A Talent For Murder Read online

  Rosalind was a little shy to begin with and so I started the song for her. ‘ “I know a fat old policeman, he’s always on our street/A fat old jolly red-faced man, he really is a treat.” ’ Rosalind joined in with the chorus and by the time we had reached the last line, ‘ “But once he did arrest a man and laughed until he died,” ’ she was in her element, belting out the lyrics with glee. After finishing the song, I caught Peggy’s eyes fixed on the place where my wedding ring normally sat. Our eyes met and she looked away, shiftily, as if she had just caught a glimpse of something she wished she had not seen.

  ‘Dear,’ she said, addressing Rosalind, ‘why don’t you go and take Peter into the garden. I found a new stick for him to play with the other day. Just by the back door.’

  The girl ran off in a tornado of excitement, accompanied by a series of excited barks.

  ‘My dear child,’ said Peggy as she got out of the armchair and walked over to me. ‘I know this must be extremely trying for you, but you must keep strong if only for the sake of your daughter.’

  I took out a handkerchief and dabbed my eyes. How could I begin to explain?

  ‘The truth of the matter is that Beverley’s off, the weekend is cancelled,’ I said. ‘And I was so looking forward to it. Archie has decided to spend the weekend with, with . . . I’m sorry, I cannot bring myself to utter her name. I’ve been feeling so wretched.’

  ‘I know it must be terribly upsetting for you, my dear, but I am sure that after Archie has had his little fling he will come back to you and he will love you all the more for having forgiven him this minor indiscretion.’

  I tried to respond, but Peggy silenced me by placing a hand on my shoulder.

  ‘Just give him time. I know it’s terribly fashionable for women to assert their own rights and whatnot, but that sort of independence is not always the best thing for a marriage. Give him freedom now and he will repay you with love for the rest of your life.’

  I didn’t believe a word of it, and I doubt Peggy did either. It was obvious that she was on his side. Of course she was – she was his mother and she had never forgiven me for stealing her son away from her. She never liked the fact that I earned my own living, quite a respectable living at that. She would much rather have a daughter-in-law who was a placid housewife instead of one who wrote about crime and murder. Instinctively, I knew that she also yearned after a grandson, something I had failed to provide and now would never do so. Most probably Miss Neele could give her that. Perhaps it would be best if I were to disappear after all.

  At that moment, Rosalind came in from the garden screaming with joy, her cheeks as red and plump as overripe apples. Her entrance brought our superficially intimate conversation to a close. I stood up and promised her that I would do everything in my power to make Archie happy. I left the house as the sun was fading from the sky. I drove back to Styles to find that, as I had expected, Archie had not returned home. I bathed Rosalind, watched as she ate a supper of some sausages and put her to bed. Then I sat at my desk to write a series of letters.

  First, I wrote a vague and equivocal letter to Archie outlining how I felt the need to get away. Our marriage, I said, had reached such a point of crisis that I needed time to think. I would be going away for a few days, he was not to worry and I assured him that my love for him would endure. Then I wrote a letter to Archie’s brother, Campbell, a man of common sense and utter reliability. Of course, I could not tell him the truth of the matter – no, that would put my family at risk – but perhaps I could give him a clue to where to find me. All Kurs had told me earlier that day was that I was to travel to a northern spa town – how many of those could there be? Just as was signing my name I heard the telephone ring and so I pushed the letter into an envelope and placed it inside my bag. Perhaps it was Kurs calling with more information. As I rushed to answer the telephone I felt a mixture of relief and a strange disappointment when I realised it was Charlotte.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ I said. ‘I hope you are having a splendid time.’

  ‘Yes, it’s been a lovely day. I won’t bore you with the details. I was just calling to ask whether you would like me to come home.’

  ‘Why? Is anything the matter?’

  ‘Oh no, just I thought in case you might need me.’

  ‘No, don’t be silly. I’m looking forward to a quiet evening by the fire. And I’ve got Peter to keep me company.’

