The Mystery of Mrs. Christie

by Marie Benedict

  His intensity left me a bit flustered, but after showing him the familiar ilex, cedar, and Wellington trees, as well as the two firs previously claimed by Madge and Monty, my nerves calmed. “Here is my particular favorite, the beech tree. It’s the largest in the garden, and when I was a girl, I used to gorge myself on its beechnuts.” I ran my hand along its trunk, remembering all the girlish days I spent in its branches, days now gone.

  “I understand why the garden is special to you. It’s lovely,” he said, then pointed ahead to a thick copse of trees in the distance. “Are those your woods as well?”

  His eyes were bright and full of awe. I supposed he thought we were rich; Ashfield and its grounds were impressive, if one squinted to blur out the spots of decay and peeling paint. While we had been wealthy during my early years, financial worries set in when I was about five, and my father—who’d been born the son of a rich American man and never worked a day in his life, expecting that his money would last—struggled to keep the family afloat. Only by renting Ashfield and living on that income abroad, where it was comparatively cheap, did we maintain some semblance of our lifestyle. The unfamiliar stress of these concerns affected his health and led to the decline of my poor, sweet papa, who died ten years ago. Now Mummy and I limped along on the benevolence of our friends and family as well as a small income, recently reduced when the investment firm from which we derived a portion of our meager draw liquidated.

  “Yes,” I answered as I led him on the path through the ash trees. “But its trees are more common and provided less magic for a young girl. Not to mention the path leads to the tennis and croquet lawns, which I never much enjoyed.”

  “Why not?”

  “I guess I lived more in the world of the imagination as a child than the world of sport,” I said, but Lieutenant Christie did not respond as he examined the croquet and tennis lawns with interest and satisfaction. He couldn’t know how decidedly unathletic my performance had been there, despite my valiant efforts; only in the realm of simple badminton did I experience a modicum of success. Having witnessed too many heartbreaking attempts, Mummy, ever supportive, directed my enthusiasm toward music, drama, and writing instead. In that realm, I flourished, particularly during my years of schooling in France, although recently I had abandoned hope of undertaking piano or singing professionally on the advice of the esteemed pianist Charles Furster and my London voice coaches. Writing, however, had remained a passion and became my habit, much as my friends might dabble in embroidery or landscape painting. But I always understood that my writing must remain a trifle, something to pass the time only, and that my Fate stemmed from my husband. Whoever he might be. Whenever he might surface.

  When Lieutenant Christie continued to study the croquet and tennis lawns without a word, I asked, “Did you have a special place when you were a child?”

  His brow furrowed, casting a shadow over his eyes. “I spent my early years in India where my father was a judge in the Indian Civil Service. As soon as my family returned to England, he fell from a horse and died. We stayed with my mother’s family in southern Ireland until she remarried William Hemsley, a schoolmaster from Clifton College, after which I went to Clifton. So you can see, I moved around, never really had any special place as a child—no place to call my own anyway.”

  “How terribly sad, Lieutenant Christie. Well, if you like, you can share Ashfield’s gardens with me. Come and visit them whenever you can get to Torquay.”

  He turned those blue eyes on me again, as if trying to capture me in them. “If you mean it, Miss Miller, I would be honored.”

  I wanted to see this unusual man again. The thoughts of my own commitment to Reggie began to creep in, along with a certain amount of guilt, but I held fast. “Lieutenant Christie, I would like nothing more.”

  Chapter Six

  Day One after the Disappearance

  Saturday, December 4, 1926

  Styles, Sunningdale, England

  As he hurries out of his study, Archie nearly collides with the round-hatted young policeman who’d procured him from Hurtmore Cottage. He gives the man a dismissive glance and storms off to the kitchen where a gaggle of police have assembled. As he stomps off, he prays he’s embarking on the right approach by playing the part of the aggrieved, furious husband.

  “What is the meaning of this? Why are the lot of you huddled around in my kitchen instead of combing the vicinity?” Archie barks at them, forcing a vitriol he doesn’t feel into his tone.

