All I remember was wanting Archie. His warm enveloping arms, his lips upon the top of my head, his words telling me that all would be well in time. I yearned for the comfort I hoped he’d provide, comfort I hadn’t actually received for many years but still believed in. He didn’t come. My eyes bleary from crying, Madge read aloud Archie’s telegram saying that he could not travel home from Spain in time for the funeral. I dissolved at the news, remembering only then his great dislike of emotion and grief. And I wondered, for the first time, about his absence.
Only one clear image from the day of the funeral remained with me. Rosalind and I stood with our fingers gripped around each other’s as we listened to the parson deliver a final prayer over Mummy’s gravesite. Hand in hand with my darkly dressed daughter, we walked from the parson’s side to the front of the newly dug grave. Glancing into her somber eyes, I nodded, and together we tossed a bouquet of bluebells and primroses onto the top of Mummy’s casket. I wanted her to be surrounded by the fragrance of her favorite blooms as she left this world.
How could my beloved mother be gone? I could not envision my life without her constant, reassuring presence, whether in person or in word. I’d involved her in every one of my decisions, events, and ideas; how could I proceed without her guiding hand? It was then that I realized the comfort I’d longed for from Archie was actually the solace that only my mother could have provided.
Even from my study, I heard his footsteps in the hallway before his key sounded in the lock. Could he really be home? It had only been a little over two weeks since he’d been on a work trip to Spain, but it seemed an eon since I’d seen his vivid blue eyes. My world had utterly upended in the passage of those days.
I sprang to my feet, dropping my notepad and pen on the floor. After I’d put Rosalind to bed, I’d been unsuccessfully trying to distract myself by outlining a new book for my Collins contract, but it didn’t matter now. Archie was home. Running to the door, I embraced my husband before he could even cross the threshold.
Half laughing, he said, “Can a man even take off his hat before he’s accosted by his wife?”
I laughed at his rare joke, a mad cackle that I knew was a mistake the moment it escaped my lips. It sounded brash and overreactive, and Archie wouldn’t like it. It smacked of disorderly emotions.
I swallowed the laughter and simply said, “I’m so glad you’re home.”
He slipped out of my embrace, placed his coat on the stand and his hat on the front table, and then put his suitcase down in the hallway near the stairs. Then, as if it was any other evening after a long day at the office, he entered the parlor to pour himself a whisky and sat down on the sage-green sofa. I settled at his side.
“The trip was long, of course,” he commented as he sipped his drink. “Although rather smooth.”
“I’m relieved to hear it,” I answered, thinking that surely we’d race through these preliminaries to discuss the heart of things.
“The train a bit more reliable than the ship,” he continued on the topic of his travel home.
I struggled with a response and settled on saying, “I guess that’s not a surprise.”
“No, I suppose you’re right.” He finished his drink. “The business went quite well, though. I think I’ve just about wrapped up a new contract for Austral.”
“That’s wonderful news, Archie.” I tried to muster the appropriate enthusiasm.
How strange, I thought. Was he ever going to ask about the funeral? Mummy? My grief? We’d exchanged a few cursory letters since it happened, but I hadn’t been in a state of mind to pen any details. Nor, it seemed from the brevity of his missives, had he. Were we going to sit here and act as though a monumental loss hadn’t just occurred?
I waited. The house seemed unnaturally still and silent. Rosalind was asleep in her room, and the small sounds that Charlotte normally made were absent as she was still in Edinburgh tending to her ill father. Would Archie fill in the silence with meaningful conversation? Or would we continue to share niceties like two perfect strangers?
Pushing himself off the couch with a weary sigh, he walked over to the drinks area and poured himself a double whisky without even asking me if I’d like one. Instead of sitting back down next to me on the sofa or even near me on the adjacent armchair, he chose a stiff, wingback chair all the way across the room. Normal banter tempted me—I sorely yearned for a return to normality with my husband—but I resisted. I needed to see if he’d ever ask about my mother.
