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.