The reaction I received was not the one I’d expected.
“You mean because I haven’t been able to help with the finances as of late?” he asked rhetorically, no joy in his voice, just ice. He was incredibly sensitive to this topic, despite the fact that I never mentioned the long months he hadn’t worked and the consequent burden on our finances. The only thing he could hear in my news was judgment.
I should have been more careful. I should have slipped the money into our bank account without a word. Why had I thought he might change?
“That’s not what I meant at all, Archie. I’ve just felt so useless since we returned home, and I wanted to take some pressure off you,” I rushed to say.
“Do you really think one book—one payment—can restore our position, Agatha? Somehow make up for our year-long holiday? We have much to do to atone for our self-indulgence.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Day Six after the Disappearance
Thursday, December 9, 1926
Styles, Sunningdale, England
Do you mind repeating your statement, Colonel Christie? I want to make absolutely certain that I copy it down verbatim.”
“Not at all,” Archie tells the reporter.
The young fellow from the Daily Mail, Jim Barnes, is not what he expected. He planned on having a cautious conversation with the reporter—outside the purview of the police, of course—to ensure that his position makes the papers once and for all. He thought he’d lay out his general perspective of the events so the public could see his reasonable nature, perhaps even hinting that whatever the police maintained, Agatha’s disappearance is, in part, her choice. In this way, he hoped to soften public perception of him while still staying within the strict parameters of the letter. If he has to advance these ideas defensively while sidestepping any traps laid for him—a likelihood given the press’s treatment of him this far—then so be it.
But when he meets the affable, civilized chap from the Daily Mail, he turns out to be quite a different sort of fellow than the riffraff who stake out Styles morning, noon, and night. Well-spoken and immaculately dressed, the chap seems familiar, not unlike his fellow members at Sunningdale golf club. Quite against his inclination and planning, he takes to the fellow the moment they sit down in the forgettable little pub. Finally, he thinks, I’ve encountered a sympathetic soul. And he lets down his guard.
“I’m happy to do so.” Lifting up the stationery upon which he’s written a formal statement for the press, he sets forth his prepared position: that he’s terribly worried about his wife, that she has been suffering from nerves as of late, that they often made separate weekend plans according to their interests, which he planned to keep private, and that he’s doing all he can to aid the police investigation.
“Thank you, Colonel Christie. Very well said,” Jim says as he finishes scribbling on his notepaper. “Are you ready for a few questions?”
“Of course. There has been a bloody awful lot of unfavorable coverage about me and my friends in the papers, and I look forward to the opportunity to present my truth.”
“That’s my hope as well. Let’s begin.” The young man smiles and checks his notes. “What are the possible explanations for your wife’s disappearance as you and the police see it?”
“There could be three possible explanations for her disappearance: it could be voluntary, it could stem from loss of memory, and hopefully not, but it could be the result of suicide. My instinct tells me it is one of the first two. I definitely don’t believe it is a matter of suicide. It is my understanding that if someone is considering ending his or her life, he or she would threaten it at some point in time—which she never did. Moreover, would a person planning on ending their life drive miles away, remove a heavy coat, and then walk off into the blue before doing so? I don’t think so; it simply doesn’t make sense. Anyway, if my wife had ever considered suicide, my guess is that she would have planned on poison. Given her years as a wartime nurse and working in a dispensary, she was very knowledgeable in the area of poisons and often used them in her stories. So that would have been the method she’d select, rather than some mysterious suicide in a remote wooded area, but still, I don’t think that’s what happened.” He was rambling a bit, but there you had it.
“So you are more inclined to believe Mrs. Christie’s disappearance stems from a voluntary act or her loss of memory?”
Archie thinks back on the letter and answers, “Indeed, and I lean heavily toward loss of memory.”
“Can you tell me a bit more about the day she disappeared?”
“I’ve gone over all this with the police time and time again, but I’ll do so again here for your edification. I left home for work at 9:15 a.m. in the ordinary way, and that was the last time I saw my wife. I knew she’d arranged to go to Yorkshire for the weekend, and that was all I knew about her plans when I left for work on Friday. I have since learned that she went motoring in the morning and then lunched alone. In the afternoon, she took our daughter to visit my mother at Dorking. She returned here in time for dinner, which she took alone.” Archie grows quiet. Should he broach the rest of the day?
Jim asks, “Do you know what transpired then?”
He’s uncertain how to best articulate his position on what occurred next. “I don’t know for certain what happened after that, as we were in different locations. I can only guess that she must have worked herself into such a nervous state—for some reason not known to me—and couldn’t settle down enough to read or write. That has certainly happened to me in the past, and when it does, I head out for a rambling walk to clear my mind and calm my nerves. But my wife isn’t much of a walker, and when she wants to clear her mind, she goes out for a drive.”
“Why the suitcase then?”
“Well, she had intended on going to Yorkshire, so perhaps she planned to head there after her drive.” Archie knows this fact doesn’t fit precisely into his narrative, but it’s the best he can do.