Finally, he spoke. “Everything all right?”
Was this meant to be his inquiry about the death of my mother? This simple question that could just as well be about the weather? For the first time, instead of concern over how he perceived me, I began to feel deep disappointment in Archie. Even anger. “Is what all right?” I needed to make him say the words aloud, to stop pretending.
“The funeral. All that about your mother.”
Tears began to well in my eyes. Not the tears of grief and sadness that had overtaken me since Mummy died but tears of fury that the loss of my mother should be belittled by his minimizing treatment. I pushed back the tears and, with as much dignity as I could muster, said, “No, Archie, it is not all right. I’ve been terribly despondent, and I’ve needed my husband. I need him now.”
He froze at my words; although he’d become accustomed to my displays of emotion, he was ill-used to any tone other than the passivity that he’d cultivated in me. But he said nothing. No condolences. No apologies. No professions of love. No embrace.
His mouth opened and closed several times as he tried on different phrases for size. I held my tongue until he spoke. “Time heals, Agatha. You’ll see.”
The suppressed tears broke free and spilled down my cheeks. “Time? I should just sit by stoically, waiting for time to heal my grief? Without the comfort of my husband? Not even an embrace?”
Archie suddenly stood up, spilling a bit of his drink on his pants. This normally would have upset him and necessitated an immediate trip to our bedroom for a change of attire. Yet he didn’t seem to notice in his haste to make his proposal. “Here’s an idea, Agatha. I’ve got to go back to Spain next week to conclude my business. Why don’t you come with me? It’ll take your mind off all this.”
He hadn’t answered my question about his ability to comfort me directly, I noticed. He hadn’t moved toward me and wrapped his arms around me in the manner I craved. He’d merely offered a temporary distraction, no real acknowledgment of my loss. Despite my disappointment, despite my sense of having been abandoned in my time of extreme need, I decided to respect the limitations of Archie’s nature—his discomfort with all this emotion—and forgive him. I reminded myself that a good wife would indulge him no matter her own situation, and I wanted desperately to be a good wife.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Day Seven after the Disappearance
Friday, December 10, 1926
Styles, Sunningdale, England
Archie swears that Charlotte will not look him in the eye.
“You have a good day at school, darling, all right?” he calls out to his daughter from the hallway. His daughter and the governess are readying for Rosalind’s police-escorted school day, a necessity to avoid the surge of press around Styles and Rosalind’s school.
“Yes, Papa,” Rosalind answers, giving him a hesitant smile. Her demeanor toward him has been skittish since his harsh behavior yesterday afternoon, and he desperately wishes that he could take back his words. Isn’t it enough that she has to ride to school in a police vehicle so she isn’t mobbed by reporters and photographers, only to be greeted once there by swarms of bratty children taunting her? What sort of father is short-tempered with his child in such circumstances? He has inflicted enough harm upon her, and he knows that damage has hardly reached its end.
“Take good care of her en route, Charlotte,” he says. The statement is un
necessary, as no one watches out for Rosalind with the hawkeyed vigilance of the governess, but he needs an excuse to connect with her and gauge her reaction. Is Charlotte actually avoiding his gaze, or is he imagining it?
“Yes, sir,” she answers with unusual formality and a quick bob. And no eye contact. Why? Is she scared after his outburst at Rosalind? Or is it something else entirely?
As he watches his poor daughter navigate the throngs of reporters who’ve made camp in his garden, he spies Kenward and Goddard striding toward the front door. All manner of police inhabit his house at every hour of the day and night—plainclothes detectives, uniformed officers from two different forces, and even young officers in training—and they all enter Styles through the back entrance. Why are the constable and superintendent approaching the house with such formality?
No sense pretending he cannot see them, he thinks. He opens the door as they near it. “Morning, gentlemen.”
“Good morning, Colonel Christie,” Goddard—of course—responds politely.
