A Talent For Murder Read online

  ‘I’m really not at all sure that would be a wise decision.’

  ‘What do you mean? How could it not be? After all, you’ve seen how difficult it has been here for me to write of late. I think a change of scene would do us all the world of good.’

  ‘Perhaps you’re right, but I’m afraid it’s not going to happen. My job is just not the kind one gives up. I doubt I’d find another position that easily and—’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Well, there are certain things I would miss, if you want me to be honest.’

  ‘I don’t doubt it,’ I said sharply. I knew the tone of my voice would anger him.

  ‘And what is that supposed to mean?’

  ‘You know very well, Archie.’

  ‘I think this discussion is over. I’ve got work to do.’

  ‘And while we’re talking of things you would miss, what about Miss Neele? Surely she would be one of them, or do you have no intention of missing her at all because you have no intention of giving her up?’

  ‘Do you really want to hear the truth?’

  I remained silent as I bit the inside of my cheek so hard that I began to taste blood. Although I had manufactured the argument there was no denying that the emotions I felt now were deep and all too real.

  ‘Do you?’ Archie repeated. I could see a vein throbbing in his forehead.

  I nodded.

  ‘Well, the truth is this. I’ve got no intention of moving to Devon with you because I’m no longer in love with you, Agatha. I’m sorry – I’ve told you I am sorry a thousand times – but our marriage is over. You know we’ve tried. You know how I tried, how I came back. But it’s impossible – I can’t pretend any longer. I love Nancy, Miss Neele. We want to get married and start a new life for ourselves. You know it will be for the best in the long run.’

  ‘I know nothing of the kind,’ I said, tears beginning to stream down my face. ‘You’ve always been selfish. My mother was right when she said—’

  ‘When she said what? Your mother was nothing but a—’

  ‘Don’t you dare say a word more. Not a word, I tell you. She always said how ruthless you could be. Don’t trust him, she told me. He’s only got his own interests at heart, not yours. And here you are fighting for your right to be happy. But what about my right to be happy?’

  ‘At this stage, I’m afraid I couldn’t care one jot whether you are happy or not. All I know is that it’s become impossible for me to carry on being with you. You’ve become quite unbearable.’

  He paused. A nasty silence lingered in the air like a poisonous gas.

  ‘Did you go and see that doctor?’

  The word made my heart miss a beat. ‘Doctor? Who do you mean?’

  ‘The one I mentioned to you a while ago. The one who has had great success with women and their nervous problems.’

  ‘No, no, I didn’t. And I keep telling you I don’t have a problem.’

  ‘So when you signed that cheque and you didn’t know who you were, that behaviour was quite normal, was it?’

  I did not answer him.

  ‘I am only trying to help. You know I will always care for you,’ he said, placing his hand on my arm. His touch felt as lifeless as a dead fish.

  ‘Take your hand off me,’ I said. ‘You don’t care for me. You only care for yourself. I doubt if you really care for that simpering little creature of yours. She may have good looks now, but one day they will fade and you will pass her over too.’

  ‘Don’t you dare—’

  ‘And if I do dare to talk about her in such a way? What then?’

  ‘You are simply being hysterical again. And you know how I can’t bear it. You really are your own worst enemy, Agatha, don’t you realise that?’

  ‘So I suppose the weekend is quite out of the question?’

  He looked appalled. ‘The weekend?’

  ‘In Beverley.’

  ‘Oh that.’ It was obvious he had forgotten about it. ‘I think it’s for the best if I stay with the Jameses tonight and for the weekend, don’t you?’

  ‘And I suppose Miss Neele will be a guest?’

  ‘I don’t see how—’

  ‘Will she or won’t she be a guest at Hurtmore?’ The appropriateness of the name of the Jameses’ cottage was not lost on me.

  ‘She will.’

  ‘Yes, so I think you’re right. I will cancel the rooms.’

  As Archie opened the door, his frame filling the space, I wondered whether I would ever see him again.

  ‘I do love you, Archie,’ I said. ‘Whatever happens, remember that, please.’

  He turned away from me and walked from the room. A moment or so later I heard the front door slam. I covered my mouth with my fist to stifle the sound of my sobs. I had succeeded in driving him away for the weekend, I had achieved exactly what I had set out to do, and yet I felt absolutely wretched. I wiped my eyes as the maid came into the room carrying a tray.

  ‘Have you finished, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, thank you. I’m going upstairs to write.’

  ‘The morning post is here, ma’am. Shall I put the letters down on the table?’

  I nearly snatched the post out of the poor girl’s hand. By the time I had reached my bedroom I had shuffled through the letters and selected the one I knew was from Kurs. The handwriting, in black ink, was measured and precise. I sat down on my bed before I tore open the envelope.

  The first letter I took out left me momentarily confused. Disjointed fragments of sentences and odd words jumped out at me: ‘cream complexion’, ‘intensity of feeling’, ‘that very special place which we can call our own’, and ‘many ecstasies to come’. Then, with a sickening feeling, I realised that the handwriting was Archie’s and that this was a love letter that he had written to Nancy. There were other words, other phrases, that left me blushing. He had never addressed me in such intimate terms; in fact, I had not been aware that Archie had even possessed such words in his vocabulary. No wonder that woman had such a hold over him.