  ‘Only if you are sure. I’d hate to think – well, think that you were lonely or unhappy in any way. I really could not enjoy myself if I knew you were feeling—’

  ‘What nonsense. I’m absolutely fine. Now, you carry on and I will see you when you get back.’

  I returned to my desk, feeling a little guilty for deceiving Charlotte in this way, and so to her I wrote a rather more fulsome letter, explaining how I could not make my real feelings known to her over the telephone. I told her that I needed to leave the house as my head felt like it was fit to bursting. The implication, I knew, was that I was leaving because of Archie. As a postscript I asked Charlotte to send a telegram to the boarding house in Beverley cancelling the rooms for the weekend.

  I listened for signs of movement. When I was certain all was quiet and I was unlikely to be disturbed I walked over to the corner of my room. The sound of my heartbeat pulsed through me as I lifted up the chest of drawers and with my weight shunted it forwards. I ran my hand over the rough surface of the floorboards until I felt the sharp edge of a loose nail. From my bag I took out my nail file and prised it into the gap by the floorboard and as it came loose I pushed my right hand inwards. My fingers brushed past wood shavings, dust balls, detritus and dirt until they came to rest on a grey metal box. I gently eased it forwards – I was careful not to disturb its contents – and brought it out of the hiding place. I dusted it down and then, using a small key that I had hidden at the back of one of the drawers, opened the box. From there, I took out a leather pouch, unfastened its brass buckles, unrolled it and checked the series of labelled vials inside. All was in order. I placed the pouch inside my handbag, which I zipped up, and put the box back under the floor, resealed the floorboard and shifted the chest of drawers into its original position.

  Was there anything else I had to do? Ultimately it was difficult to imagine my immediate future as Kurs had provided me with only the bare bones of his plan: that I was going to stage my disappearance and then travel north. As I walked around the house, a house that I had once so disliked, I began to feel a certain nostalgia for its excessive vulgarity. It was, I thought, like the sense of sudden fondness one feels towards a distant, unlikeable relative who announces that they have an incurable illness and do not have very much time left. I wandered into Rosalind’s room to see my daughter sleeping. I sat on the edge of the bed and stroked my little girl’s hair. I watched her breathe as softly as the flutter of a moth’s wings.

  Would I ever see my daughter again? I knew that if I stayed in the room for a moment longer I would never leave. I lightly kissed Rosalind on the cheek and after stealing one backward glance I gently closed the door. I placed the letters to Archie and Charlotte on the hall table so that they would see them when they came in, listened for the servants to make sure that I could slip out without any fuss, patted Peter – dear Peter – on the head and bent down and kissed him. Again, I could not allow myself to indulge my natural feelings for the dog too long as the emotion would, I knew, consume me to the point of complete collapse.

  It was all so tempting, at this instant, to allow myself to fall back on the mat and let the maid or Charlotte find me in an unresponsive heap. I had seen men in the war in a similar condition, empty shells, mere husks of personalities, remnants of the selves that they had left behind somewhere on the battlefields of northern France or Belgium. How could I even compare myself to those brave young men who had sacrificed themselves for their country? The analogy was inappropriate and unpatriotic. I stood up, slipped on my fur coat, took a deep breath and stepped out into the d
ark night.

  Chapter Five

  I saw the four flashes from his torch and pulled over to the side of the road. Kurs then got back into his car and I followed him up a desolate track that looked like it led nowhere. Perhaps it was Kurs’s intention to lead me to an isolated spot where he would kill me. The thought actually reassured me; at least if he did slaughter me then I wouldn’t have to go along with his devilish plan. Of course, it would be awful for Rosalind, for Charlotte, for Madge, but who else would really miss me? Peter, undoubtedly, I could be sure of his love. But my death, after all, might be for the best.

  The track ended in what looked like a clearing. Kurs stopped his car and turned off his headlights. As he walked towards my car he used his torch to illuminate his way. His beard and his eyes seemed to disappear into the enveloping blackness and, as he approached, he looked like an unholy apparition, a mere collection of fragmentary and floating body parts. The wind in the trees sounded like a silenced scream, a noise that made me think of a woman with a bag over her head, a rope around her neck, slowly being asphyxiated.

