Day Eight after the Disappearance
Saturday, December 11, 1926
Styles, Sunningdale, England
The laughter in the kitchen draws Archie’s attention. Since the police turned it into their central command, much to the cook’s chagrin, since she must still prepare meals there, it has hardly been a place of merriment. What on earth could be raucously amusing to ten policemen? Particularly after they’d just been chastised by Home Secretary Joynson-Hicks for not making faster progress?
He is supposed to be preparing a verbatim reconstruction of Agatha’s last letter to him—a task he will never undertake—but curiosity gets the better of him. He pads away from his study down the hallway toward the kitchen. Standing behind a thick wall near the butler’s pantry, he listens to the exchange.
“Come on, guv,” a youthful-sounding policeman with a particularly thick accent says. “You’ve got to be jokin’ us.”
Kenward’s familiar voice booms back. “Mind your p’s and q’s, Stevens. We might not be in police headquarters, but that doesn’t give you liberty to forget your rank and manners. Not to mention we’re operating out of someone’s home, so you should be especially mindful. There are children within earshot.”
“Sorry, sir. Your announcement made me forget myself,” the young policeman apologizes.
Kenward resumes where he must have left off. “I am deadly serious. We got a public scolding from the home secretary yesterday. He’s telling everyone we’re dragging our heels with this investigation, which, as we know all too well, couldn’t be further from the truth. You boys have been working around the clock, and some of you haven’t seen your families for days. But Joynson-Hicks has called for those London bluebottles—damn Scotland Yard—to step in if we don’t get results soon. So it’s all hands on deck to find this woman. But in the meantime, if Joynson-Hicks thinks Conan Doyle should be one of the hands on deck, it’s not our job to question his decision.”
Kenward couldn’t possibly be talking about Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Archie thinks. Why on earth would the home secretary think that Sherlock Holmes’s creator could help find Agatha? The very idea was preposterous. There must be some other Conan Doyle.
The kitchen grows loud with the buzz of the police officers chatting among themselves. Archie can hear a few men chuckling and one bold fellow call out “Sherlock Holmes” until Kenward yells, “Pipe down now, men. We’ve got work to do, and the pressure is on. Today, we start planning the largest manhunt England has ever seen. We launch the Great Sunday Hunt tomorrow, and we’ll mobilize not only the police from all neighboring counties but also any volunteer who wishes to pitch in. We expect thousands to show up.”
One bold officer ventures a question. “Um, sir, before we begin planning our manhunt, do you mind telling us what Sir Arthur Conan Doyle said? If he made any important contributions, I’m sure we’d all like to know.” His voice is hesitant; he knows he’s risking Kenward’s ire.
The detective chief constable lets out an audible sigh and then says, “I’ve been told that the home secretary contacted the famous writer through a mutual acquaintance. I believe Joynson-Hicks thought the writer might share the same skills as his famous detective. But when the home secretary asked the writer for his aid, Conan Doyle—who seems to be some sort of occultist—offered to consult a psychic friend on Mrs. Christie’s whereabouts. This psychic person, a fellow by the name of Horace Leaf, held one of Mrs. Christie’s gloves—”
One of the men interrupts, “One of the gloves we found in the Morris Cowley?”
“Now, what did I just tell you men about your p’s and q’s? You interrupted me, Sergeant.” Kenward’s voice is angry again.
“Sorry, sir,” the chastened policeman says.
“Yes, it was one of the gloves we found in her automobile,” Kenward says. “Where was I? Ah, yes. Without being told anything about the person who’d owned the glove, this Mr. Leaf said that the person who owns that glove is not dead but is half-dazed. According to the psychic, she’ll surface next Wednesday. For whatever that’s worth.”
Ironic, Archie thinks, that the esteemed Sir Arthur Conan Doyle has been called in to assist in locating Agatha, given her adoration of the author.
Kenward clears his throat. “Now back to business. Planning this manhunt. Cooper and Stevens, I want you two on flyers—”
Archie hears the clatter of shoes and turns around. Rosalind has arrived home after a walk with Charlotte and her sister Mary. His daughter’s cheeks are ruddy from the cold, and she has a smile on her lips that disappears when she sees him. He doesn’t want them to know that he’s been eavesdropping or that he’s worried about the investigation in any way, so he tries to explain away his presence near the kitchen. “Have any idea where Cook is, Charlotte? I’d welcome another cup of tea this morning, and I can’t seem to find Lilly.”
