A Talent For Murder

by Andrew Wilson

  Back in my room, just as I was getting a little bored of The Phantom Train, I heard a quiet knock at my door. Surely Archie could not have arrived already?

  ‘Hello?’ I said as I moved towards the door.

  ‘Mrs Christie,’ a voice whispered. ‘It’s Davison – John Davison. I met you in London recently.’

  What on earth was he doing here? ‘Please open your door – I may not have much time,’ he said.

  Could I trust him? As my hand hesitated on the door handle I noticed my fingers were shaking.

  ‘You aren’t in trouble, I promise. I’ve got some bad news, I’m afraid.’

  Oh no, had something happened to Archie or to Rosalind? Had Kurs put into action a grotesque plan from beyond the grave, a plan carried out by his associates, his degenerate friends? Please God, let my husband and daughter be safe. I opened the door to see a different Davison from the one I had met in London. All his vibrancy had been sucked out of him, his elegant sheen had disappeared, his eyes were bloodshot, and his skin seemed pale as if he had not slept for days.

  ‘What’s the matter? Please tell me it’s not—’

  ‘No, your family are quite safe,’ he said, walking into the room.

  ‘You’re certain?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘What on earth is the matter?’ I searched my brain. Could it be Charlotte? Or had he come to tell me something that I already knew: Flora was dead? But why would he connect me with her?

  ‘Could I trouble you for a glass of water? I’m sorry, it’s just that I’ve just come from—’

  At this his voice faltered. He placed a fist over his mouth to stifle a cry.

  ‘Oh my, of course,’ I said, fetching him some water. ‘And please do sit down.’

  Davison sat in the armchair by the window as he tried to compose himself. He took a sip of water and cleared his throat.

  ‘I’ve just come from Leeds, you see. From the house where the bodies of Dr and Mrs Kurs were found.’

  He waited for my reaction. Just what did he know? And why was he upset by the deaths of Patrick and Flora Kurs? Surely he could not have known them? Was this the man that Kurs had mentioned to me? The one who was capable of doing those unutterable things?

  ‘Yes, I read about the deaths in the newspaper,’ I said, trying to make my statement as unemotional as possible. ‘But I don’t see how this has anything to do with me.’

  Davison stared at me coldly. ‘Do you remember Miss Crowe? The girl I was with that day I met you in London?’

  ‘Yes, I read—’

  ‘That she disappeared, yes. We’ve been searching for her everywhere, but to no avail. But now I’m afraid we fear the very worst.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘At first we thought she might have gone off and done something stupid. You know her father’s death really did hit her very hard. That prospect was bad enough. But then the police contacted me to tell me that they had found a notebook of Una’s in Kurs’s possession.’ He watched my face to gauge my reaction. ‘It seems that the two were acquainted.’

  ‘But how?’

  ‘It was my fault, if only I hadn’t encouraged her,’ he said, his face colouring with anger. ‘Why did I even suggest such a thing?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘When you went missing I suggested to Una that she look into your disappearance. She wanted to make her name as a journalist, you see. And I thought this would take her mind off the death of her father. It was supposed to be a bit of light relief for her, a diversion,’ he said, pronouncing the last word with contempt.

  The sudden realisation was almost too much to bear. I felt my face stiffen into a horrifying mask, like something from a Greek tragedy. ‘So she was on – on my trail?’

  ‘Yes, yes, she was.’

  ‘And you suspect Kurs of—’

  ‘Murder.’ The word seemed to infect the room with an airborne poison. ‘She told me that she was going to see Miss Neele’s doctor, but I thought nothing of it. Of course, I warned her not to take any risks, but . . . ’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘From what I can gather it seems that Kurs lured her to Dorset with the prospect of introducing her to you – he promised her some kind of interview – and it’s most probable that he killed her there. There is a search under way at the moment, but of course the sea may have carried her off and . . . ’ His voice failed him.

  The thought of that innocent young creature with that monster.

