The Christie Affair(32)
‘He doesn’t look quite right,’ Lizzie murmured.
I didn’t look at her, but remained focused on the man. My impression was precisely the opposite to Lizzie’s. He looked quite right to me. Almost nothing in my life required the sudden control and presence of mind to keep my voice neutral when I spoke. ‘Funnily enough, I happen to know him. Would you mind excusing us a moment?’
‘Not at all.’ She gave a pretty little shiver. ‘I’m about ready for some hot water. Perhaps I’ll see you in the baths?’
‘Perhaps.’ But I had already started moving in the opposite direction.
‘Remember not to trust strangers too quickly.’
‘Thank you.’ I spoke without looking back at her. ‘Thank you for the reminder.’
My feet moved swiftly, like they used to when I was young. Carrying me towards the man. It was like hurrying towards the best part of the past. A shift had occurred in the atmosphere. Skies opening up to bestow a gift when I least deserved one.
He wore an Aran jumper and a pea coat, open and unbuttoned, despite the cold. Black hair fell across his brow. The smile had been stamped out of his eyes, but they were still the loveliest layered blue. My heels were chunky, fine for walking, but ill-suited to the run I couldn’t help but break into. I couldn’t get to him fast enough. My coat blew open, too. If I ran into his arms, I knew he would pick me up and spin me around, but for some reason I stopped just short of them. Looking at him, making sure this was real, felt more important than embracing him.
‘Finbarr,’ I said. ‘Upon my word.’
‘Hello, Nan.’ He reached out and took my hand. Brought my palm to his lips, three beats of a kiss. ‘I’ve missed you.’
In Berkshire and Surrey, they searched as though for a dead woman. The Silent Pool, the brush, ditches. Hounds bayed, noses to the ground. If Agatha Christie were found near her home, it would be because she’d died there, by her own hand or someone else’s.
Elsewhere in England authorities searched for a live person in hiding. There were police officers from Land’s End to Cold Stream, showing Agatha’s photograph to hotel guests and proprietors. Have you seen this lady? Chilton was one of many going through these motions. He’d been charged to search for her, so searching was how he planned to conduct himself. On his arrival the day before, he’d acted an ordinary guest, checking in and eating dinner in the dining room with the sparse assortment of guests. Simon Leech’s wife had ushered him to a table and sat him opposite a pretty young lady with abundant dark hair whom Mrs Leech introduced as Miss Cornelia Armstrong.
‘Surely you’re not here all on your own,’ Chilton said to Miss Armstrong, before he could stop himself.
Miss Armstrong smiled as if she found his incredulousness a compliment. ‘Why, surely I am,’ she said, with no small note of good-natured reproach. ‘It’s 1926, or haven’t you heard? Men went to war at my age. Surely I can manage a spa.’
Chilton smiled, and the proprietor patted the table as if pleased the conversation was off to a rousing start. ‘Be sure to tell all your friends which is the best hotel in Harrogate,’ Mrs Leech trilled, before bustling off with an industrious smile. The rest of Chilton’s evening passed agreeably, as he learned more about suffrage from Miss Armstrong than he had ever known before.
On Monday morning, first thing after breakfast, Chilton caught a ride into town with Mr Leech. Leeds Police Headquarters was much as he’d left it. Lippincott always kept his door open. He waved Chilton into his office.
‘Quite a time to take your retirement, just as the crime of the century’s been committed.’
They laughed, having agreed this was no crime at all. Just a lady with a tiny bit of renown, missing when nothing else was occurring in the world, creating a Silly Season in winter. The papers were going wild. Lippincott gave Chilton some police bulletins and a photograph of Agatha from her publisher, the same one being placed in countless hands across England.
‘If she’s not dead, she’ll be frightfully embarrassed at all this fuss,’ Chilton said. Looking at Agatha’s photograph – wistful and lovely – he regretted his laughter. It was a stark business, suicide, but he understood that when you had to go, you had to go. Surely she’d had her reasons.
Lippincott revealed his more-cynical-but-less-tragic theory. ‘What she’ll do is sell a lot of books,’ he said. ‘A handful of English readers knew her name on Friday. If she doesn’t turn up by the end of the week, she’ll be a global sensation.’
‘Publicity stunt, you think?’
‘Some sort of stunt. But that’s why I wanted you back, Chilton. I knew you’d treat it like it was real, either way. And we must take it seriously. No one yet knows where this woman’s gone. She might as well be here as anywhere.’
Chilton saluted in agreement, half in jest, but it made them both grim for an instant. They’d seen a lot together, the two of them, when saluting was an everyday business.
‘Look here, though, Chilton,’ Lippincott said. ‘Thanks to my cousin I can put you up at no expense. And I’ve got a police auto for you to use to conduct your searching. You retired too early for us to give you a fancy watch, or anything of that sort. So take this as a bit of a holiday, won’t you? Search for Agatha Christie but take the waters too. Enjoy the hotel. Eat well. Have a massage, for goodness’ sake.’