogate?’
‘I know. It’s so absurd it’s laughable. As if she could have been swanning around a smart hotel in the north of England for the past ten days or so. At least it raised a chuckle.’
‘I bet it did,’ said Naomi, laughing. ‘So what are you going to do?’
‘Do? Why, nothing of course.’
‘Quite right, dear,’ said Naomi. ‘Quite right.’
Chapter Thirty-six
When would it happen? When would I feel the soft touch of a stranger on my shoulder or hear a voice behind me whispering my name? I imagined that they would speak softly because they might be fearful that a forceful exclamation would cause greater distress. I could just imagine the kind of gibberish spouted by a psychiatrist, stuff and nonsense about the fragmentation of my personality and confusion of identity. Of course, I could play along with this very well indeed: a slightly neurotic, highly strung novelist with a propensity for losing herself in her characters who, after suffering a bereavement and the pain of infidelity, has a mental breakdown and experiences an episode of amnesia. Yes, that would do very nicely indeed.
I just hoped that there weren’t any crime-fiction aficionados among the detectives who would soon interrogate me; after all, I had written about amnesia before, and the mysterious Jane Finn in The Secret Adversary had pretended to suffer from memory loss in a bid to outwit her enemies.
I knew the moment of revelation would be soon, perhaps within a matter of hours. The night before, on returning to my room after dinner, I had realised that a few of my belongings had been moved. The change was hardly noticeable; certainly the man or men who had been in my room – the faint smel
l of tobacco lingered in the air – would not have been able to discern any difference. But the feminine eye picked up on these things. The police had altered, albeit ever so slightly, the position of my hairbrush on the dresser and the angle of the detective novel by my bedside. No doubt they would have been able to verify my identity from the small, framed photograph of Rosalind with her nickname ‘Teddy’ scrawled across it.
Of course, I had been careful to carry my notebook in my handbag; I didn’t want anyone looking through that. At the first opportunity I would burn it. Not only did it contain detailed plans on how to poison Flora and kill Kurs – information which would lead to my arrest for the deaths of the couple – but I had used it as a repository for my thoughts on a number of other intimate subjects regarding my feelings for both Archie and Nancy Neele. It also contained my notes for The Murder of Roger Ackroyd; it would be desperately sad to see them go up in flames, but that could not be helped.
I spent the day in awful contemplation, reading The Phantom Train, a rather silly novel but perfect for taking my mind off the inevitable. I only ventured out of my room for meals and the occasional tour of the main rooms of the hotel where I kept my eyes open for suspicious individuals. After a rather late lunch, just as I was walking through the lounge to return to my room, I saw a man in a dark suit reading a newspaper. I thought I had gone some way to prepare myself mentally for the horrors of what was to come, but there was something so ghastly about seeing myself on the front page that I felt nauseous and weak and I had to steady myself by putting my hand on a brown leather armchair. MRS CHRISTIE SAID TO BE IN HARROGATE, then ‘Husband of missing novelist leaves for the north to investigate’, it read. So Archie was on his way. Would he be fooled by my story? Perhaps not; well, it hardly mattered now.
A Talent For Murder Page 24