The Christie Affair(21)

‘Agatha,’ he whispered into my hair as he held me tight, ‘where are you?’



On the ten-minute walk to the Sunningdale station, the bitter cold stung my face. Unlike Agatha I did not own a fur coat. I wondered how she managed now, wherever she was, having left her warmest garment in her car. What if I wandered by Newlands Corner and helped myself to it? The thought made me laugh and frown at the same time, pulling my wool coat close around me.

With luck Agatha would turn up by the end of the day. At this very moment police were searching through the brush all around Sunningdale, but certainly she wouldn’t be found there; she would return, perfectly hale and well, under her own steam. It wasn’t for me to worry about. My knuckles burned with the cold. I blew into my hands. They smelled like Teddy’s soap and I wondered what they’d tell her about Agatha’s whereabouts. If anything happened to Agatha – anything permanent – I would become the little girl’s full-time mother. That was if Archie wasn’t too traumatized to go ahead with our plans, and didn’t blame me for whatever happened to his wife. A certain kind of man does tend to blame a woman.

But if he didn’t, I could take over. I could be the one walking Teddy to school in the morning and stealing into Archie’s study while he was at work to scribble down stories. Even Honoria would have to change her tone, wouldn’t she, if she wanted to stay on at Styles.

I shook these thoughts away. I didn’t want any harm to come to Agatha. I wanted her to be found, whole and healthy. But there was nothing I could do to help and I needed to turn to my own affairs. I needed to focus on the week ahead, leaving the Christie family behind for just a little while, before coming back to join it forever.





The Disappearance



Day One

Saturday, 4 December 1926



WHEREVER YOU MAY be sitting, reading these pages, however much time has passed, you will know that Agatha Christie did not stay missing. You know she didn’t die in December of 1926. She survived to a ripe old age and wrote many more novels and stories. At least one book a year – ‘Christie for Christmas,’ her publisher used to say, banking on those December profits. Agatha moved past Archie and her shattered marriage, not only to become the bestselling author of all time, but also to find a love much better suited to her, the way a woman with a little life under her belt will, once she’s clear-eyed about her past and can see what’s best for her future.

Nobody could know any of that when the police fetched her car back to the road. There was plenty of petrol in the tank, the engine seemed to be in fine working order. No signs of any trouble. No explanation readily discernible. A little ways away another group of policemen, perhaps six of them, stood on the edge of the Silent Pool. Over the years more than one corpse had been dredged from those spring-fed waters.

One of the policemen said, ‘We’ll have to drag it if she doesn’t turn up by morning.’

At Styles the police gave Archie a brief rundown about what little they’d discovered, and what they planned next. Archie imagined nets cast into the Silent Pool. He envisioned them returning to shore, his wife’s body snarled in their threads, and covered his face with such sincere horror for a moment that the police stopped suspecting him of having done something criminal.

In the nursery Teddy said bedtime prayers as usual, Agatha’s absence regular enough, Archie’s agitation far removed. Outside, night had fallen but still policemen spread out, along with volunteers from the town, scouring and searching all over the countryside. Bodies of water glimmered ominously. By now everyone in Berkshire and Surrey was developing a theory about where Agatha might have gone, what might have happened. Not one of them anywhere close to the truth.



I didn’t have a telephone in my flat but there was a call box on the corner. In the evening I walked out to it, pressed the A button, deposited my pennies, and waited for Archie to answer.

‘How are you?’ I asked, speaking in a low voice, as if the passers-by might hear. ‘Is there any word?’

‘No.’ If I hadn’t known it was him, I’m not sure I would have recognized his voice. There was a tremor, an uncertainty that seemed wholly out of character. ‘The police are involved, Nan. They are highly involved.’

‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it? They’re serious about finding her.’

‘Frightfully serious. They mean to find her as quickly as possible. She’ll be mortified when she finds out about all this fuss.’

I nodded, imagining it, the crack in her dignity. It did seem alarming that she wouldn’t rush back immediately to prevent exactly that. I could tell from Archie’s voice, it terrified him. He’d take more comfort if the police had dismissed the whole thing as nonsense.

‘I’ve been searching through her papers,’ he said. ‘There’s a story about you, I think.’

‘Is there?’

‘Yes. I’m quite sure it’s you. An adulteress. The main character pushes her over a cliff in the end.’

I drew in a breath that was half inhale, half laugh. Perhaps Agatha really had gone mad. Though one could argue her wanting to kill me was perfectly reasonable.

‘Perhaps I should be looking over my shoulder.’ I made my voice sound light, but Archie had already moved on to other worries.