  One of the officers, a younger fellow with surprisingly soft features, ignores Archie’s scolding and says instead, “Sir, I’m sure this is all very overwhelming. And distressing, of course.”

  “That is an understatement,” Archie says, then assumes all of his six feet in the hopes of asserting his dominion. “I want to see the officer in charge.”

  The young policeman scurries off to fetch a middle-aged man, dressed in an ill-fitting gray suit and a rumpled overcoat, who emerges from the throng of officers. Archie studies this barrel-chested officer, jowly and unkempt with a few crumbs in his sandy-colored mustache, as he approaches with an outstretched hand and a genial half smile. It’s the sort of expression that attempts to convey both sympathy and warmth at the same time, one the officer has trotted out on countless other occasions, perhaps in his guise as a country police officer. It seems false, and in the policeman’s wary stare, Archie also senses an undercurrent of suspicion and latent intellect. He will have to tread cautiously.

  “Mr. Christie, I’d like to introduce you to Deputy Chief Constable Kenward,” the junior fellow says, giving a half bow in this Kenward’s direction. How does this man manage such deference from his men with such a disheveled appearance? Archie wonders, but then the eminent nature of the man’s title registers, and it gives him a start. Why has such a senior police detective been assigned to this case?

  As Archie scrambles to assemble his thoughts and adjust his approach, Kenward says, “Good to meet you, Mr. Christie. The Surrey County Police Headquarters has referred the case to me for oversight, you see, and I’ll do all I can to help.” He does not react to Archie’s little tirade.

  Archie shakes Kenward’s rather damp hand and, reassessing his approach, finally responds. “Apologies for the outburst, Deputy Chief Constable Kenward. As you can imagine, it’s a very upsetting time. I appreciate your assistance, and I’m sorry to be making your acquaintance in such trying circumstances.”

  “Of course, sir, we understand that emotions run high in such times. But I’ll do my best by your wife, I can promise you that. That way, you won’t feel the need for such a flare-up in the future, I hope.” The rebuke is implicit—Archie will be allowed this one eruption only—and the nattering of Kenward’s underlings ceases as he delivers it. The room grows uncomfortably silent, a stillness brimming with unspoken judgments.

  “Thank you for understanding,” Archie says, and police officers begin their chatter again.

  “I assure you that we are doing all we can to locate your missing wife,” Kenward repeats.

  My missing wife, Archie thinks to himself. Those three words spoken aloud by a senior police official make the unthinkable very possible, and he finds himself unable to speak.

  Kenward fills the void. “I have a few questions for you, Colonel, of an ordinary sort. Might we retire to your study to discuss them?”

  Archie suddenly realizes that he does not want to be interrogated amid these officers, that he craves the privacy of his study if personal demons are to be aired. He also recognizes that he needs the brief walk to gather himself and his answers.

  With a nod, Archie pivots and leads Kenward back into his study. Suddenly uncomfortable having the lawman so close to the hearth—he can’t risk the constable ferreting out a wayward scrap of the singed letter amid the ashes—he directs him to the chair farthest from the fireplace. Then Archie selects a chair for himself such that Kenwar
d must face away from the flames.

  Pulling out a leather-bound notebook and a fountain pen from the inner pocket of his overcoat, the constable begins. “All routine questions, sir, I assure you. We are trying to establish a timeline. When did you last see your wife?”

  “On Friday morning, around nine o’clock. Just before I left for work.”

  The scratch of pen on paper fills the air, and a wave of recollection washes over Archie. That distinctive sound belongs to his wife and usually permeates Styles. It is the sound of his wife’s thoughts.

  “Do you recall the exchange you had that morning?” Kenward asks, shaking Archie loose from his reverie.

  With a start, Archie wonders about the staff. Have the police interviewed them already? He’ll have to be cautious.

  Willing himself not to stammer, he answers. “Not with any degree of precision. I imagine that we had the usual morning discussion. Schedules, news, little stories about our seven-year-old daughter, Rosalind, things like that.”

