A Talent For Murder

by Andrew Wilson

‘Miss Hart, no!’ I hissed. ‘Please, stand back.’

  I tried to stop Gina, attempted to calm her, but it was all so quick. She raised her arms and stood very still for a moment, before she started to sway ever so slightly as if she had given her body over to the force of the wind. And then, like an overweight ballerina, she moved as if she were about to fly, lifting her arms high above her head and then letting them drop to her side. Just as Miss Hart, in a panic, shunted forwards, a desperation in her eyes which reminded me of the look of an animal in the slaughterhouse, Gina raised her arms in the air once more and with a graceful movement she jumped off the ship. As I ran towards her I knew there was little point, that it was too late. But there was something inside of me – something which I was sure lives inside all people who count themselves decent and good – which propelled me to try and grab her. Instinctively, I thrust my hands out, but there was nothing to hold on to, only mist and rain and wind, the spray from an angry sea, and a darkening sky. I strained my neck to look over the railings, but there was no sign of Gina. She must have been dragged under in the wake of the ship.

  ‘We need to see if we can rescue her,’ I shouted, but to no response. I turned to see Miss Hart standing there, the life sucked out of her. ‘Miss Hart. Quick. Go and get help. Find an officer.’

  ‘Yes, of course, you’re right,’ she said, gradually coming back to her senses. ‘Yes, it’s worth a shot.’

  As she turned and ran along the deck, I kept hoping to catch a glimpse of Gina in the water behind us. I called her name, even though I knew that the fierce roar of the wind and the sea would drown out my feeble voice. I was completely soaked through to my skin and my eyes were full of water, a mix of raindrops and tears. I imagined the poor girl in the water, gasping for air as her lungs filled up with salt water.

  A memory came back to me from years ago when I had been swimming off the Ladies’ Bathing Cove in Torquay with my nephew Jack. I had set off with the little boy on my back – he was not yet old enough to swim by himself – towards the raft that lay anchored in the bay. As I swam I noticed that the sea had been possessed of a strange, queer sort of swell and, with the weight of Jack on my shoulders, I started to take in quite a bit of water. As I carried on – of course there was no option but to try to reach the safety of the raft – I became aware of not being able to breathe properly. Finally, realising that I was in grave danger, I told Jack to try and swim towards the raft. He said he did not want to, but as I went under he was washed off and had no choice but to swim. By this point, I had become so weak that I could not lift my head above the water; I suppose I must have taken in too much. As I began to drown I remember feeling cross that I wasn’t having the sort of life-flashing-before-one’s-eyes experience of popular lore. Neither did I hear strains of string instruments or soothing classical music. There was just a feeling of terrible emptiness, of utter blackness. The next thing I knew I was being tossed into a boat – which also rescued little Jack – and, on the shore, a man lay me out on the beach and started to work the water out of me.

  Gina would not be so lucky, I was sure. But we had to try. Where was that woman? Why hadn’t she managed to find help? Just then I saw Miss Hart come running with a man dressed in a smart blue uniform, who introduced himself as first officer William McMaster.

  ‘Please, over here,’ I said. ‘A woman fell off just back here. Can you stop the ship?’

  The officer lent over the stern and cast his expert eye over the surface of the water. As he turned to us the grim expression on his face said it all.

  ‘Yes, we certainly will,’ said McMaster. ‘I’ll go and tell the Captain now, but I’m afraid there is little hope. She would have been sucked down deep into the ocean. Even an Olympic-class swimmer wouldn’t be able to survive that, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I see,’ I said, bristling at his pessimistic attitude. ‘But we must do everything we can to make sure.’

  ‘Of course. And if you could please go back inside. We’re expecting some rather rough weather in the next few hours so we will be locking the doors that lead to the decks.’

  ‘And if the poor girl did not survive,’ I said, ‘what are the chances of recovering her body? It seems only right we should give her a decent funeral.’

  Miss Hart let out a quiet cry and bent her head forwards as she tried to stifle a sob.

  ‘We’ll do everything in our power to find her. But I am afraid that the weather and the sea are our enemies. We mustn’t delay any longer. Please follow me inside.’

  We trailed after McMaster like two mourners after a burial on a wet afternoon, our heads bent, our spirits low.