“Would you like to come in?” Archie offers.
“No, sir,” Kenward replies. “We need you to come with us.”
Where do they want him to go? What have they found? “I’m sorry, I don’t understand,” he whispers.
“To the police station.”
Archie is perplexed. He’s sat through countless meetings with the police, and none have required an official visit to a police station. What has changed? Why now? What have they learned? “Come with you? Whatever f-for? Why can’t we just talk in my study…or the kitchen as we always do?” A slight stammer has taken hold of his tongue.
“We will need you to make an official statement,” Goddard says softly.
“Isn’t that what I’ve been doing every day for the p-past week?”
“No, Colonel Christie,” Kenward answers, taking one step closer to Archie so they are nearly face-to-face. “No, you haven’t. You’ve been interviewed about your wife’s disappearance. That is a very different matter from a formal police statement. Please get your coat and hat and come with us.”
With Kenward’s and Goddard’s gazes fixed on him, he pulls on his gray wool overcoat and trilby and steps out through the front door. Even though he walks behind the police officers and the brim of his hat is pulled low, the flashes of light from photographers’ bulbs are nearly blinding. For most of the press, this is the first time they’ve encountered him in close proximity, and the questions ring out in a deafening roar. Inquiries turn into accusations, and they mesh with one another, becoming indistinguishable denunciations for what seems like a walk to the gallows. Archie guesses that is precisely Kenward and Goddard’s intent with this parade, particularly when they seat him in the back of the police vehicle.
During the ride to the Bagshot police station, everyone is quiet. Silence is normally a comfortable state for Archie, but in this context, with the typically verbose Kenward rendered mute, he feels unsettled. And why isn’t anyone talking about this formal police statement, explaining the necessity for this ceremony? Wouldn’t any number of his previous statements on record have sufficed? Should he summon his solicitor, or would that signal guilt on his part? Without Kenward’s usual jeers—which would be strangely welcoming—Archie feels an increasing sense of doom.
The two men exit the vehicle first and escort him into the station. A line of junior officers has assembled to watch the procession into what Kenward dubs the interrogation room. With the condemnatory stares of the police on him, this march is worse than the walk from Styles to the police car. Archie’s thoughts go wild. Has this been his last day at Styles? Should he have given Rosalind a more fitting farewell?
No offer of a glass of water or a cup of tea is forthcoming as Archie sits down on a chair facing the other men in the tiny, windowless room. No one speaks. They seem to be waiting, but for what? Both officers are present.
The interrogation room door slams open with a bang, startling even Kenward. A slight, balding man in a fastidious suit enters the room. He sits in the empty fourth chair, lays out papers and pens on the table, and then selects a particular writing utensil, placing its tip onto a page. The stenographer then nods to Kenward and Goddard.
“We spent the better part of last evening interviewing Mr. and Mrs. Sam James as well as Miss Nancy Neele,” Kenward announces. “Again.”
Oh my God, why didn’t Nancy or Sam phone him? Forget the communication blockade. This qualifies as an emergency. Archie feels sick at the thought of his friends and his beloved being subjected to Kenward’s antics—and even sicker at what they might have divulged—but he refuses to show it. He wills his face to remain impassive in the face of Kenward’s taunts and reminds himself to abide by the terms of the letter, no matter how horribly worried he is about Nancy and the Jameses.
“This time, we finally got around to the truth. They confirmed that last weekend was no ordinary golf weekend but a celebration of your engagement to Miss Neele. Just as the maid reported to us and the press.” Kenward continues, “Apparently, the two of you have been conducting an affair for the past six months. At least.”
“The Jameses told you that? Miss Neele told you that?” Archie could not fathom his demure, supportive love confessing to their transgression.
“Well, not Miss Neele. She refused to comment unless we had a court order. But the Jameses did concede a knowledge of your relationship.” A smug smile appears on Kenward’s face. “And Sam James alluded to a connection between your affair and your wife’s disappearance.”
