Thompson bent at the knees himself, leveraging his weight to keep the colonel upright. He wore an undecided and consternated expression. Was this grief he witnessed, or was it guilt?
My wife, thought Archie. A body. It wouldn’t do. He couldn’t bear it. The world rearranged itself into an inhospitable and unforgiving place. He would have let go the officer, fallen to the road and wept, if only he’d been a different sort of man.
Early that same morning in Yorkshire, Chilton opened the door of his room to see the American woman, Lizzie Clarke, walk down the hall dressed for travelling. He pulled the door closed before she could notice him and saw her rap on a door, a delicate knock, careful to rouse only the occupant and nobody in neighbouring rooms. Once the door had opened then shut, Mrs Clarke disappearing into the room, Chilton removed his shoes and padded down the hall to listen.
‘Donny’s had a telegram,’ the American voice said. ‘We have to cut things short. Go back to the States.’
To Chilton’s ears, the voice that responded – female, British – sounded as though she knew someone were listening. A little too loud and not quite genuine. ‘I do hope everything is all right.’
‘Yes,’ Mrs Clarke replied. ‘Everything is perfect. Perfect.’
Chilton imagined the two women, sitting together on the unmade bed, hands clasped. Even with the note of falsehood in the other woman’s tone, he sensed a kind of intimacy. He returned to his room and sat on the bench at the foot of his bed to lace his shoes, which he noticed were going about the seams. He would have to tell Lippincott this morning. ‘I’ve found Agatha Christie,’ he would say. ‘Right as rain. No distress. All she wants is her privacy.’
Perhaps he and Lippincott could be kind about it, and hatch a plan that would suit the authoress. They could tell the husband and no one else, call off the search, let her reappear when she was good and ready.
But even if the law could be convinced to let it rest, the press never would. Newspapers around the world were making a mint off this story. It was Mrs Christie’s good luck that someone from the police had found her, instead of someone from the press. Mrs Christie seemed to have chosen the one place in England nobody expected her to be.
And still she’d been found. Such was the world. There was never any hiding for long. He finished dressing and headed down to breakfast. The Clarkes were at the front desk settling up with Mrs Leech.
‘How do you do,’ he said to the three of them. He pulled out a cigarette and brought it to his lips but did not light it. Mrs Clarke looked uneasy for a scant second, then adjusted herself to a stark inscrutability.
‘Good morning,’ she said, sharp American ‘r’. The husband said nothing, just shuffled bills into Mrs Leech’s hand.
‘Thank you, Mr Clarke,’ said Mrs Leech. ‘So good of you to pay in full.’ More than one guest had fled since the two deaths, and not all had been so generous. ‘Prayers for your safe voyage.’
Mr Clarke turned to Chilton, drawing a match from his pocket and lighting the other man’s cigarette. His wife said, ‘I’m looking forward to it, actually. Getting back on a ship. I think these hot pools are overrated. No offence,’ she said, glancing at Mrs Leech with apology. ‘I just like cold water. Give me the open sea any day over a hot steamy cave.’
The young husband returned the matchbox to his inside pocket and placed a hand between his wife’s shoulder blades, manoeuvring her towards the front door as if their exit were a dance.
‘Bon voyage,’ Chilton said quietly, watching them go. The bellboy pushed a trolley holding their modest collection of luggage. Then he said to Mrs Leech, ‘How curious of them to come all this way, only to stay a few days. You’d think they’d at least go and see the continent.’
She asked him if he needed the telephone. In fact, he had not only a need but an obligation. But he found himself saying, ‘No thank you. Not just now. But I wonder if you know – are there many abandoned houses in Harrogate?’
‘Abandoned, certainly not. Unoccupied, yes, there are a few. Country homes for city folk; they come so rarely I wonder they don’t just stay in a hotel. I never did care for the city myself, Mr Chilton.’
‘Nor I.’ He pulled at the hem of his tweed jacket, which felt loose, as though he’d lost still more weight. It’s important to eat, he reminded himself. It’s important to work. To go through the motions.
He proceeded to the sparsely populated dining room. Among the few guests, a young woman sat alone, staring intently out the window, a cup of tea cooling untouched on the table in front of her. Chilton walked over directly.
‘May I?’ he said, pulling out a chair for himself.
What choice did I have but to answer, ‘Yes.’
Inspector Chilton had an advantage over me, the kind a police officer enjoys. He didn’t know how I was connected to Agatha Christie but he knew I was connected. I had no idea he was possessed of such information. I was still fairly reeling from the news Finbarr had given me: that us meant him and Agatha, that she was in hiding with him here in Harrogate. How much more would I have reeled if I’d known Chilton shared this knowledge? As it was, he hardly worried me at all.
What did worry me was Finbarr, and the effect his reappearance would have on my future. How could I return to Archie’s arms after being in Finbarr’s? One must respect the psychology. It took a good deal of work on the part of my own psychology, working through warring emotions, to carry out my plan and become Archie’s wife. Finbarr’s appearance threatened to upend every bit of that.
Three years ago, when I set my sights on Archie, I knew it would never do to approach him. Instead, I placed myself in his line of vision. I found out what he liked and became that, looking away instead of allowing our eyes to meet. The perfect golf swing, the shyest smile. Like following a recipe that results in a beautiful cake, each step worked out just as it was meant.
Chilton didn’t seem the sort of man who’d require that sort of game. He was approachable. Humble, but not in a lowly way. In a likeable one. He smiled almost sheepishly as he unfolded his napkin. Everything about him seemed frayed – his clothes, his face and his hair, which needed combing rather badly. He took tea instead of coffee.
‘Jitters,’ he explained, holding out his one good, slightly trembling hand, ‘since the war.’
‘I’m sorry.’
Finbarr had no tremors. Each man carried the war differently. I liked that Chilton announced his weakness rather than attempted to hide it.
He said, ‘I see your friend has left.’
‘My friend?’
‘The American lady, Mrs Clarke.’
‘Yes, she did say she was leaving. But we’re not particular friends. I only just met her the other day.’
‘Did you?’
‘Yes. I’ve never been to America.’
‘And her first trip to England?’