Day Eight after the Disappearance
Saturday, December 11, 1926
Styles, Sunningdale, England
Archie fumbles through the dresser and wardrobe in the master bedroom. Socks spill out from open drawers, and boxes lie upturned on the floor. He’s already made hay of the upstairs; he supposes he’ll have to reassemble it all before he turns his attention back downstairs, where he’s already searched once. He can allow no one to see what he’s doing.
Where are the papers? He believed that he’d destroyed each letter and each memento from Nancy. In fact, it was his practice to do so as soon as a missive was received and read. But now, he is not sure that he did indeed destroy the items. And much depends on the lack of evidence of his affair. He knows that Nancy’s notes, brimming with affection and plans, would give Kenward the motive he seeks.
Archie scrambles to return undergarments to the dresser, clothing to the wardrobe, and shoeboxes to their stack in the closet. Seconds after he’s finished, he hears Charlotte calling his name. What can she want now?
Not bothering to feign a smile, he walks to the top of the staircase. He looks down the steps to see her panicked face staring up at him.
“Yes, Charlotte?” he asks.
“Apologies, sir. I never expected you’d be upstairs or I’d have walked up to fetch you rather than yelling out.”
“Not to worry. What do you need?”
“It’s the phone, sir. You have a call.”
“Ah. Thank you,” he says, walking downstairs and striding toward the tiny table where the phone rests. Perhaps it is his secretary from Austral or even his boss, Clive, he thinks, welcoming the distraction. But then he recalls that it is Saturday, and dread takes hold instead. Who on earth would be calling? In the first days of Agatha’s disappearance, he received a flood of calls, but as the days progressed and he made known his desire for quiet, the calls nearly ceased, aside from his mother, of course, and Agatha’s family members.
“Hello?”
“Archie, it’s Madge.” His sister-in-law’s authoritative voice rings out on the line, and he flinches. He’s always shied away from the self-confident, affluent woman, always felt the gaze of her judgment upon him. Not successful enough, not wealthy enough, not high enough social standing—he could almost hear Madge’s thoughts aloud when he was in her presence. Agatha had maintained that he was imagining this unfavorable assessment, but Archie knew better. He knows Madge’s type all too well.
“Hello, Madge,” he says, his tone guarded.
“I’m calling for an update. We had agreed that you’d call me twice a day, every day, with news, but I haven’t heard from you since yesterday morning,” she barks at him.
“I didn’t call you because there was no news.”
“Our agreement was for two phone calls a day regardless.”
Anger threatens to take hold of him. Why does she think he needs to answer to her? But he knows the rage will not serve him well, so he simply apologizes.
Madge turns to the real reason for her call. “I’m thinking I’ll drive down to Surrey today so I can assist in the search tomorrow. I understand it will be a massive undertaking, and I’d like to be there to represent Agatha’s family.”
“I don’t think that’s wise, Madge. As soon as the press learns who you are—which they undoubtedly would from any number of townsfolk—you’d be under siege from reporters. Especially because they’re hyping it as the Great Sunday Hunt and they expect thousands of volunteers.”
“Thousands are good. I can hide in plain sight among thousands,” she says, although her confidence has waned.
“The locals will identify you, and you will be swarmed by reporters. I don’t think you’d relish being the focus of a Daily Mail article,” he says. His assertion is true, but it isn’t the real reason for Archie’s resistance. He could not stand to have the overbearing Madge underfoot at Styles, and he’d do anything to deter her.
The line grows quiet as she considers his warning. “At least let me take Rosalind for a while. She must be beside herself with worry, and she shouldn’t be exposed to this circus. I could drive down and fetch her. I’ll bring her back to stay at Abney Hall until we locate Agatha.”
Archie knows there’s a strong bond between his daughter and Madge, and in his mind, that relationship is Madge’s one redeeming quality. But he doesn’t think he could bear having Madge at Styles even for an hour, even assuming that what Agatha told him was true—that she hadn’t told Madge about their marital troubles. Anyway, what would he do with Charlotte and her sister Mary in Rosalind’s absence? Without his daughter to focus upon, the Fisher sisters would be mooning about Styles, unnerving him with their presence and their fussing. No, Rosalind would stay at her own home.
“I don’t think that’s for the best, Madge. She really doesn’t understand what’s happening. She thinks Agatha is away on a writing trip and that the police are overreacting because they’re horribly mistaken about her whereabouts,” he says.
Madge is uncharacteristically quiet, and he can hear her inhale one of her constant cigarettes. “Let me talk to her. I’ll judge for myself.”
“Madge, there is no need. She is my daughter, and I know what’s best for her.”
“Oh really?” She laughs, a caustic, horrible chortle that sends shivers up his spine. “Just like you knew what was best for my sister? When you had an affair and broke her heart?”