  ‘My God, the evil of that man.’ But how much did Davison know about my involvement with the doctor? ‘It’s all too wretched,’ I said, trying to find a moment to think. I walked over and placed my hand on his shoulder. ‘Were you very close?’

  ‘Like brother and sister – or perhaps even closer,’ said Davison, spitting out the words and fighting back tears. ‘I’m sorry – it’s very unmanly of me, I know.’

  ‘Not in the least,’ I said. ‘In fact, I think it shows strength rather than weakness.’

  He bit his lip and swallowed. ‘But what I don’t understand is what kind of hold Kurs had over you.’

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t quite grasp what you are saying. I’ve – I’ve been suffering from nervous exhaustion.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it, but I am sure that Kurs played some part in all of this, in your so-called disappearance. It seems Una certainly thought so. Doing what you did – leaving your car like that near Newlands Corner and vanishing without a trace is completely out of character. It drove the police force to distraction and has ruined the reputation of one of Surrey’s best men. Kenward will have to be gradually eased out, poor chap.’

  I remained silent.

  ‘You do realise that at some point I will need to know everything,’ said Davison, clearing his throat. ‘But I understand that here is hardly the time or the place, as I believe your husband is on his way to see you.’ He looked at his watch, stood up and from his inside jacket pocket took out another card. It could join its partner in the inside pocket of my handbag. ‘I am sure that with our help you will be able to keep this out of the press.’

  I felt another wave of panic seize me. ‘You don’t mean that all of – of what happened will be reported in the newspapers?’ I had seen the horrific coverage of my disappearance. What on earth would the papers make of the plot involving Kurs and his wife? I was not strong enough to think of the consequences.

  ‘Don’t worry. If you answer our questions and cooperate we can ensure this remains out of the public eye.’

  ‘Are you quite certain?’ It was too late to save my marriage, but I had to continue to protect my daughter. ‘I could not risk any more scandal.’

  ‘When you feel ready please do get in touch. We are still keen to bring you into the department, on something of an informal basis.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, beginning to realise that Davison was even cleverer than I thought. ‘I’m terribly sorry about Miss Crowe, I really am.’

  ‘So am I, more than I can say,’ he said as he walked towards the door. He closed his eyes for a moment and regained his composure. ‘Good luck with your re-entry into the world. Have you got your story straight?’

  ‘I hope so,’ I said, somewhat uncertainly. I knew, better than most, how stories were such troublesome things to get right.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  I took longer than usual getting ready for dinner. I applied a spot of powder and a little blusher and lipstick – the news about Miss Crowe had left me feeling shaken and looking drawn – and dressed in that rather indecent georgette salmon-pink evening gown. When I had first set eyes on the dress on that damp day in Louis Cope I suspected that it would prove useful. Tonight I needed Archie to see me looking like a different woman.

  On the way down to the lounge I bumped into Mrs Robson.

  ‘Oh my,’ said the lady, blushing.

  ‘Is there anything the matter?’

  ‘No, nothing at all,’ she said, deliberately trying not to look at the way the dress clung
to my curves. ‘Are you all set for tonight?’

  Had I been discovered already? ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘For the dance at the Prospect Hotel. I think it will be fun. Even Arthur is looking forward to it, and he’s not much of a dancer.’

  ‘Oh dear, I’m so sorry. It completely slipped my mind.’ What could I say to get out of it? ‘I’m afraid I’ve just heard that my brother is going to join me at the hotel tonight. Will you forgive me?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Mrs Robson, moving closer to me. ‘I’m pleased you’ve got some company at last. You’ve been so lonely for the past week or so, haven’t you? Must have been terribly boring for you.’

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ I said quietly.

  ‘Well, perhaps we can make it another day. I believe there’s another on Thursday. Shall we make it a date?’

  ‘Yes, good idea.’ I knew that I would probably never see Mrs Robson ever again. Just as well really; I did not want to witness the look of disappointment and betrayal on the kind lady’s face when she realised the truth.

