Day Two after the Disappearance
Sunday, December 5, 1926
The Silent Pool, Surrey, England
Although Archie knows how quickly news spreads in the Surrey countryside, he’s astonished at how rapidly word of his wife’s disappearance overtakes Shere, Guildford, and Newlands Corner. By Sunday morning, not only does the entire population of these villages know that his wife is missing but many have volunteered their services to search for her. Confronted with their expectant faces—not to mention the police officers’ assumptions and the letter’s strictures—Archie has no choice but to mobilize alongside them.
The volunteers march out into the thicket and the tangle of the woods and brush surrounding the Silent Pool like a ragtag army unit. Under the supervision of the police, they are fanned out in every direction around him, linking hands in organized lines to thoroughly comb through the high grass and brush. After all, the undergrowth is nearly waist-high in places, deep enough for a woman to lie hidden. They blanket the southeast, including Newlands Corner, Shere, and the wilderness encompassing the Silent Pool, and the northwest, including an area known as the Roughs. Archie walks alone, of course. It wouldn’t be seemly for him to link hands with these regular folks, not in his current predicament.
Even though the Morris Cowley is some distance from the Silent Pool, the searchers are drawn to the environs around the dank body of water almost as though it has a macabre, magnetic lure. Archie considers what attracts the locals to the stagnant pool. The old violent legends? Are they hoping to find his wife’s body floating in its murky depths? He assumes that’s the explanation, as no evidence has emerged linking the car to the waters.
Yesterday afternoon, after they discovered the car, Archie followed along with the preliminary search undertaken by the police and the special constables, Surrey men who are registered with the constabulary to assist in the event of an emergency. Kenward thought it advisable to pursue the possibility that his wife was flung from the vehicle into the thick underbrush and is either wandering around, lost and possibly injured, or is unconscious within the thicket. But that initial inspection hasn’t unearthed a single clue, and they are back at the hunt today, casting a wider net with the motley crew of volunteers. Although, as the hours pass, Kenward’s theory is becoming less and less likely.
Archie hasn’t wanted to rejoin the investigation. He would have preferred to stay behind at Styles, but Kenward’s reaction to that suggestion has made clear the manner in which this decision might be perceived. Not to mention the words from that damn letter his wife has left behind are haunting him: Follow my instructions closely if you wish the safety of the first path.
So he’s back at it today, listlessly poking his walking stick into bushes and peering underneath them, while terrifying thoughts plague him. What will happen if Charlotte lets the proverbial cat out of the bag? He knows the police questioned her and the rest of the staff yesterday, but she’s held up so far. Perhaps he should invite that blasted sister of hers—Mary, the one she’s always going on about and hinting at permission to host as a houseguest—to keep her occupied and out of the police’s hair. That’s the ticket, he thinks. And it will have the added advantage of keeping poor Rosalind distracted.
Heartened a bit at this plan, he returns to his task of tromping through the trees and brush and around streams and their rivulets, making a show of poking through every branch, and listening to the volunteers talk. From their chatter, these folks seem to be enjoying this, almost as if it’s a mad, morbid caper. What would make these people break from their regular Sunday routines to search for a woman they don’t even know? He certainly wouldn’t do it. In fact, he wouldn’t have joined in the search today but for the specter of the alternative.
Even though Archie cannot see the volunteers and he’s hidden from their sight, he can hear them jabber away. They’ve been blathering about their daily lives and village gossip, but then he hears the voice of a young man say, “Hurtmore Cottage,” and his heart starts beating wildly. Archie has been assuming that his whereabouts on Friday night and Saturday morning would remain secret, but how idiotic of him. Why has he assumed that the policemen would have more discretion than the villagers? He’s been a damn fool. After all, the police officers are little more than villagers themselves.
He freezes, straining to hear what the man and his companions say next. Other than the word James, he cannot make out anything else, and he begins to relax, reframing their speculations in his mind. What of it? he thinks. Why can’t a man spend a golf weekend at a friend’s home without his wife? As far as anyone knows, that was the precise nature of his plans.
By God, though, Archie hopes that he can keep the Jameses, Hurtmore Cottage, and Nancy out of this mess. What must she be thinking today as more details have emerged? He phoned Sam and Nancy last evening when the police were busy holding a logistics meeting in the kitchen. After he explained the situation to each of them—which they’d already heard from the local gossips—they decided there should be no communication until the situation is resolved. But now he wishes that they hadn’t made that agreement. He’d welcome their familiar voices.
Instead, he plows forward with his sham of a search, suffering through the bitterly cold hours of the afternoon. Only when the daylight begins to wane does Kenward finally call it off and seek him out. Branches crack and leaves crunch under the weight of the detective chief constable as he makes his way toward Archie.
Panting at the exertion, Kenward says, “I hate to say it, Colonel, but I think the likelihood that your wife suffered some sort of minor accident and either collapsed somewhere in the thicket or wandered off in confusion is diminishing.”
Kenward stares at him, assessing his reaction. What in the name of God does he expect Archie to say? The futility of this search is apparent to even the simplest villager. Still, Archie says, “I’m very sorry to hear that, Detective Chief Constable Kenward.”
“Detective Chief Constable! Detective Chief Constable!” One of Kenward’s men calls to him, and two police officers race toward Archie and Kenward. Archie notes that the detective doesn’t even offer his men a shorter version of his title to use; he must want to have his lofty designation bandied about, reminding everyone who is in charge.
“Yes, man, spit it out,” Kenward barks at the panting man.
“There’s a report from Albury.” The policeman references the small village nearby as if that explains the urgency and his haste.
“And?”
“A woman who works at the Albury hotel saw a woman fitting the description of the colonel’s wife. We have a sighting.”