  I dropped the letter on the bed and took out another thin sheaf of paper.

  Dear Mrs Christie

  I hope this finds you in good spirits. It was a pleasure to meet you on Wednesday and I am looking forward to becoming better acquainted with you in the next few days.

  In case you are having any doubts about the plan that I proposed to you I am enclosing one of the many letters that your husband sent to Miss Neele. Over the course of the last couple of months Miss Neele has regularly brought in such protestations of love so as to seek out my advice. She regards me very much as her guardian, I believe, who is able to dispense not only medicines for her delicate health but also supply her with guidance. She also told me that she was worried that her parents, with whom she still lives, would find these letters and so, when I offered to keep them for her at my practice, she was more than grateful. I am sure you will agree that the correspondence makes for illuminating reading.

  I suggest we meet this Friday morning, at 11.30, at the Silent Pool near Newlands Corner, Surrey. I will issue you with more instructions then. All I will say for now is that today you are going to step away from your life.

  Yours most sincerely

  Dr Patrick Kurs

  By the time I had driven the twenty or so miles from Sunningdale, past Newlands Corner to the patch of rough ground near the Silent Pool, I had decided on my course of action. I tried to convince myself that, once it was all over, and I related to Archie everything I had done to keep his name out of the newspapers, he might learn to love me again.

  As I got out of the car I drew the collar of my fur coat around my neck. I listened for signs of another car approaching but all I could hear was the sound of the wind in the trees and the lonely cry of a distant bird. I walked past Sherbourne Pond, along the path to the Silent Pool. I had heard it said that the pool might have been an old chalk quarry fed by underground springs. The water was as clear as a looking glass, but I had no desire to see myself reflected on it
s still surface.

  I had always believed that past tragedies often left their mark on a place like a stubborn bloodstain that could never be removed. Here, it was no different, and the trees seemed to whisper a tale of sadness. Apparently in days gone by a girl had come to bathe in the pool. But no sooner had she taken off her clothes than she had been shocked to see a man on horseback approach out of the mist. The nobleman had tried to entice her out of the water but the further the man proceeded into the pool the further the girl swam away until she got out of her depth and drowned. Later, when the man’s hat had been found at the scene, he had been identified as King John. The story, I knew, was likely to be apocryphal, but it still made me shiver and as I walked I fancied I could still hear the muffled cries of the girl gasping for air.

  As I passed through a tunnel of trees I saw a figure with his back to me.

  ‘Hello, Mrs Christie,’ said Kurs, without moving. ‘Come and admire the water. It is looking particularly enchanting today.’

  I had to force myself to walk towards him.

  ‘I have always been drawn to this spot,’ he said. ‘Not only because of its rather morbid history of which I am sure you are aware. The Silent Pool holds a rather special place in my heart. Do you know why?’

  ‘No,’ I said in a whisper.

  ‘It is here that I first proposed to my wife.’

  ‘You’re married?’ I tried to stop myself from sounding astonished, but it was too late.

  ‘I am indeed. Even though that may come as something of a shock to you. Do you think it odd, Mrs Christie, that any woman would want to marry me?’

  ‘No, it’s just that—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter to me in the slightest. And actually what is rather amusing is that although my wife no longer finds me appealing she will not grant me a divorce.’

  ‘And why is that?’

  ‘Look at your own situation, Mrs Christie. I think it’s safe to say that you would rather hang on to your husband, even after what he’s done to you.’

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘Imagine if you never let him go. Imagine how he would feel if you refused to free him from the ties that bind you together. Certainly, whatever kind feeling he ever had for you would evaporate. That love would surely turn to resentment and the resentment would mutate into a poisonous, festering hatred. You never know what he might be tempted to do if he felt he was given no choice. One day he might not be able to contain his feelings any longer. He might start to fantasise about what it would be like without you. If you could just disappear then his life would be so much simpler. He could start afresh, perhaps even one day, when everything had blown over, marry again.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ I said, suddenly so terrified that I could hardly speak.

  ‘Don’t worry. I’m not here on Mr Christie’s behalf. Oh, my dear me, no,’ he said, laughing. ‘Did you really think—’

  I smelt his breath again. Perhaps Kurs saw me wince because a moment later he took out his handkerchief and placed it over his mouth for a second or two. I noticed the white fabric rising and falling with each breath. I imagined him dead, with the handkerchief placed over his face, the cotton no longer moving.

