The Manuscript
April 5, 1926
Styles, Sunningdale, England
“Carlo!” I called out to Charlotte Fisher, whom we’d employed to look after Rosalind and also to serve as my secretary. The arrangement worked out well, as Rosalind attended the Oakfield school in Sunningdale, leaving Carlo, as Rosalind had taken to calling Charlotte, largely free during the day to assist me. When Rosalind returned from school, Carlo tended to her so I could finish my work and focus on Archie. Her no-nonsense Scottish demeanor and fierce intellect combined with her patience and humor to make her excellent in both roles, a far cry from the irritating Cuckoo, whom I couldn’t wait to let go.
While I waited, I returned to my typewriter. Deep in the final proofread of my latest book, slated for a May publication, I was pleased with the device I’d chosen for The Murder of Roger Ackroyd. In this story, I’d taken the challenge Madge gave me all those years ago—to construct a mystery that no reader could solve—to the next level. The entire premise of the book rested on an unexpected twist, that the unassuming doctor who narrated the book was actually the murderer. Once I decided upon this quintessential yet unique unreliable narrator, I found it easy to write with the simple language that allowed the reader to focus on the labyrinthine puzzle of a plot. It was the first book under my new Collins contract, and I wanted it to dazzle. As I reread it for a final time, it occurred to me that we are all unreliable narrators of our own lives, crafting stories about ourselves that omit unsavory truths and highlight our invented identities.
After marking up the last page, I glanced around my study, a wood-lined room that, like the rest of Styles, didn’t have enough sunlight, but at least it had abundant bookshelves. How pleasant our lives were, I thought. Archie’s work at Austral Limited, with a boss who was his friend, was remunerative and satisfying, and my writing was an unexpected success, providing not only financial support for our family but creative contentment. Rosalind was an even-tempered, energetic little girl, if a little serious and stubborn. It was true that our weekends had been overtaken by golf; he played two rounds of eighteen holes both Saturday and Sunday, admittedly accompanied by a group of club friends instead of me, except when I invited my old friend Nan Watts and her husband to make a foursome. But Archie seemed happy, and wasn’t that the point of living in Sunningdale? Perhaps that frisson we shared in our early days was missing, but wasn’t that only natural? For the first time in the course of our marriage, I wasn’t plagued by doubts and worries.
I suddenly remembered Charlotte, and I wondered how long ago I’d called for her. Fifteen minutes? An hour? It seemed an age, but I lost track of time while writing. Glancing up at the clock, I guessed that I’d summoned her three-quarters of an hour ago.
“Charlotte!” I called out again. She might be in Rosalind’s bedroom, as she tidied my daughter’s belongings and did her laundry when she wasn’t undertaking projects for me. Charlotte didn’t trust Lilly, our housemaid, with Rosalind’s delicate things.
The staccato step of my secretary’s shoes on Styles’s wooden floors echoed down the hallway to my study. She must have finally heard my call. The door creaked open, and I reminded myself to have Lilly oil its hinges.
“Yes, Mrs. Christie?” Charlotte asked.
Holding up the manuscript like a trophy, I said, “I’m ready to have you post the very final version of The Murder of Roger Ackroyd.”
Charlotte’s face broke out in a wide grin. She knew how I’d labored on this particular mystery, not because it was unusually challenging but because I wanted it to be unusually perfect. “Congratulations, ma’am. What a relief it must be to complete it.”
“It is, Carlo.” My secretary winced a bit at the nickname, but I couldn’t seem to stop using it. Rosalind had dubbed her “Carlo” on her very first day, and somehow, it stuck. “Shall we have a small sherry and toast to its completion?” I asked.
I wanted to celebrate this small victory, and I knew Archie would not be the appropriate partner for the occasion, even if he hadn’t been traveling for work in Spain. More and more, he found my writing a nuisance, which I attributed to his success at Austral and his increased salary. What seemed acceptable to him when we needed money was becoming a bother when we had more cushion. So I tried not to discuss it too much.
Charlotte hesitated. “I do have to pick up Miss Rosalind in an hour, Mrs. Christie. I wouldn’t want to appear out of sorts to her schoolteacher.”
“I hardly think one small sherry will cause you to appear out of sorts, Charlotte.” I forced myself to use her proper name. It would hardly be a celebration if I drank my sherry alone.
She nodded, and I poured sherry into two small crystal glasses. We clinked them together and sipped.
“Ah, I almost forgot. A letter came for you,” Charlotte said.
“Is it from my mother?” After I received a troubling letter in shaky handwriting from Mummy in February, I traveled home to Ashfield, where I discovered that she’d been laid low with a virulent bronchitis that taxed her already straining heart. She was living in only two of the many rooms at Ashfield, as she’d become fairly immobile, with her belongings heaped high along the walls so she could access her clothes and books. Only one elderly maid, one of the two Marys, remained to help her keep house. I spent two weeks feeding her nourishing soups and ensuring that she rested to regain her strength while I cleaned the spare rooms, trimmed the border in the brisk sea air, stocked the larder, and arranged for a gardener to undertake the heavier yard work when the weather turned from winter. I only left because Mummy insisted, but I’d wept on the train because I longed to stay and care for my lovely, fading mother.
Charlotte’s dark eyes grew darker. “I would have brought it to you immediately if it had been, Mrs. Christie. Surely you know that?”
“Of course, Charlotte. My apologies.” How could I doubt that Charlotte would have delivered Mummy’s letter posthaste? She knew how I fretted over her and her condition. If Mummy herself hadn’t admonished me to stay by Archie’s side and banished me to return home to Styles during my last visit, I’d be in Ashfield now. Instead, Madge shipped Mummy for a stay at Abney Hall, under her care.
Examining the envelope, I saw it bore the return address of Abney Hall. I should have instructed Charlotte to bring these letters to me with the same urgency as those penned by Mummy, especially since our phone service had been erratic as of late. A delay in reading Madge’s letters could be catastrophic, but Charlotte wouldn’t necessarily have associated a letter from Abney Hall with my mother, even though Charlotte should have noticed that this letter was delivered by special courier.
Slicing it open, I saw a single page with only two sentences in Madge’s hand spilled out. Come at once, Agatha. Mummy is failing.