  ‘Before I go and see the Captain, could you give me your names?’ said the officer, taking a small notebook from the inside pocket of his jacket.

  ‘Mrs Agatha . . . Christie,’ I said, slightly hesitantly, fingering my wedding ring and wondering whether I would carry Archie’s name for the rest of my life.

  The officer raised an eyebrow. Perhaps he had read one of my books – or, more likely, he had seen something in the newspapers relating to the scandal surrounding my disappearance the year before. Would I ever be free of that? After noting my name he looked towards the beautiful blonde standing next to me.

  ‘I’m Miss Helen Hart.’

  The name sounded familiar.

  ‘Thank you. I’m sure the Captain will want to talk to you later. And I’ll let you know if we spot anything, anything at all.’

  ‘Thank you, officer,’ I said.

  ‘How awful,’ I said. ‘What a dreadful thing to witness. You must be terribly shaken. Had your friend been standing there long?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Miss Hart, brushing a strand of hair from her eyes. ‘I’m absolutely soaking, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes,’ I said, looking down to see the water puddling on the carpet beneath our feet. ‘Why don’t we change into fresh clothes and perhaps we can have a talk in the library. I doubt there will be anybody there at this time of day.’

  After agreeing to meet in half an hour, I returned to my cabin. Carlo and Rosalind were still sleeping. I ran a basin full of hot water and proceeded to wash. I dried my hair with a towel and brushed it, but it still looked a fright; it would have to be covered up with a hat. Just as I was dressing, Rosalind ran into the cabin, intent on telling me about a dream she had had: ‘I lost Blue Teddy, mummy, I couldn’t find him anywhere. It was horrible.’

  ‘How upsetting for you, darling. But it was only a dream,’ I said, stroking her hair.

  ‘I know. Thank goodness. I should so hate to lose him. What on earth would he do without me?’ She paused and looked at me as if she had seen me for the first time. ‘What kind of dreams do you have, mummy? Do they make you sad?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ I said, remembering some of the horrific visions that had recently interrupted my sleep, often culminating in me sitting up in bed in a cold sweat. ‘But then, I always tell myself not to be so silly as it’s all make believe.’

  ‘Dreams are such funny things, aren’t they?’

  ‘Indeed, they are,’ I said, smiling. ‘Oh look, here’s Carlo.’

  ‘Good morning,’ said Carlo. ‘I woke up because I felt the ship slow down. Did you feel it too? In fact—’

  She broke off to walk over to the spray-streaked porthole. ‘I’m sure the ship has stopped. Yes. Look – we aren’t moving. And it’s terrible weather too.’

  I knelt down and kissed Rosalind. ‘Darling, why don’t you go and see if Blue Teddy is all right? I’ll come and dress you in a moment.’

  As I closed the connecting door I told Carlo of the events of the morning.

  ‘How awful,’ she said. ‘And how awful too that you had to stand by and watch it all. Are you sure you don’t need to rest? You know what the doctors said.’

  ‘No, if I lie down I’ll most likely start to feel seasick again. That’s why I got up early, to have a breath of fresh air.’

  Carlo looked pensive and serious before she said, �
�She must have been driven to despair.’

  ‘I suppose she must, yes.’

  ‘And it seems as though this other woman, Miss Hart, was having an affair with the poor lady’s husband?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘A familiar story.’

  ‘Indeed,’ I said, glancing at my watch. ‘In fact, I’m due to talk to Miss Hart now.’

  ‘Have we met him on board – the husband? What did you say his name was?’

  ‘Guy Trevelyan. No, I don’t believe we have.’

  ‘Perhaps he was with that rather fast set we saw across the dining room last night. The ones making all that noise after dinner.’

  I thought back to the previous night. As an ear-splitting guffaw cracked the air I remember looking askance at the group of young people in such high spirits at the far corner of the first-class dining room. Did they really have to be quite so loud? Perhaps it had been sourness or middle age or my own particular circumstances – whatever the reason I am sure I had not laughed like that in years – but I had cast a rather disapproving stare across the room and in the process I had met the amused eyes of a handsome, dark-haired man sitting next to an elegant blonde, who I now knew to be Helen Hart.