  ‘Good evening, Mrs Christie,’ said Kurs as he opened the door of the car. ‘Such a delight to see you again.’

  I did not say anything.

  ‘I hope you haven’t forgotten your manners? That would never do.’

  I felt as though I had something stuck in my throat.

  ‘G-good evening,’ was all I could manage.

  ‘Now I think you know what we have planned. Do you have any questions?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘As I outlined earlier, think of me as the author of these events. And I mean that literally. For too long you have been able to control your characters, killing them off on nothing more than a whim. Now it’s my turn. And now you are my character. So, could you please get out of the car.’

  I remained where I was.

  ‘Get out of the car,’ he said. ‘I do hope I don’t have to repeat everything twice. That would be most tiresome.’

  I eased myself off the seat and stepped out into the darkness. The cold snaked its way down my back, making me shiver.

  ‘Yes, it is rather chilly tonight, don’t you find? Which is why I am going to ask you to leave your fur in the car.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean?’

  ‘Just as I said. You are to leave the fur coat in the car. You can keep your handbag, as I’m assuming that contains some of the necessary supplies you will need to commit the crime. That’s right, isn’t it?’

  I thought about the poisons inside my handbag and how I would like to use one right now on the monster standing in front of me. ‘Y-yes.’

  ‘Very well, but leave your dressing case and your driving licence.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I do wish you would stop worrying about minor details.’

  ‘I wouldn’t call leaving my coat behind a minor detail. I will catch my death of cold in this weather.’

  ‘Precisely. That’s what we want people to think, don’t we? Or rather it can be one of the lines of enquiry. As I told you, we want to create a scenario that will deliberately confuse the authorities. And don’t worry about the cold, I have thought about that.’

  ‘And what about the things I may need? The things in my case?’

  ‘Your stockings and suchlike? I’m not an expert, but I am sure those can easily be purchased elsewhere, can they not?’

  I nodded my head.

  ‘Very well then.’

  As I began to take off my coat I felt the wind begin to whip my skin. I felt as cold as if I were standing there naked. I looked for signs of a house in the distance. There was nothing for miles around.

  ‘Where are we?’

  ‘On the plateau, Newlands Corner.’

  The two of us were absolutely alone. Even God seemed absent from this desolate place. Or was he? Perhaps there was a way out of this hellish situation after all.

  ‘Could I ask you a question, Mr Kurs?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘Do you believe you are a good doctor? I mean do you feel that it is your job to heal?’

  ‘Some of my patients have said that I do possess some sort of power.’

  ‘But you want to make people better? That is your goal as a doctor, is it not?’

  ‘At one point I suppose you could say it was.’

  ‘But not any longer?’

  ‘No, I’m afraid not.’

  ‘And what, may I ask, made you change your mind?’

  ‘You would have to say that I felt rather out of sorts.’

  ‘Because?’

  ‘This and that,’ he said dismissively. ‘But mostly because of my wife, Mrs Christie, whom you are going to kill. I wonder how you are going to kill her. Poison, I would imagine. That would be my best guess. You don’t think I am naive enough not to know what you are trying to do? I wouldn’t try to appeal to my conscience, Mrs Christie, because I don’t believe I have one.’

  ‘I was just—’

  ‘Now, before I lose patience. Could you move away from your car.’

  I remained fixed to the spot, terrified. He pushed past me, breathing a cloud of halitosis into my face, and calmly got into the driver’s seat. He checked the inside of the car to make sure that I had left nothing incriminating in the vehicle. He turned on the headlights and the bright white beam blinded me. I tried to walk forwards but I stumbled. I stretched out my hands to break my fall, and felt the sharp scratch of a piece of flint cutting through my glove and into my wrist.

  Kurs started the car, slowly drove it near to what looked like an expanse of nothingness and then jumped from the vehicle.