  “Did you discuss your weekend plans?”

  Was the policeman laying a trap? What did he know?

  Archie gives a vague response. “I don’t recall exactly. We may have.”

  “What were your respective weekend plans, sir?”

  “My wife had plans to visit Yorkshire for the weekend. As you know, I spent the weekend with my friends Mr. and Mrs. James of Hurtmore Cottage. One of your men fetched me from there.”

  “Do you and your wife often spend the weekends separately?” Kenward asks, keeping his eyes fixed on his journal.

  Tread carefully, Archie tells himself. Every question might bring him one step closer to a snare.

  “When the occasion demands.”

  “That doesn’t answer my question, sir.”

  “You have my answer, Deputy Chief Constable.” As soon as the sharp words leave his mouth, Archie regrets it. He knows that a man worried about his wife—desperate to find her—would not lash out at a policeman for asking routine questions. He would answer any and every question willingly. What must this policeman think of him? Kenward is cannier than his rumpled appearance suggests, Archie suspects.

  Kenward’s eyes narrow, and his mouth opens, forming a circular shape around the words of his next questions. But before those words meet air, the study door opens with a thud. A young policeman scurries to the officer’s side, whispering in his ear.

  The constable leaps to his feet with a surprising spryness. “Excuse me for a moment, Colonel. There’s been a development.”

  Archie’s stomach flips. What in the name of God have they found so soon? He follows the policeman out into the foyer. “What is it? What’s happened?”

  Kenward calls back to him over his shoulder. “I’ll let you know as soon as I’ve had a chance to investigate personally. In the meantime, please remain here.”

  Archie allows his step to slow, and in the absence of movement, panic sets in. He turns around, intending to return to the sanctuary of his study to regain control of himself, but before he reaches it, he encounters Charlotte in the hallway. The dark-haired governess and secretary, her hair cut in a fashionable but unflattering bob, is carrying a tea tray with scraps of an uneaten breakfast undoubtedly belonging to his daughter. “Miss Rosalind has been asking after you, sir,” she mentions in an apologetic tone.

  “Does she know anything about the situation?”

  “No, sir. Although even a child can see that something’s wrong, what with the police crawling about the house.”

  “Let’s keep it that way for now, Charlotte. I’ll visit her in the nursery presently.”

  Charlotte’s voice, usually brisk and efficient, catches. “Did—did you see the letter, sir?”

  “What letter?” Archie feigns an air of innocence, all the while praying he misunderstood the servant. That she meant a different letter than the one from his wife.

  “The one from the mistress on the foyer table. I saw it there yesterday evening when I returned from London but left it for you.”

  “Oh yes, that one,” he says, as if he’s just remembered. Feigning casualness, he asks, “You didn’t mention that letter to the police, did you? It didn’t have anything to do with”—he gestures around the house—“all this.”

  “N-no,” she answers.

  Without thinking, he reaches for her arm, squeezing it a little tighter than planned. “Good.” Charlotte gives a quiet yelp, and he releases her arm. “I’m sorry. I’m just so worried,” he says.

  “Of course you are, sir.” She absolves him, rubbing her arm a bit. “Honestly, now that I think about it, I can’t quite remember if I mentioned it or not. The morning’s been quite the blur, what with the police to contend with and Miss Rosalind missing her mum today. Should I be keeping the letter private?”

  While he does not want to leave Charlotte with a wrong impression, one she might inadvertently convey to others, he cannot risk her disclosure. He could only guess at what the police would glean from a letter left by a missing wife for her husband and then subsequently burned by that husband. Only one conclusion seems likely.

  But how best to broach this topic with Charlotte to get the desired result? If he insists on her silence, would she take that demand to the police? He could only imagine the repercussions of that. Perhaps the demand could be framed as a request? A choice?

  “I don’t want to tell you what to do on this score, Charlotte, but I do think it would be best to allow the constable to focus on the more important matter of locating the mistress, don’t you?”