  When I opened the door to the library Miss Hart was standing by the far shelves, with her back to me.

  ‘I must say they’ve got a rather poor show of books. Not that I would read any of them if they had a better selection. Have you seen them?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid—’

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t hear you come in,’ she said. ‘I was talking to Mr Trevelyan.’

  A tall, rugged-looking man stood up from one of the green leather armchairs. As he walked towards me I noticed that the mischievous glint in his eyes that I had seen last night had been extinguished; now his demeanour was serious and melancholic.

  ‘Guy, this is Mrs Christie, the lady I told you about,’ said Helen. ‘She tried to help with—’

  ‘I’m so grateful for everything you did this morning, I really am,’ he said. ‘Such a dreadful business.’

  ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t do more,’ I said to Mr Trevelyan. ‘Have you spoken to Mr McMaster?’

  ‘Yes, he came to my cabin a little while ago. I’m afraid there is no sign, no sign whatsoever,’ he said. ‘The Captain is going to hold the ship here for the next few hours to make sure, but I think that’s more out of respect than anything else.’ His handsome features, so dazzling at dinner the night before, looked a little worn around the edges and shadows had appeared beneath his eyes. ‘Poor Gina. If only—’

  ‘You can’t continue to blame yourself, Guy,’ said Helen. ‘Yes, I know, well, we hardly behaved like saints, but Gina was always a bit unbalanced, wasn’t she?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ I said gently.

  ‘Please let’s not go into all of that now, Helen,’ said Guy. ‘All I know is that I feel we’ve driven the poor woman to her death.’ His dark eyes filled with tears and he bit into his knuckle to prevent himself from breaking down.

  ‘Darling, you know that’s not entirely accurate,’ said Helen, placing a hand on his shoulder to comfort him. As she did so I noticed her large, strong looking hands. Her short nails were not painted and around the cuticles there lay a dark substance that looked like ingrained dirt.

  I realised then how I knew her name: I had seen an exhibition of her sculpture – strange, primitive figures, fragmented naked torsos and the like – at a gallery in London. I recalled being quite shocked by some of the imagery, it was certainly powerful stuff, but one could not deny that Miss Hart had the ability to tap into the deepest parts of the human psyche. I also remembered feeling more than a little jealous of her talents. At one point I had had the very stupid idea of becoming a sculptress myself. I had even taken some lessons, but I had finally been forced to admit to myself that I was a hopeless case.

  ‘I’m a great admirer of your work, Miss Hart,’ I said, trying to lighten the mood.

  ‘Really?’ she said, her bright blue eyes shining.

  ‘Yes, I saw your exhibition at the Pan Gallery early last year. I can’t say I understood it all, but I certainly believe you have an extraordinary ability to capture the essence of things.’

  ‘Well, isn’t that lovely of you to say so. Isn’t that wonderful, Guy?’ she said. ‘I recognise your name, but I’m afraid I haven’t read any of your novels. Reading is not my forte. I can see things – forms, colours and such like – but I think I must be allergic to the written word. You must think me terribly stupid.’

  ‘Not at all, Miss Hart,’ I said, smiling. ‘In fact, it’s always something of a relief to talk to people who haven’t read my books.’

  ‘I know, why don’t you join us for dinner tonight,’ said Miss Hart. ‘And by the way, please call me Helen.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Trevelyan said flatly. Helen looked at him sternly. ‘Yes, please do,’ he said, brighter and with more enthusiasm. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Christie. I still can’t quite believe it – that Gina is dead.’

  ‘I know, a sudden loss is bad enough, but a death of this nature something quite different,’ I said. ‘I’m sure she would not have suffered,’ I added, not quite believing it myself. ‘It would all have been over in an instant.’

  ‘I suppose that is one thing we should be grateful for,’ said Trevelyan. ‘But I just can’t understand it. The last thing I knew she had bolted from our house in Brook Street. She didn’t leave a note or anything. I thought she would spend the night with one of her Mayfair girlfriends and the next day she would return. You see, it’s a pattern I had seen on many occasions. Our marriage was far from a smooth one, you see.’

  ‘And you say she was – well, she had a rather temperamental nature?’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly,’ said Helen.

