This young man must still want to be alive, judging by the way he held the girl by the elbows – with such fervour Chilton slowed down to make sure the embrace was a willing one. Both were so caught up in each other’s faces that they didn’t seem to notice the car, or Chilton’s scrutiny. The girl was small and dark haired, her face so full of emotion that she might not be British. French, perhaps. Whatever her nationality, it was clear she wasn’t in peril – at least from the fellow who held on to her. From her own emotions, well, that was another matter.
Chilton changed gears and motored on, the girl’s face still in his mind. He had met her. Yes, she was staying at the Bellefort Hotel; he’d shown her the picture of Agatha Christie and she’d examined it dutifully. No wonder he hadn’t immediately recognized her. She had seemed perfectly contained in that moment – a good English lady after all. Mrs O’Dea, she’d said. The young man wasn’t her husband, and he wasn’t a guest at the hotel, he was sure of both. What secret lives people did lead.
Chilton’s reveries took him on one wrong turn, then another, down a particularly dim country road. He pulled over to take out the map Mrs Leech had given him. As he turned off the motor, he noticed a house, shut up for winter, the windows boarded, but with smoke rising from the chimney in a steady swirl. He stepped out of the car. The air smelled like firewood and mulched leaves. As he got closer to the house he saw there was an automobile parked beside it. Somebody had meant to hide it, from the looks of the way it was left towards the back, with low elm branches obscuring it from the road. Dragged there, not grown. The car was large and black. Chilton couldn’t tell the make of it, he wasn’t much for cars. The front stoop of the house was caked with frozen dust. No footprints. Chilton put his ear to the door, which was made of thick wood – a modest but well-built country house, sturdy and generous with space and materials. Lovely gables. From inside he heard a clattering. It took a moment to identify it as typewriter keys. A cheerful, industrious sound, clackety clack clack clack. He used the heavy brass knocker and felt almost sorry when the noise abruptly stopped, followed by irritated footsteps. He stepped back as the door flung open.
The woman was on the tall side, with red hair and lively eyes. Her face rearranged itself the moment she saw him, from expectation to dismay to the kind of courteous mask people use to protect themselves from the truth. She wore a man’s clothes: trousers and a thick jumper over a collared shirt. Then, just barely visible, pearls.
‘How do you do,’ she said, in smooth, posh tones. Her hair fell to her shoulders in loose waves. She brushed both sides self-consciously behind her ears, then held out a hand as if he’d been invited for tea.
Chilton took her hand. She was prettier than the picture he’d left on the passenger seat of the automobile. Fairer and more youthful, with the kind of movement in her face – even as she tried to appear unmovable – that no picture can properly capture. Eyes not dark, as they’d seemed, but bright blue, flecked with green. At the same time, unmistakably the same woman.
‘Mrs Agatha Christie,’ Chilton said. ‘My goodness. We’ve been looking for you.’
Part Two
The Disappearance
Day One
Saturday, 4 December 1926
AGATHA DROVE AWAY from Styles just past midnight, hardly caring if she ever saw it again. The house was unlucky, she’d felt it from the first day she’d set foot inside. Archie had been the one who’d wanted to buy it, so he could be nearer to his golf club. Damn golf. Damn Archie. Clearly there was no reasoning with him. Perhaps she’d have better luck with me.
She had left the house earlier at 9.45 p.m. for a short while. The reports were correct on that account. Agatha headed out, driving for a while to clear her mind, then she turned round and came home, letting herself inside while the household slept. The house felt dark and quiet and empty. Bad luck clung to the ceilings like billows of smoke. Her skin was too small to contain the rage and sorrow and anxiety, she wanted to claw at herself to escape it. She wanted to burst, splattering herself and all her misery over the walls. She yanked off her wedding ring and threw it as hard as she could at the wall, so that it dinged the paint and then fell to the floor, spinning several times before wobbling to rest. Let it be swept up with the dust tomorrow.