  ‘What I have in mind is much more ingenious than that. As I said to you when we first met, you and I have a great deal in common. We both have rather inventive minds. In fact, I have always rather fancied myself as a writer of detective novels. Like you, I am a great fan. Edgar Allan Poe, Wilkie Collins, Conan Doyle, and a whole host of imitators. I’ve tried my hand at writing them, too. Fiendishly difficult, but I think I do have, if I may say so, an extraordinary aptitude for plotting, which is, as you know, the chief skill of any detective-fiction writer worth his, or indeed her, salt. I haven’t sent the manuscripts off to a publisher just yet. They need a little polishing but perhaps that is something you could help me with.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ I said in a non-committal fashion. He really was quite insane.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve rather wandered off the central point. Getting back to my wife, Flora. She won’t give me a divorce – a Catholic, you see – and so I am afraid I am going to have to resort to more drastic measures. I am going to have to kill her. Or rather not me, Mrs Christie, for you are going to kill her.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Yes. If she dies, if she is killed, then of course the police will suspect me and quite rightly so. If she dies I will not only sidestep the question of divorce but also inherit quite a large sum of money. I will be the number one suspect. But, you see, if she is killed by a stranger – and I have an alibi – then there will be nothing linking me to the crime.’

  ‘But it’s impossible.’

  ‘You of all people, of all writers, should know that nothing is impossible in the world of the detective novel.’

  ‘But this is not a novel, I’m afraid. This is—’

  ‘I know,’ sneered Kurs. ‘And it’s so unbearably messy, isn’t it? I often wish that life was more like the stuff of fiction.’

  ‘But don’t you think it rather dangerous to confuse the two?’

  ‘I’m not here to have a philosophical debate with you, Mrs Christie. I am here to tell you about what is going to happen next.’

  ‘Next?’

  ‘Yes, next. From now on I think it will be easier for you to think of yourself as a character controlled by me. I will issue you with a set of instructions, a list of things to do at certain times. If you follow them to the letter you will have nothing to worry about. If you don’t then I’m afraid your husband’s unpleasant little secret will be published in the press.’

  ‘You don’t think I’m going to go along with this – this charade.’

  ‘I don’t see what choice you have.’

  ‘But I could very easily report this whole thing to the police. I don’t think they take kindly to blackmailers.’

  ‘Yes, you could. But I am assuming that you value the health of your husband.’

  ‘I do, yes.’

  ‘I’m sure you wouldn’t want him to come to any harm. And then there is, of course, your daughter. Seven is such a vulnerable age, don’t you think? During my career I’ve been called out to the bedsides of several young children who I am afraid did not survive. Terribly tragic. It often spells the end for the parents too, of course. And by the way, if you think you could just call the police and have me arrested, please reconsider. I have an associate, a degenerate character who takes pleasure in this sort of thing, who will set in motion certain procedures on my arrest. I think he is looking forward to being given the chance to act out his perverse desires. And by the way, his appetite for this sort of thing is much stronger than mine.’

  I could feel the hatred emanating from my eyes.

  ‘I can understand your reluctance to speak. Also, you know as well as I do that there are certain poisons that cannot be traced in the body after death.’

  If I had had a gun at that point I would most likely have shot him in the head. Indeed, I had to dig my nails sharply into the palms of my hands to stop myself from clawing his eyes out.

  ‘And so I suggest you start listening to me.’

  The afternoon passed in a – what was it? A blur, a daze, a fog? No matter how hard I thought I couldn’t find the right word to describe the strange feeling that possessed me. I supposed that was because I felt as if the events were not happening to me but to some other person entirely.

  After leaving Kurs at the Silent Pool, I returned to Styles. The housemaid told me that I had missed a telephone call from Mrs de Silva, who wanted to know whether I would like to play bridge. I sat through lunch, not really tasting the chops placed in front of me, and I paid little attention to Rosalind’s prattle until I felt a tug at my sleeve. Rosalind was saying something about a trip to see her grandmother. Apparently I had promised her, and said that Peter could come too.

  I had to do something to fill up the day and, after what Kurs had told me, writing was out of the question. I ushered Rosalind and the d
og into the Morris Cowley and drove to my mother-in-law’s house in Dorking. I could never relax with her at the best of times. Peggy observed every little thing I did and I got the feeling that she was always ready to judge me. Today I was even more on edge than usual. I couldn’t any longer blame my nerves, as I had previously, on the great loss I had felt following my mother’s death. And I couldn’t tell her what was really on my mind.

  As I turned off the engine I looked at my hands gripping the steering wheel and saw my wedding band glinting in the pale sunshine. I ran my fingers around the smooth metal and with tears stinging my eyes I wrenched off the ring and placed it inside a pocket in my handbag. I knew Peggy would notice; hopefully she would blame my nervousness on marriage troubles. After all, this was, I told myself, not so far from the truth.

  I felt the older woman’s keen eyes on me as soon as I stepped through the door. We exchanged pleasantries, Peggy offered me some tea and a piece of her overcooked fruit cake and, as we sat in her small sitting room, awkward silences were filled by talk of Peter and Rosalind.

  ‘You are looking well,’ said Peggy, raising an eyebrow. From the tone of her voice, and her quizzical facial expression, she obviously meant the opposite.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ I said, trying not to sound strained. Another silence. ‘Darling,’ I said, turning to Rosalind, ‘why don’t you sing that song you’ve been practising. I’m sure Granny would love to hear it.’