  ‘And try and have a little fun with your brother, for my sake, won’t you? You deserve it.’

  ‘Thank you, Janet.’

  A dance around a big ballroom was exactly the kind of thing that would do me the world of good. I had a pocket of nervousness trapped in my stomach that would only disperse with a rush of vigorous exercise. Part of me felt like running around the grounds of the hotel and screaming my name to the wind, but while that would no doubt have cemented the image of myself as a rather queer individual I thought it best to restrain myself. Although I normally never touched alcohol – my favourite tipple was half a pint of double cream mixed with milk – on this occasion I would have liked to have been able to order a drink at the bar.

  I wandered into the games room; yes, a spot of billiards might just do the trick. The exercise would help relieve my anxiety, while the sight of me in an evening gown brandishing a cue and striding around the table would convey just the right level of eccentricity. I began to play solo, enjoying the feel and the sound of the balls smashing around the cloth table, before I was joined for a game by a nice chap, Mr Pettleson, a wine merchant from London whose face was as ruddy as a fine port.

  ‘I don’t for the blazes know what is going on outside the hotel,’ he said, as he pocketed one of the balls.

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said, although I knew very well what he would say.

  ‘A commotion if ever I saw one. A number of cars. Men in suits hanging about. Photographers. If I’m not mistaken it looks as though the police are about to make an arrest.’

  ‘An arrest?’ I said, my voice breaking. Had they somehow linked my name to the deaths of Kurs and his wife? ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Saw the same thing once down near Aldgate. The press had been tipped off by the police.’ He looked up from his shot directly into my eyes. ‘You never know, we might have a murderer in our midst, staying here at the hotel. What do you think to that, eh?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Pettleson, could you excuse me for a moment. I just need to return to my room.’

  ‘Not feeling well? I hope my skill with the balls hasn’t put you off. I’m normally an awfully poor player.’

  ‘No, not at all. If you could just give me a few minutes.’

  I walked as steadily as I could through the games room, past the lounge and up the stairs to my room. My windows overlooked the front of the hotel and, as I gently eased back the curtains, I could see the pack of reporters and photographers gathered in the grounds. There was something about their swagger and arrogance that reminded me of a hunting party I had seen on the trip to South Africa; on that occasion the men had been tracking a lion. I knew that I now was their quarry and that they would stop at nothing to secure if not my skin then at least a part of my soul.

  From the crowd I thought I saw one of the men pointing up at my window and so I let the curtains drop and fell back from the window as if I were stepping away from a cliff edge. I poured myself a glass of water and sat in the armchair, my heartbeat rising with each roar of sound from the pack of men outside. A noise from the corridor startled me. Was there someone outside my room? Was it Archie? Had Davison returned? I looked at my watch: it was just after seven o’clock. Even though I was terrified I could not postpone it any longer. It was time to face the world not as Teresa Neele from South Africa but as Mrs Agatha Christie, if a rather damaged one.

  I checked myself in the glass and applied a little fresh powder to my nose. As I did so I was conscious that I did not really need to put on that much of an act; the feelings of what psychiatrists would no doubt call disassociation were all too real. With a shaking hand and a quickness of breath, I opened the door and stepped out into the corridor; whoever had made the noise earlier had disappeared. I walked down the steps, making sure that I gripped the banister, and, taking a deep breath, stepped into the lounge. At first sight everything appeared to be in order. There was the usual gathering of couples, faces I recognised from my stay, and the quiet bubble of polite conversation. There was no sign of the reporters; obviously, they had been barred from entering the premises.

  By a roaring fire there was a man whose face was obscured by his newspaper. As he lowered the paper, the man looked at me. It was a familiar face, a handsome face; it was Archie. On closer inspection I realised that he looked terrible. There was an unusual gauntness to his features, he had cut himself shaving and there were purple shadows under his eyes. Perhaps he had not been eating, perhaps he had been yearning for me. Could he still be in love with me? What utter nonsense, I told myself.