  ‘Stop!’ I cried, as the car that meant everything to me – independence, success, a symbol of my writing career – began to disappear. I reached out, stretching my hands into the dark night, but it was too late. ‘No!’ I screamed, stumbling once more. The dank smell of the earth hit my nose. I scrambled to my feet and ran on into the darkness. I made noises I had never dreamed possible, primitive grunts and screams. ‘No!’ I shouted, my voice rasping and broken. ‘No!’

  The incline was far from steep, but as soon as the car picked up speed its descent was inevitable. Darkness sucked it down and away from me. I listened as the Morris Cowley careered down the hill, blasting through brambles and saplings, bracken and clumps of dead wood. It was terrifying, like the sound of an animal being hunted to its death. The noise possessed me, vibrated within me. It felt as though the very earth beneath my feet was moving, splitting apart.

  And when it was over – when the car had finally crashed at the bottom of the hill – it was even worse. The silence sounded so bleak, empty and final.

  Kurs walked over towards me and took my hand. There was no point resisting. He could do with me what he wished.

  ‘How does it feel to be a ghost, Mrs Christie?’ he said.

  Chapter Six

  It was a quiet morning at Surrey Constabulary headquarters on Woodbridge Road, Guildford. Superintendent William Kenward, Deputy Chief Constable, had enjoyed a large cooked breakfast, perhaps a little too indulgent even for him, he thought, as he eased himself up out of his chair. Naomi, his wife, had tried to tell him not to eat quite so much and although he had attempted to diet it did not seem to be working. For some reason, his waistline, already the diameter of a fairly sturdy oak tree, seemed to be expanding. He had tried to resist, so far successfully, his wife’s demands to go and see the family doctor, a man he did not like.

  Just before eleven o’clock, Kenward was glancing through the week’s paperwork when a call came through from one of the sergeants. Apparently, a man had telephoned the police to report that he had spotted an abandoned car, a Morris Cowley, near Water Lane, Newlands Corner. Not such an out-of-the-ordinary occurrence. What appeared to be very queer indeed was that inside the car he had found a woman’s fur coat, a small case and a driving licence. There was no sign of a body near by and neither were there any traces of blood. The circumstances intrigued Kenward a
nd he set off to the scene with a certain spring in his step.

  He had learnt to recognise the feeling, a sensation of anticipation and excitement twinned with an almost physical reaction that ran through to the very tips of his fingers. His wife knew when something had attracted his attention in this way and would often comment, in that rather dry manner of hers, ‘By the pricking of my thumbs . . . ’ a phrase which Kenward would complete, ‘ . . . something wicked this way comes.’ His wife said that when he was in this frame of mind he often reminded her of a bloodhound.

  With his rotund face, neatly clipped moustache and generously proportioned figure he looked nothing like the dogs he had once overseen at the police station in Camberley – the dogs had been used to sniff out prisoners of war who had escaped from Frith Hill during the war – but like them he had a nose for crime. He was still basking in the glory of his success in bringing the Byfleet poisoner to justice, an investigation that had inevitably attracted the attention of the national press. This new case had all the hallmarks of a similarly high-profile investigation as the abandoned car belonged to a writer of detective fiction, a Mrs Agatha Christie of Sunningdale – or so he had been informed.

  On arrival at the scene, Kenward first examined the vehicle. There were, it seemed, no signs of a struggle or violence of any kind. The brakes were off, the car was in neutral gear and it looked as though it had started its journey at the top of the hill. The sergeant then led Kenward over to meet Frederick Dore, the man who had first reported the car to the police. After thanking Dore for alerting the authorities to the matter Kenward asked him what time he had made the discovery.

  ‘Eight o’clock this morning or thereabouts,’ said Dore. ‘I was on the way to work when I stopped for a cup of tea at the kiosk opposite. While I was there I got chatting to a girl, a gypsy girl she was, I think from the camp near by, and she said that a friend of hers had seen a car that looked like it had crashed or something. She pointed out the spot and told me she had heard a car crossing the top of the hill at about midnight last night.’