Archie cannot quite believe that Sam would give him up, and he wonders if Kenward is just trying to bait him into disclosure. But the locked gates have opened, and he cannot stop himself from speaking the truth. Perhaps for the first time since this nightmare commenced. “Even if it is true—that I was engaged in a relationship with Miss Neele, which I do not admit—then the only connection between that and my wife’s disappearance is that Mrs. Christie drove off in a fit of pique.”
Goddard speaks for the first time since they entered the interrogation room. “Then why did you burn the letter your wife left you?”
The question flattens him. How did they find out about the letter? It dawns on him—too late—that the damnable letter is the real reason he’s in the police station, that his statements yesterday about his relationship with Nancy would be sufficient.
“I see that you’re surprised, Colonel Christie. That’s perfectly understandable. After all, the existence of the letter has stayed quiet until now, as has your burning of that letter. But remember what I told you about your Daily Mail interview? It loosened people’s lips,” Goddard says.
Archie still doesn’t speak. Why should he? He’s damned if he does and damned if he doesn’t. He knows exactly how his burning of Agatha’s last missive to him before her disappearance appears. It is only open to one interpretation.
“I’ll ask you again, Colonel Christie. Why did you burn the letter from your wife?”
He grasps on to one last gambit. “You’re presuming the existence of such a letter.”
“Ah, you’re going to play the literal game with us.” Goddard shoots a glance at Kenward. “That’s fine. We can play at that too. Someone saw the envelope that your wife left for you on the entryway table before she disappeared. That same someone remembered your letter because it sat alongside the one your wife left for her.”
Ah, that’s how they know. Charlotte finally broke. He should have guessed from her skittish behavior this morning. Did he push her to the edge by his Daily Mail interview? Was it his treatment of Rosalind yesterday? Or did her sister Mary push her to do it?
No sense denying it now, he thinks. “I didn’t disclose the letter because it referred to a purely personal matter that has no bearing on the events transpiring afterward.”
“So the letter did exist?” Kenward cannot help but ask.
“Yes,” A
rchie answers. How can he insist otherwise?
Goddard takes charge of the questioning again. “You expect us to believe that you burned that letter because its contents contained some personal matter that has no relationship to your wife’s disappearance?”
“That’s right.” He clings to this explanation, even though he knows it’s thin and paltry at best.
“Could that personal matter be your affair with Miss Neele? Surely you realize that sort of personal matter could have an enormous bearing on the investigation into your wife’s disappearance.”
“I know nothing of the sort. And I am not prepared to elaborate on the topic of my wife’s letter.” He has no choice. If he is to survive this catastrophe intact, he must stay the course on the letter. In fact, the letter itself mandates that he remain silent on its contents.
Kenward stands and walks to Archie’s side, leaning down so that their faces are level. “I must say, burning the last letter left by your wife mere moments after the police found her abandoned car isn’t the behavior of an innocent man. It isn’t the act of a man with nothing to hide, a man who’s upset about his wife’s disappearance. It’s the destruction of evidence by a guilty man.”
Chapter Thirty-Five
The Manuscript
August 3–5, 1926
Ashfield, Torquay, England
Spring turned into summer, and still Archie and I remained apart. His business trip to Spain had stretched from days to weeks, and duty obliged me to travel to Ashfield during that time. Mummy’s death meant that the future of our family home must be determined—to sell, rent, or keep, because we couldn’t work out the death taxes otherwise—and that required the sorting of her belongings. Madge couldn’t leave Abney Hall until August, so I labored in Ashfield largely alone but for Rosalind, Peter, our new dog, and the occasional temporary maid from town, as Charlotte remained in Scotland with her ailing father. Even when Archie returned from Spain in June and we made plans for him to stay in his London club during the week with jaunts to Ashfield on weekends, I did not see him. One excuse or another kept him from visiting us.
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