  I opened my mouth to say something, but I could not bring myself to speak. Neither could Archie, who was looking at me as if I were some kind of stranger. His eyes darted around my dress, taking in the sheer delicate fabric, and a slight blush spread over his pale cheeks. What was he feeling? Regret? Longing? Desire? Shame? He opened his mouth to say something – I wanted him to say how nice I looked – but instead he gestured for me to sit in the armchair next to his. As I sat down I felt my old love for him resurfacing – had it really ever gone away? – and, for a split second, I considered blabbing out the whole sordid truth. He reached over and placed a hand on mine. His touch felt like the first real thing I had experienced in a long time.

  ‘I say, are you feeling better? Mrs Neele?’ The voice of Mr Pettleson destroyed the moment of tender intimacy between us. ‘I waited for a good twenty minutes in the games room, but then I thought to myself that you weren’t coming back. I hope I haven’t put you off billiards for good?’

  What could I say? ‘Mr Pettleson, I’d like you to meet my – my brother,’ I managed to mumble. ‘Archie, this is Mr Alexander Pettleson, a wine merchant from London.’

  ‘Good to meet you,’ said Pettleson, shaking Archie’s hand. ‘Staying for long? First-rate establishment. I have no complaints.’

  An awkward silence descended. What a grim business it all was. I could see Archie looking at me as if I were insane.

  ‘Would you care to go into dinner, my dear?’ said Archie in a rather formal manner, in an effort to move us away from Mr Pettleson.

  ‘Yes, that would be very nice,’ I said, equally stiffly.

  On the way into dinner we met Mrs Robson again, who determinedly fixed herself to the spot so as to guarantee an introduction to this tall and handsome man. Again, I introduced my husband as my brother. As we walked to the table I kept up the charade with Archie; it was imperative that he thought I was unstable.

  ‘That’s the lady whose daughter had a baby just like I had, and her memory went,’ I whispered. ‘But you know, I shall get all right, because the lady staying in the Hydro says her daughter was like this when she had a baby, but she became all right.’

  I saw tears welling in Archie’s eyes. How awful to deceive him like this, but it was the only way.

  ‘Don’t worry, darling,’ he said, talking to me not as a husband but as a concerned well-wisher. ‘Everything will be all right. W
e will have dinner and then tomorrow we will leave here and get back to normal.’ I knew that would never be the case.

  After ordering steak for both of us, Archie took my hand again, and said in a low voice, ‘You’ve been under a great deal of pressure, my dear. I can understand how difficult it has been for you. We’re all so relieved to see you, you’ve no idea how terribly worried we were. And you’ll never believe the police – what a hash they’ve made of all of this. But don’t concern yourself with any of that now. The most important thing is to get you well again.’

  ‘I don’t understand. Have I not been well?’ Archie did not answer and we did not speak for what seemed like an eternity. After the food had been served Archie stared into my eyes and lowered his voice.

  ‘Do you remember Rosalind?’ he asked. ‘She can’t wait to see you.’

  I couldn’t prevent my eyes from lighting up. However, I did stop myself from asking the real questions I wanted to ask – how had she been, what drawings had she done, what new silliness had she dreamt up? – and continued to dissemble. ‘Of course, dear Rosalind,’ I said, cutting into the bloody meat. ‘How is she enjoying married life? I hope it is to her advantage?’

  ‘And Peter? You must remember him.’

  ‘Yes, such a good friend of yours. How is his job in the City?’ My heart ached for my dear dog. I could not wait to see him. Then a memory of that horrible package that Kurs had sent me, that bloodied paw, flashed into my mind. Suddenly the steak seemed inedible and I placed my knife and fork back down on the plate.

  ‘Not hungry?’

  ‘I thought I was, but I’m not now for some strange reason. And I’m feeling awfully tired and a little fuzzy in the head. Perhaps I have been ill, I can’t remember. Do you mind if I go to bed soon?’

  ‘No, not at all.’