But she didn’t. She only said, ‘Please don’t tell anybody you’ve found me. Not yet. Give me a day or two more.’
He knew he should be objecting, cajoling, insisting. Rejecting the notion – to let her remain concealed – entirely. Instead, Chilton got to his feet with an air of acquiescing. It wasn’t as though a murder had been committed, after all. Why rouse people out of their beds with the shrill invasion of ringing telephones? She was a grown woman of means and station, free to make her own decisions. And he seemed to be rather enjoying himself. He seemed to be not wanting any of this to end. If he did his duty, and reported her found, the odds of him ever seeing her again stood slim.
‘I promise I won’t tell anyone,’ he said, ‘for now. If you promise not to move again. Stay here, please, where I can find you if needs be.’
‘Done,’ she said. ‘I promise.’
She held out her hand for him to shake. Soft, cool skin.
‘Poor Finbarr,’ she said. ‘I do hope Nan’s not toying with him.’
‘You’re tender-hearted.’
Agatha laughed. In agreement, he realized. ‘I expect that makes two of us,’ she said.
Chilton had considered his heart so utterly undetectable for so long, it surprised him to believe her. ‘Do you know,’ he said, ‘I thought earlier, for a moment, when you were looking at me so intently – I almost believed you were about to kiss me.’
‘I haven’t kissed a man other than my husband in years. Not since the day we met.’
‘You’ve been a good wife.’
Agatha nodded vigorously. It made her furious to think what a good wife she’d been. To Chilton she looked breathlessly young and full of thoughts he couldn’t read. It reminded him of his girl, Katherine, before the war. He felt his mind start to reach, by habit, for the next dark idea to follow, the bitter side of the world. And stopped himself.
‘Mrs Christie,’ he said.
‘Call me Agatha.’ She closed the distance between them and kissed him, a tentative but time-consuming kiss. Chilton didn’t dare lift an arm to her waist. He was afraid if he moved at all, she’d realize what she was doing and it would end – her soft lips on his, her hands resting ever so lightly on his chest. Both their mouths open just enough to inhale each other’s breath. She tasted like roses and spring grass.
‘Agatha,’ Mr Chilton said, when finally she stepped away.
‘You’d better go now.’ It almost wounded him, how even and unphased her voice sounded.
‘Yes.’ He boasted no such calm. His voice cracked like a twelve-year-old boy’s.
‘But you’ll keep your promise? And tell no one?’
‘Yes,’ he said again.
Chilton closed the door behind him. He walked down the stairs and through the front door, feeling like a ghost, as if, instead of stepping, he were gliding, feet still and floating an inch or more above the ground.
The Disappearance
Day Seven
Friday, 10 December 1926
SIR ARTHUR CONAN Doyle loved a mystery too much to admit he’d never heard of Agatha Christie prior to her disappearance. There were whispers of a publicity stunt and so what? If this was a publicity stunt, it was a damn good one.
People do like to be the ones to solve problems. The more people trying to crack a case, the more one wants to be the man to do it.
Donald Fraser, Agatha’s new agent, cleared his schedule to take a meeting with Conan Doyle. The celebrated creator of Sherlock Holmes! Even if he didn’t see how Sir Arthur could help in discovering Agatha, perhaps the author could be persuaded to abandon his current agent and join Fraser’s list?