‘Please,’ I said, ‘may I leave this suitcase with you? And will you promise not to tell anyone that it’s here, or that I was here?’
Miss Armstrong paused for a moment, then stood, took my suitcase and slid it under her bed. ‘I’ll never say a word.’
‘Dear brave girl.’ I crossed my hands over my heart. ‘If I never come back for it, everything inside is yours.’
‘Don’t be silly. Of course you’ll come back.’ At the same time she nodded. Not long afterwards I would catch news of her quite by chance, in an item in the Daily Mirror. Mere months after our time in Harrogate, Miss Armstrong took a trip to explore the ruins of the Memorial Theatre in Stratford upon Avon, which had recently burned to the ground. While marching directly into the rubble, she caught the eye of a fellow adventurer, a disobedient and exceptionally handsome young earl. They married within a fortnight and she moved with him to his estate in Derbyshire, the star-crossed romance and happy ending for which she’d longed. As I never was able to return for my belongings, I like to think she was wearing my cashmere cardigan and faux pearls when they met.
For now I clasped her hand to bid her goodbye then crept to the top of the stairs in my stockinged feet, carrying my shoes. When I peered down, I saw Archie follow his wife into the library. Once inside, Agatha might tell Archie how I’d targeted him, seduced him, for the sole reason that I believed their daughter to be mine. That I had, during this time apart, been locked in a romantic and carnal embrace the likes of which he and I had never approached. That I’d known nearly all along where his wife was and hadn’t told him. That I’d committed one murder and abetted another. Which of these actions, I wondered, would he find most egregious?
And why should I ever worry for a moment about what he would forgive? When Archie left Sunday’s Corner, driving away with that bundled baby he’d bought and paid for, taking her home like a diamond to bestow upon his wife. Did he ever for one second give a single thought to that child’s mother?
I had to take this chance. I flew past poor, stunned Chilton, and the gaping Leeches, and the consternated Mr Lippincott, through the hotel door. Once outside I put on my shoes and slid behind the wheel of Chilton’s borrowed police car. Whatever his next destination he would have to go on foot. I drove clumsily, determined to arrive back at the manor before time returned with its brutal roar.
Luckily, Simon Leech pulled Lippincott into the drawing room before the police chief could give Chilton the lambasting that was clearly brewing. Chilton seized upon the opportunity.
‘Mrs Leech,’ he said, as the proprietress marched from the dining room to the front desk, ‘may I have a word?’
The mind is a remarkable thing, its exterior and interior layers. The way Chilton was able to conduct himself, speaking words he hardly heard, while his mind could only concentrate on the horror of it – that this husband, who oozed arrogance like a honeycomb oozed honey, would abscond with Agatha.
‘You must help me,’ he said to Mrs Leech. ‘At least by withholding contradiction. Listen. Agatha Christie has been here at the Bellefort all this while, registered under the name Mrs Genevieve O’Dea. She has been taking curing baths and massages and keeping to herself.’
‘Absolutely not. As a point of honour, Mr Chilton, I never lie.’ Mrs Leech folded her arms, her voice sounding all the more musical. The words comforted Chilton. Anyone who says I never lie has by that very statement told at least one.
‘Have I had a chance to tell you?’ Chilton said. ‘I’ve concluded my investigation. Of the Marston incident. And I’m determined there’s no murderer at large.’
Leech and Lippincott emerged from the drawing room in time to hear this pronouncement. Mrs Leech blinked slowly, absorbing whether a bargain was being offered.
‘No need for word to get out,’ he went on, confirming her suspicions. ‘As there’s no danger to the public and never has been. Mrs Marston killed her husband and then herself.’