“Did she take any money with her? That might be an indicator of the disappearance being planned or prompted by injury or loss of memory instead?”
“Neither of her bank accounts—the one at Sunningdale for household purposes, nor the one at Dorking for private purposes—has been drawn upon before or after her disappearance, which suggests this wasn’t planned. In fact, both of her checkbooks are still at home.”
“In your view, the facts seem to support either a voluntary departure or a loss of memory?”
“I think I’ve been clear that I believe loss of memory is in play here.”
“But just for argument’s sake, if her departure was voluntary, do you have any idea what prompted it?” He does not meet Archie’s gaze but keeps his eyes fixed on his list of questions.
Archie’s hackles begin to rise. So this is where the chap was headed all along. How stupid he’d been to think this reporter might be more sympathetically inclined. They are all alike after all in their quest for the incendiary. But he refuses to let his mounting anger throw him from his course.
Careful to use a firm, even tone, Archie says, “I cannot fathom what would have prompted a voluntary departure. Contrary to newspaper reports, we did not have an argument or tiff of any sort the Friday morning before her disappearance, and she had been perfectly well in the months leading up to it, although she did lose her beloved mother recently, of course. In response to other salacious rumors I’ve seen in the press, she knew where I was going away for the weekend and who would be present. She knew and liked all my friends, and at no time did she indicate displeasure. The gossip and rumormongering that goes on in the papers is reprehensible and will not help me find my wife. And that is my objective.”
“Again only for the sake of discussion, if she has voluntarily left, do you have any idea where she might be now?”
“If I knew, I would have rushed there straightaway several days ago. But I
don’t. The only hint we’ve received is from a rather curious letter she sent to my brother about retreating to a spa. I gather that the members of the press have taken it upon themselves to investigate all the spas and hotels in the region mentioned and found nothing.” He finishes, “So you see, her disappearance remains a mystery. But I will do whatever it takes to find her.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The Manuscript
March 20, 1924, to December 10, 1925
London, England, and Surrey, England
I took Archie at his word. If more work was needed to atone for the selfishness of our Empire Tour year, then I would do that work. I finished The Man in the Brown Suit and submitted it for publication; I signed a three-book contract with Collins for an advance of two hundred pounds per book and improved royalties; I delivered my final book under the Bodley Head contract, The Secret of Chimneys; I wrote lucrative stories for magazines: Sketch, Grand, Novel, Flynn’s Weekly, and Royal. I was determined to care for my family financially, to ensure our home was run efficiently and with taste, to limit our social calendar so Archie could have the quiet routines he preferred, and to provide proper care for Rosalind. Whatever formula Archie required for the success of our marriage, whatever alterations to my demeanor, whatever elixir that would bring back the Archie I once knew—the man I married as he marched off to the Great War, the man who emerged in glimpses on the Empire Tour—I would undertake. While I enjoyed, of course, the mounting popularity of my books and short stories, my primary focus in writing remained the happiness of my husband and daughter.
This was what I told myself as I plowed through stories, puzzling through them as I organized the meals and shopping schedule, met with the housekeeper we were finally able to afford, oversaw Cuckoo’s schedule and Rosalind’s schooling. But was this a lie? That everything I did, I did for Archie? In truth, the only time I felt like myself was when I was writing. No matter how I tried to anticipate his needs, I couldn’t please Archie, and all the qualities he used to adore—my spontaneity, my love of drama and adventure, and my desire to discuss feelings and events with him—now irritated him. But why was Archie frustrated so often? Was it that he wasn’t the only center of attention? That I was busy with my career? It didn’t seem to matter that I was doing it for our family. My efforts to connect with Rosalind not only failed but angered Archie, time away from him and all that. But when I closed the door to my study and disappeared into the worlds of my stories, where I had complete control as I invented puzzles that the readers couldn’t unpuzzle, as Madge had once challenged me to do, I delighted in the order I created and thrilled with the surge in my own power. And I suddenly understood my husband’s craving for order and control.
But all the understanding in the world and all my hard work did not bring us closer. While driving through the countryside in my gray Morris Cowley—my one indulgence with my income from my first novel, The Mysterious Affair at Styles—I had an epiphany. What Archie and I needed to bond us back together was a shared activity, a beloved hobby much like surfing had been on the Empire Tour. My lack of athleticism provided an impediment to several options, but then I remembered lazy summer afternoons in Torquay playing golf with Reggie and East Croydon golf weekends early in our marriage. Yes, golf was the ticket, I told myself.
