She walked outside expecting to find a carriage waiting for her. Instead there was only a car, a black Bentley, sitting unused and forlorn in the drive. Very well. She preferred horses to engines but was used to doing things for herself. It was not entirely appropriate for a young lady to arrive at a party alone but if she didn’t show up, her hosts might worry. She rolled up her sleeves, cranked up the car and sat herself behind the wheel to drive off into the night.
The car, like the house, had belonged to her brother. Miss Oliver didn’t remember that at the moment. She did remember how to drive, and so she did, away from her house, lurching down the dark roads in no particular direction, only her phantom destination.
Goodness, it was hot. She lifted the back of her hand to her brow. It was almost pleasing, the pulse of heat, skin on skin, proof that she was alive and heading somewhere exciting, where many loved ones awaited. She only had one light hand on the wheel and the car swerved a bit to the left, one wheel skittering on pebbles and brush. She grasped the wheel and righted herself on the road, peering through the windscreen at the road ahead of her.
An awful pain seared, sharp enough to snap her into a moment of clarity. The car lurched and she slammed on the brakes, smacking her head into the windscreen.
Now there was a new pain, and blood trickling into her eyes. She pushed the door open and stepped out of the car. Terribly cold. Head clearing. And terribly lonesome – a dark country road in the dead of night. For a moment Miss Oliver could understand. She was not a young girl on the way to a party, but a confused old woman who had driven miles from home and then off the road. The car sat there, looking whole and well. Not even needing a push. If she could just crank it back up, she could turn around and drive on home to her own bed.
‘What was I thinking?’ Miss Oliver said, crossing her wrists and pressing her hands to her chest. ‘I might have been killed.’
Oh, it was hot. The fog descended upon her again. She took off her wool coat and threw it upon the driver’s seat.
‘I must get to the party,’ she said. ‘My hostess will be so worried if I’m late.’
She walked off into the night, leaving her car by the side of the road, not heading back towards home, but straight into the brush and brambles. Nettles scraped across her wrists. Still she kept walking, even when her feet began to sink into murky water, icy enough to feel like something was biting her about the ankles.
‘I might lie down a bit,’ she said to no one, and sank to the ground, feeling not at all well, and rather cold, and wondering where on earth her coat had gone.
The Disappearance
Day One
Saturday, 4 December 1926
THE SUN HAD been up for hours when a maid knocked on Archie’s door. I lay in bed across the hall reading The Great Gatsby. This, I thought, turning another page, is the kind of book I would write, if I were an author. Not detective stories.
Despite the thickness of the walls I could hear the maid’s voice clearly. ‘Colonel Christie,’ she said, ‘there’s a telephone call for you. The lady says it’s urgent.’
The rush of air that followed indicated Archie used too much force opening the door. Then I heard his sure-footed steps, following the maid down the hall. I could guess the words going through his mind. No doubt he thought – as I did – that the call must be from Agatha, in the midst of unbearable torment, longing for him to come home and calling it urgent. I shivered under the covers, glad I wouldn’t be the one to hear her tears and pleas.
I closed my book and rose to dress. At least Agatha hadn’t shown up on the Owens’ doorstep. There’s no telling what someone will do, in a true state of bereavement. Especially a woman.
The Owens kept their telephone in their sitting room. When I got downstairs Archie was just emerging, wearing a dressing gown, a broad scowl on his face.
‘Was it Agatha?’ I whispered.
‘It was Honoria,’ he said, tightening the sash around his trim waist. ‘She claims Agatha has gone missing.’
‘Oh dear,’ I said. ‘I hope she’s all right.’
‘I’m certain it’s just histrionics. A ruse to get me back to Styles. I’m ashamed of Honoria, that she’d go along with it.’
‘But Archie.’ I reached out my hand to touch his elbow. ‘Shouldn’t you find out? Make sure everything’s all right? There’s Teddy to think of.’
He frowned at my misstep, sounding like an admonishing wife instead of a mistress. I stepped closer and placed my hand on his chest. ‘Indulge her,’ I said. ‘She’s hurt. Badly hurt.’
Archie’s face softened. He nodded. I felt a pang of humiliation on Agatha’s behalf. That kindness from her husband should be directed by me. He jogged up the stairs and I went to join the Owens in the dining room to take breakfast. I’d already finished my jam and toast when Archie bustled in, fully dressed and holding his pocket watch. I looked on impatiently while he poured himself a cup of coffee. It seemed important that he hurry off home and make sure all was well.
The door bells chimed. After a few moments a maid came in looking puzzled. ‘So sorry to interrupt,’ she said, ‘but there’s a policeman here.’
Noel got to his feet. ‘I’ll see what this is about.’
The maid said, ‘He’s asking for Colonel Christie.’
‘Well, then,’ Noel said, with the confidence of a man who rules the police, and not the other way around. ‘I suppose you’d best show him in.’
‘I’m on my way out,’ Archie said. ‘I’ll see what he wants as I go.’
He nodded to me and I took this as instruction to stay where I was. The men went into the hall and when Ursula followed them I decided I might as well, too. By the time I reached the foyer Archie had gone rather pale.
Noel was scolding the police officer. ‘This is preposterous, Thomas,’ he said. ‘Surely you can trust the man to see to his business on his own.’
‘A lady’s missing,’ the policeman said. He was young – still spotty across his chin – and the effort it took to contradict Noel Owen was evident in the quaver of his voice. ‘I’ve been told to bring Colonel Christie back to Sunningdale.’
‘I’m sure it’s all a mix-up.’ Archie recovered himself, willing colour back to his cheeks. ‘I’m happy to go home and clear it up, obviously that’s what’s needed, but if I could just drive my own car, so I don’t have to send someone round for it . . .’
‘Sorry, sir.’ The officer looked pained to say it. He wasn’t looking forward to a drive with Archie. ‘I do have my orders.’
‘I’ll drive your car to Styles,’ I said.
Everyone turned towards me at once. The police officer raised his brows. I could see his eyes dart about the hall, searching for a husband to go with me. A husband who didn’t already belong to someone else.