Day Four after the Disappearance
Tuesday, December 7, 1926
Styles, Sunningdale, England
The dawn of a new day does nothing to diminish the search for his wife or the press’s relentless pursuit of information. As Archie studies the pile of local and national newspapers over breakfast, he sees that the thirst for details about his wife and her disappearance has only grown. It seems as though the search has become an end unto itself for these reporters rather than one step toward resolution.
He shakes his head at the speed with which the press gathers and disseminates material, thinking, not for the first time, that only inside access could yield some of the more intimate details. Although he has no proof—and doesn’t understand why—Archie suspects that Kenward has been predisposed against him from the start and has been feeding the press salient particulars, perhaps in the hope of smoking out a reaction from him. But Archie knows that it’s more than one reporter’s simple desire to beat a rival reporter to the latest tidbit about Agatha’s zippered purse or the color of her fur coat that is causing the frenzy. The idea that his missing wife—now mythologized into the beautiful novelist happily married to the handsome war hero—has turned into the victim in one of her own mystery books is an irresistible tale to reporters and their readers alike.
What in the name of God is he going to do? How will he maintain the facade of the concerned, loving husband for much longer? How can he ensure that his relationship with Nancy stays secret? Styles is at the center ring of a very public circus, and everyone is looking to him as if he’s the ringmaster. And a caring ringmaster at that.
He rubs his pounding temples, searching for relief from his stress and the noise, when the dining room door opens with a slam, sending a stabbing pain across his brow. Who dare burst past the guards Kenward installed to protect Archie and Rosalind from the aggressive throngs of reporters staked outside Styles? Kenward explained that the guards were for their protection, but Archie suspects that the constable assigned the guards primarily to keep an eye on him.
It’s Kenward, of course. He brushes past the housemaid, Lilly, who has admitted him, and strides directly to face Archie. Goddard glides into the room in Kenward’s wake, an apologetic half smile on his face for the interruption.
“Will you be coming to the dredging? We’ve got to get started, you know. We have men and equipment lined up, so we can’t lollygag, Colonel,” Kenward barks, which elicits a wince from Goddard. “We’ve been standing around waiting for you.”
“The dredging?” Archie is confused. What is Kenward on about now? “I’m not certain I understand.”
“I know I told you. How could you forget?” Kenward says with a roll of the eye. “We are slated to drag nets through the Silent Pond and the Albury Mill Pond today. Just in case Mrs. Christie fell into one of the ponds after wandering around once her car broke down.” Either Kenward doesn’t comprehend the horrific scene he is painting for Archie, or planting that image in his thoughts is precisely Kenward’s goal.
Whatever his intention, even Goddard seems repelled. “Deputy Chief Constable Kenward, I think that might be a bit much. Perhaps Colonel Christie could sit this one out. We are talking about his wife, after all.”
Kenward looks over at Goddard as if he’s just realized he’s in the room. “But Colonel Christie could help identify the bo—” Goddard shoots him a scathing glance, and Kenward changes course. “Ah, yes. I see. I suppose it might be a good idea to stay behind.”
“Here’s an idea, Deputy Chief Constable Kenward. What if Colonel Christie spent that time with me? You have the dredging well in hand, and Mr. Christie and I haven’t had much of a chance to talk one-on-one about the investigation and the events leading up to the disappearance.” Goddard turns to him. “Is that agreeable to you, Colonel?”
If I have to spend the morning with another policeman, it’s more palatable, he thinks as he nods in agreement, to spend it with one who hasn’t already decided I’m a murderer.
Once Kenward and his men leave and Lilly pours fresh, steaming tea into the china teacups, Archie settles into his study chair and submits to another round of questioning. He assumes that it will resemble all the others—a barrage of inquiries focused on his whereabouts and those of his wife on the day she disappeared in a vain attempt to catalogue and comprehend each of their movements of the fateful Friday night. The police seem to believe that only then will they learn what’s happened to his wife. But Goddard doesn’t seem to be like the other officers.
“How would you describe your wife, Colonel Christie?”
“Her hair has a reddish hue but is streaked with gray—”
Goddard interrupts, “My apologies for being vague, Colonel. How would you describe your wife’s personality?”
“Hmm.” Archie is surprised at the query; it’s one he hasn’t been asked yet. “I suppose she’s like any wife and mother in some ways.”
“But in others?”
“She has an artistic temperament, I guess. Creative interests. She’s a writer, you know.”
“I do, and I wondered whether she has that fiery temper we always hear about with artists.” Goddard says this with a smile, as if it’s a grand joke.
“I wouldn’t say she has a temper. But she is highly strung and prone to share her emotions and thoughts, sometimes with great feeling. As you hinted at, artists aren’t known for their restraint.”
Goddard leans toward Archie as if they are sharing an important secret. “The more witnesses I interview, I find that they share your description of Mrs. Christie’s disposition. In my years of police work, in which I’ve encountered many who share your wife’s high-strung character, I’ve seen that if those people become overwrought—for whatever reason—then they may take flight.”
Archie holds his breath. Is this policeman actually offering a hypothesis for his wife’s whereabouts? One that doesn’t involve his malfeasance, as Kenward clearly believes?
“This is all hypothetically speaking, of course,” Goddard adds.
Archie knows he has a very fine line to walk. Venturing a hopeful expression, he says, “You know, Superintendent Goddard, I do believe that you are the first policeman on this case holding that view. I think—”
The study door vibrates with a steady knock. “Colonel Christie, sir, there are two policemen here who say they must speak with Superintendent Goddard,” Lilly calls out.
“Let them in,” Archie calls back.
Two of Goddard’s men, distinctive by their uniforms, enter the room. “It’s a deluge, sir,” the older-looking one reports.
“A weather report justifies the interruption of my meeting with Colonel Christie?” Goddard asks, his anger barely contained. It is a different side to the amenable superintendent than he’s presented thus far.
“Apologies for being vague, sir, but it’s not that sort of deluge. Jim Barnes of Daily News has been covering Mrs. Christie’s disappearance, and he’s just offered one hundred pounds for information leading to the location of the colonel’s wife.”
“I see.”
“In the two hours since the announcement was made, we’ve had nearly a dozen reports of sightings.” The policeman checks his notepad and says, “We’ve got Ralph Brown of Battersea claiming to have seen Mrs. Christie on Albury Heath on Saturday morning walking about distracted. There’s Mrs. Kitchings of Little London—that’s near Newlands Corner—reporting that she saw a woman matching the newspaper photos of Mrs. Christie walking in a lane near her house around noon on Saturday. A railway porter named Mr. Fuett maintains that he was approached on Sunday at Milford station by a woman fitting Mrs. Christie’s description. The list goes on, sir.”
“It looks like we’ve got some claims to investigate in order to locate your wife, Colonel Christie. I apologize for having to end our discussion,” Superintendent Goddard says as he rises. He then places his hand briefly on Archie’s shoulder, saying, “I am certain we will find her.”