  Charlotte glances down at the tea tray she’s still carrying and concurs without enthusiasm. “As you like, sir.”

  He could almost weep with relief but instead keeps his face placid. “Good girl. Anyway, the letter concerns a private matter between my wife and myself that predates the events of yesterday. As such, it can shed no light on her whereabouts.”

  Chapter Seven

  The Manuscript

  November 19, 1912

  Ashfield, Torquay, England

  “You can run off into the garden now, Jack,” Madge announced as we finished tea. I found it hard to believe that Madge’s son, James, who everyone referred to as Jack, was no longer a little boy but a growing lad of nine. As soon as Jack received his release from the prison of Ashfield’s tea table, he leapt up and ran for the outdoors, undoubtedly hoping to get the last hour of daylight before he was incarcerated within the house’s walls again.

  “Am I to be excused as well?” Madge’s good-natured husband Jimmy asked.

  “You know me all too well, darling,” Madge said with a smile. “How did you know that we girls would like to have a feminine chat?”

  “I do know you a bit after all these years, my dear. Plus, I do have a sister, who’s usually in league with you and Agatha in these little talks,” Jimmy answered with a reference to his sister, Nan Watts, as he trailed out of the room. He nibbled on a final scone in hand, getting crumbs in his reddish mustache. “Don’t forget we’ve got to head out in an hour,” he called over his shoulder when he reached the hallway.

  I glanced over at my self-assured sister, her chestnut hair curled expertly around her ear, a triple strand of pearls draped around her neck and bosom, a crimson cashmere cardigan draped over her shoulders and her floral silk dress. Her face was not classically pretty, but the manner in which she carried herself drew people to her almost magnetically. I tried to meet her gaze—to assess why she wanted to have this private chat—but she was staring at Mummy, who nodded in response. What were they planning, and was this “chat” the reason for their unexpected visit to Ashfield? I suddenly felt quite caged.

  “Mummy tells me you have a new beau,” Madge said as she pulled a cigarette from her silver monogrammed case. I thought she looked the picture of sophistication as she tapped it on the table, lit a match, and then took a long drag, but I
knew Mummy disapproved. She found this new smoking fad to be extremely unladylike. “Even though you’re still engaged to Reggie Lucy.”

  Our family had known the Lucys for ages, and Reggie and I were kindred spirits, having been raised in the same lovely, lazy Devon lifestyle. He hadn’t much money either, but he had solid enough prospects as a major in the Gunners. Before he left for a two-year stint in Hong Kong, the beautifully shy young man, with lovely dark eyes and hair, quietly proposed, not a formal engagement, mind, but a loose sort of understanding between our families. But the evening of his departure, he told me to see other people—other boys—at dances and parties before we settled down. I had taken Reggie at his word and went about my normal social activities, including formal balls where dancing was de rigueur. I hadn’t felt a lick of guilt until Archie appeared and everything seemed to shift.

  My cheeks burned hot. I admired Madge and sought her approval, so I found it especially loathsome when she treated me like a child. Or worse, when beloved Mummy sided with her against me. In such moments, I felt the eleven-year age difference between Madge and me like a chasm. Thank God Monty was such an absentee sibling, or it might have been three against one.

  My spine stiffened, and my shoulders went rigid. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Madge. Reggie didn’t want me to stay at home moping. He specifically instructed me to go out to socialize and even see other chaps. After all, he is going to be in Hong Kong for two years.” My voice sounded strident and defensive, which I hated.

  “I don’t think he meant seeing other fellows exclusively, Agatha. The way I understand you are seeing this Lieutenant Christie.” She shot Mummy an indiscernible look. They’d obviously been discussing me and Archie behind my back. I’d sensed for some time that Mummy didn’t care for Archie—although I couldn’t see that he’d given her any particular reason to dislike him other than the fact that he wasn’t Reggie Lucy—but this confirmed it. I guessed that Mummy had put Madge up to this conversation.