Late on Friday night Agatha packed an attaché case with clothing and went out alone in a two-seater automobile, leaving a note for her secretary saying she would not return that night.
At eight o’clock yesterday morning the novelist’s car was found abandoned near Guildford on the edge of a chalk pit, the front wheels actually overhanging the edge. The car evidently had run away and only a thick hedge growth prevented it from plunging into the pit. In the car were found articles of clothing and an attaché case containing papers.
All available policemen were mobilized and have conducted an exhaustive search for miles around but no trace of Agatha has been found.
Colonel Christie states that his wife has been suffering from a nervous breakdown. A friend describes Agatha as particularly happy in her home life and devoted to her only child.
The grounds of Styles had been bustling with police officers throughout the weekend. Now the reporters arrived. Fleeing from their persistent questions, Anna, the new parlourmaid, broke down and told one of the handsomer policemen that Archie and Agatha had had a terrible row on the morning of the day she’d disappeared.
‘She didn’t seem herself after,’ Anna said, tearfully. ‘And what woman would? He spoke so cruelly to her.’
The officer patted her shoulder clumsily. She stepped closer to him and he put his arm around her. ‘There, there,’ he said. ‘Men are dogs, aren’t they?’
She lifted her fetching, tear-stained face. ‘You seem nice.’
‘I think I am,’ he said, as if deciding just in that moment.
After a rather pleasant interlude (they would be married the following February) Anna and the officer headed back to Berkshire Police Headquarters to deliver the new information to Deputy Chief Constable Thompson. He frowned that such news would only come to light after a full weekend of intensive searching. Bad enough the press had to get hold of the disappearance. Now this.
‘You think the colonel killed the old girl?’ asked the young officer.
Thompson snorted. Young people think anyone a minute older than them is old, don’t they? This poor fellow didn’t know; thirty-six would be upon him before he could blink. Thompson had a daughter Agatha’s age, born the same year and month. How he hated the thought of anything happening to her.
‘Can’t know yet, can we?’ Thompson said.
‘But constable—’ Anna, flush with the situation’s drama, spoke in almost a whisper.
‘If you’ve got something to say, might as well be loud enough to hear.’ Thompson didn’t mean to snap but he did hate a mutterer.
‘I think there might be a lady involved. A different lady.’
She hadn’t raised her voice one whit but Thompson heard her loud and clear. His face darkened. If his daughter’s husband were ever to do anything of the kind, Thompson would wring his neck. He got to his feet. ‘I’d better get back to Styles and have a chat with Colonel Christie.’
‘Oh,’ Anna said, ‘he’s left. Gone off to London. Says he’s going to get the Scotland Yard involved.’
‘The Scotland Yard!’ As if they were for hire at the snap of a rich man’s fingers. Worse, as if the Berkshire Police couldn’t handle it themselves. Thompson had already known Archie Christie was arrogant. Now he knew he was an arrogant cad. Nothing put a cloud of suspicion over a man like a strumpet on the side. Thompson feared more than ever for Agatha Christie’s life.
Archie was as yet unaware that his dalliance had been revealed. All he knew was the Berkshire and Surrey police were useless, not turning up so much as a strand of Agatha’s hair. He was glad enough they didn’t seem to know about his extramarital relations but then what did that say about their investigative prowess? Archie had his solicitor arrange a meeting with the Scotland Yard, but that proved another dead end.
‘Sorry, colonel.’ The young inspector – so thin he looked as if taking nourishment would be an exhausting business – gave a shake of his head. He might not have been on the job long but marital spats and women who stormed off because of them were beneath his purview. ‘If the local police ask for our help, then we’re all hands on deck. Until then?’ He raised his hands in the air, indicating that they were not on deck in the slightest.
Archie hated to betray emotion but he was afraid he did. A hand, raised to his brow, shading his eyes. He pulled it away at once, horrified the inspector might think he was crying. Archie thought – the way he wouldn’t have otherwise – of his last night with his wife. Why had he indulged himself so? Mightn’t she have taken it better if he’d left well enough alone? Or what if he’d never been enticed by Nan in the first place, when he saw her from a distance on the golf course, best swing he’d ever seen from a woman? That same afternoon there she was again, drinking a gin and tonic on the patio. He had strode over as if he had every right to her, and she had blinked through the sunlight as she offered her hand, looking both demure and knowing, a smile twitching the corner of her lips. As if she knew everything that was about to happen. How do you do, Colonel Christie. Her voice was so low, so beautifully modulated, he couldn’t believe when she said she was Stan’s secretary.
What a mistake. What a bleeding, terrible mistake. Nan had used her acquired manners to befriend her employer’s daughter and gain entry to the country club. He ought to have let her remain their guest, never becoming his own. Agatha didn’t need to acquire manners, she was born with them. She was from Archie’s world. A.C. and A.C. They fit. In the midst of this family emergency, Nan seemed a foreigner, someone who’d elbowed her way in. Troublesome at worst, irrelevant at best.
Out on the street, Archie blinked into city daylight. Crowds bustling about as he stood on the pavement, undecided. Across the street, a tallish woman with a particular stride caught his eye. He knew it wasn’t his wife but all the same found himself crossing. The woman wore a dark fur coat. Surely Agatha had one just like it. She turned down one street, then another, then rounded a corner. When he turned the same direction, she was gone. As if she had melted into thin air.