* * *
“What about this house?” I asked with a twirl of my overcoat. Did I see a hint of a smile on his face? How long has it been since he found me engaging? I wondered. These past months on any golf course nearby London where we could get a tee time had been a labor for me as I wasn’t a natural sportswoman, and while I’d relished every moment with my husband, I wasn’t certain he felt the same. While the hours chasing after tiny white balls on the rolling greens—and oftentimes, in my case, amid the high grasses—hadn’t exactly brought the same squeals of delight as surfing, they had become a weekend routine we both looked forward to. So much so that Archie had suggested we consider moving from London to a home commutable to the city but nearby his favorite course, Sunningdale, and we’d spent several weekends examining houses to let. To me, the Surrey-Berkshire area didn’t have the same allure as the sparkling Devon seaside of my youth—it felt too contrived and chock-full of business types whose sole focus was chasing money—but it was more compatible with Archie’s job.
We wandered through the manicured yew hedges bordering the available property, past two well-planned ponds, until we reached two orchestrated flower beds sweeping out in either direction, although the blooms lay dormant for the winter season. These well-tended gardens belonged to a mock Tudor with gables springing up in every direction like a child’s uncombed hair, with leaded windows that were small and mean, almost like squinting eyes. The house and its grounds were relatively new but built with a veneer of oldness, as if a newly wealthy city person had constructed their notion of a well-established country home. But I’d grown up in and around the world of authentic country life, where villas and their gardens sprang up organically in the Devon hills. To me, this house and the golf club life around which it revolved like a miniature solar system felt forced, even false, and the house’s dark interiors reflected the darkness within this seemingly bright community. But I knew Archie wouldn’t see it that way; in fact, for him, this was stepping into a world he’d always longed for but could never find. And his happiness was paramount.
“It is wonderfully close to the golf club.” His eyes brightened a bit at the thought of proximity to the course. Did I even see them twinkle? “More so than the others we looked at. We could even walk to the course with our clubs from this house.”
I smiled at him from the shade of my hat brim, and he grabbed me by the shoulders and drew me close. My heart raced at this unusual display of emotion.
“I think this is the one,” he whispered into my ear. “We might build a lovely life for ourselves here, Agatha.”
“Really?” I asked, lifting my face to his. Had I finally gotten something right? I said a silent prayer that this move and long weekends spent golfing might return the original Archie to me. The recent change of jobs to the more reputable Austral Limited, facilitated by Archie’s friend Clive Baillieu, had boosted his mood a touch, but the depressive state still settled upon him with regularity.
“Really,” he assured me. Then, to my great astonishment, a mischievous glint surfaced in his eyes, a madcap expression I hadn’t seen since he returned from the war. “I’d need my own car.”
“Oh, I think that would be brilliant, Archie. You know how I’ve adored motoring about in my Morris Cowley. Nothing beats the feel of the wind in your hair as you zoom through the countryside with utter freedom of movement.” I remembered well the first time I got behind the wheel of my vehicle and realized that I was no longer limited by bus schedules and times or the distance walking could take me. “Have you an idea about what sort of car you might get?”
“I was thinking of a sporty little Delage.”
“That’s a fine idea, Archie.”
He squeezed my hand. “Shall I put an offer on the house? We’ll have to change the name, of course. Yew Lodge is perfectly awful. Sounds a bit like a disease.”
I giggled. I couldn’t even think of the last time Archie had ventured a joke. “I have a mad idea.”
“What’s that?”
“What if we named it after the country house in my first book. Styles.”
He paused, and I suddenly worried that I’d ruined this perfect moment by referring to my work. Instead, he smiled. Then, stooping down, he kissed me on the cheek, and my heart soared.
Finally, he spoke. “Styles it is.”
Chapter Thirty
Day Six after the Disappearance
Thursday, December 9, 1926
Styles, Sunningdale, England
The day passes with excruciating slowness. Police officers filter in and out of his study, reviewing the latest sightings. If the reports are
to be believed, Agatha has been traversing the length of England, with stops at nearly every village along several train lines. Yet for all her public sightings, she remains elusive to those hunting for her.
His every move within Styles is monitored and recorded by a pair of junior policemen, even trips to the bathroom. He can no longer pretend, even to himself, that he isn’t a primary suspect in the investigation, if not the primary one. He can only be thankful that he managed his interview with the Daily Mail without interference from all this constant surveillance. Perhaps it will sway public and private opinion alike.
He is at loose ends. He should probably call Agatha’s sister, Madge, to give her an update, as he has promised to do. But he cannot stomach the thought of talking to the condescending, judgmental Madge, and he shudders to think what he might let slip if anger took hold of him. No, he thinks, I’ll wait until she calls me and suffer her fury.
As he watches the mantelpiece clock tick slowly and smokes a steady stream of cigarettes, he hears the front door slam, awakening him from his thoughts. Hearing Charlotte and Rosalind rustling about in the front hallway, he walks out to greet them. He could use a lift in spirits, and his daughter can usually make him smile. They share a quiet, dry sense of humor, a quality that sets them apart from the ebullient, overly emotional Agatha.
When he walks into the front hallway, Rosalind’s back is to him. Charlotte’s arms are enveloped around his little girl, and the nanny is whispering words in his daughter’s ear. He hears a sniffle.
The Mystery of Mrs. Christie Page 14