  ‘Please, Helen, you don’t know the strain that Gina was under.’

  Helen looked down, duly admonished, and let Trevelyan continue. ‘Yes, it’s true that Gina had a nervous disposition. She seemed quite normal for a while, weeks at a time, and then, with no apparent reason, she would fall prey to an awful kind of mania. She would be up all night dancing or talking or walking the streets. She said she had the most extraordinary energy, creative energy. She once told me she had written a novel in the course of one night, but when I picked up the notebook I found it to be full of gibberish, nothing more than a few nonsensical phrases and obscenities. And then, with the same kind of suddenness, she would take to her bed, crying for no reason, threatening to harm herself, to do herself in. It was terrible, truly terrible to witness.’

  ‘And when, may I ask, did your wife disappear?’

  ‘It was on New Year’s Day. We’d had quite a party at the London house. Too much drink, too much … of everything. Perhaps Gina had seen something at the party, or suspected something. But the next thing I knew she’d gone. I contacted the police of course, and they issued a statement to the press – there were posters, searches, the lot. But nothing.’

  ‘She didn’t know about you and Miss Hart?’

  ‘I don’t know. Helen wanted me to tell her, but it never seemed the right time. Either Gina was in one of her periods of high-spirited ecstasy or she was in the grip of a terrible depression. There was never anything in between.’

  Helen Hart sighed, an expression that spoke of a dozen unsaid sentences, a hundred suppressed wishes.

  ‘There’s no point sighing, Helen,’ said Guy, his voice rising. ‘What was I supposed to do? Tell my wife we’d been having an affair? Did you really want me to drive her to her death?’ His eyes stretched wide with anger, and his voice cracked with fury. He strode purposefully across the library, opened the door and turned back. ‘Is that what you wanted? Well, you’ve got your wish at last. I hope it makes you happy.’

  With that he slammed the door and left us standing there looking at the elaborate patterns in the Turkish rug beneath our feet.

  ‘As you can see, Mrs Christie, Guy has been left in a
state of shock,’ said Helen, the china white skin on her neck now a mass of red blotches.

  ‘Grief does affect people in all sorts of different ways,’ I said, trying to smooth over the acute embarrassment felt, no doubt, by both of us.

  ‘Oh, please don’t feel sorry for me,’ she hissed. ‘In fact, I’m pleased the bitch is dead.’

  The statement – both the words and the way it was expressed – so shocked me that I was unable to utter a single word.

  ‘I know it’s a truly awful thing to say, but I am. She’s out of our life for good now.’

  Acknowledgments

  My first thank you must go to the Queen of Crime herself, who has been a source of entertainment, humour and wisdom since I first started to read her books at the age of eleven. In fact, one of my first creative efforts – a ‘novel’ written when I was twelve, for an extended exercise suggested by my English teacher – was inspired by her. This 46-page story, called The German Mystery, evolved from my admiration for two of Christie’s masterpieces: Death on the Nile, and The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. I can still remember the relish with which I devoured these two books, my pulse racing, my jaw dropping as I tore my way through to the final pages.

  I first had the idea for this book while on a train – none as grand as the Orient Express, I’m afraid, but one that journeys into the heart of the Christie world: the Great Western Railway line from London to Devon, where Agatha was born in 1890.

  I moved to Devon in 2012 and one of the first things I did was to visit Christie’s holiday home, Greenway, which contains many of her possessions, including paintings, furniture and books from her parents’ house, Ashfield in Torquay. I would like to thank the National Trust and its enthusiastic team of staff and volunteers for preserving a home that Christie quite rightly described as ‘the loveliest place in the world’.

  Although this is a novel, I wanted to try to make sure the facts surrounding Agatha’s disappearance in 1926 were as accurate as possible. During the course of my research I consulted newspaper cuttings from the Times, Daily Mail, Daily Express, and Daily Mirror, as well as the two excellent biographies: Agatha Christie: An English Mystery by Laura Thompson (Headline, 2007) and Janet Morgan’s Agatha Christie (Collins, 1984). The events of December 1926 are noticeably absent from Christie’s autobiography, but Agatha’s own story, first published by Collins in 1977, makes for compelling and absorbing reading. I also drew on this book to supply some of the details of Christie’s life.