“I believe Cook’s gone to the market, Colonel Christie. She’s altered her usual schedule and now does her shopping while the police hold their morning meeting. Less disruptive, I think. And less upsetting,” Charlotte says, not meeting his eyes.
Archie hasn’t thought about the staff being upset by Agatha’s disappearance; he’s been too focused on his own standing in the investigation to muse upon other people’s reactions other than Rosalind. Are they indeed worried about her? Should he say a few words to the staff? There is no protocol for this sort of thing, but he wants to behave in a manner befitting a man anxious about his wife. He must.
Charlotte stares at him, as do her sister and Rosalind. He forgot them as he mused on the other staff members. They are waiting for him to respond, and he needs to say something. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
Rosalind pulls on Charlotte’s hand, and she looks over at his daughter in relief. She can’t wait to get away from him, he sees, and from the sour expression on her face, neither can her sister. How he wishes he never invited Mary to Styles. But he can’t dwell on that now, as he must discuss something with Charlotte.
“Charlotte, might I have a word?” he asks.
Her forehead creases with worry as she says, “Of course, sir.” She directs her sister to take Rosalind upstairs to the nursery and then turns her attention to him. “What can I help you with?”
“Let’s talk in the study,” he says and leads her down the hallway.
They are silent as they walk. Only after they enter the study and he closes the door behind them does he speak. “I understand that you told the police about the letter Mrs. Christie left for me.”
Her face is ashen, and the stoic Charlotte appears as though she might burst into tears. “I’m sorry, sir. I know you didn’t want me to inform them, but they quizzed me on it particularly. And it’s illegal to lie to the police.”
“I understand, Charlotte. I don’t want you to think that I’m angry with you. The only reason I’m raising this with you is that I’m curious about their questions.”
“I didn’t tell them anything, sir. Only that you’d been left a letter as well.”
“I know, but what did they ask you about it?”
She takes a deep breath and says, “Detective Chief Constable Kenward asked repeatedly whether I knew what was written in your letter. Superintendent Goddard kept fairly quiet.”
“Did Kenward venture any guesses as to what might be in the letter?”
“No, sir.”
“Did he ask you to venture any guesses?”
Her ashen face turns crimson, telegraphing the answer to his question. “Yes.”
“What did you say?”
“I said that, if I had to guess—and I didn’t like to do so—that I thought your letter was likely to be similar to my own. My letter focused on the weekend’s change of plans—she’d asked me to cancel the Yorkshire reservations and said she’d contact me when she’d decided where she was staying instead—and I supposed yours was the same.”
Perfect, Archie thinks. This will aid in his reconstruction of the letter Agatha left him. Although, he reconsiders, he’d told the police that the letter had nothing to do with her disappearance, so Charlotte’s statements might not be entirely helpful.
“Did he ask you about how things stood between me and Mrs. Christie?” Since learning that Charlotte had divulged the existence of his letter to the police, despite his request to the contrary, he’s supposed she might have shared even more with the police. This query is the real purpose of bringing Charlotte into his study.
Her crimson cheeks turn ever redder, and he fears that she’ll be scared into silence. He needs to know what she’s told Kenward and Goddard to prepare for the questions they’re sure to ask him next about Nancy. He walks toward her, placing what he hopes is a comforting hand upon her shoulder. When she flinches, he realizes that his actions have the opposite effect than he intended.
“I sh-shouldn’t like to say, sir.”
“Please. Don’t worry about sparing my feelings.”
When she inhales deeply before she speaks, her breath is shaky. “I told them that I’d become aware of a great divide between you and Mrs. Christie, one that had driven you from Styles most nights since the fall. I also told them that you’d had your worst row ever on the morning of the day she disappeared. But when I called from London that evening—she’d given me leave to keep my planned day trip to London—she sounded perfectly fine and even encouraged me to stay and enjoy the city for the evening.”
“Anything more?” He wills his voice to remain calm. He needs to know what she knows—and what she’s revealed.
She hesitates for an eternal beat and then answers his question. “Only that I suspected that something—or someone—had come between you.”