A Talent For Murder Read online

  The thought invigorated me, pleasured me even, an emotion immediately followed by the shadow of guilt. I had always believed that shame was a force for good. After all, what kind of state would the world be in if people simply did as they wished without the confines and constrictions of proper social behaviour? But I knew that the normal rules and restrictions that existed would not help me. Guilt would only get in the way. I knew that if I were to do half the things Kurs had suggested – if – then it would be better to pretend to be someone else. And who could be better than a woman I hated?

  After leaving the flat we made our way to the car. As I passed a post box, I realised that I still had the letter that I had written to Campbell in my bag. I cast a quick glance at Kurs to see if he was looking – fortunately his attention was directed towards a policeman who had been flagged down by a passing motorist. I slowly took out the letter addressed to my brother-in-law and although I dared not actually post it – I could not risk inciting Kurs’s fury – I let it slip down behind me onto the ground in the hope that a kind stranger would spot it and place it in the box for me. If it got to Campbell then at least Archie and Carlo and Madge wouldn’t think that I had done myself in; if they had half a brain between them they might be able to work out where I was going.

  Kurs stopped by his car and glanced in my direction. For a moment his eyes narrowed as he looked back towards the block of flats and the post box, but then as he became aware that the policeman was beginning to walk in our direction he opened the door for me and told me to get in.

  ‘We don’t want any fuss now, do we?’ he said, as if he were talking to a patient with a history of mental instability.

  ‘No, I suppose we don’t,’ I said, meeting his gaze. Just then I saw a middle-aged man in a suit, a clerk of some sort, stop by the post box and look down to the ground. He picked up the letter, studied it for a moment, and then placed it in the box.

  At Harrogate Station, we alighted from our separate carriages and took two taxis to two different hotels: I to the Swan Hydropathic Hotel and the doctor to a guest house a few streets from the Pump Room. Kurs had told me that he would come over to the Hydro later that evening, but from this point it was important for us not to be seen talking in public together. He would, however, communicate with me by letter, documents which he insisted be destroyed. He also told me that while I had the freedom to explore the area during the day, it was essential that I return to the hotel in Harrogate each night. He didn’t need to remind me of how much hurt he could inflict upon those closest to me if I did not follow his every instruction.

  After paying for the taxi, I stood for a moment and admired the rather splendid four-storey hotel set back from the road and fronted by a large expanse of lawn. With its ivy-covered façade and series of imposing chimneys and attic rooms it looked more like a country house than a hotel. I walked through a covered portico and up towards the desk.

  ‘Good evening, ma’am,’ said the lady.

  Next to her I felt very shabby and poorly dressed. I still wore the grey skirt, green jumper and dark grey cardigan that I had on from the day before, as Kurs had given me no opportunity to buy any new garments. He had, however, given me a small attaché case that had once belonged to his wife. Everything else, he said, could be purchased in Harrogate.

  ‘Do you have any rooms available?’ I asked.

  The lady wrinkled her nose as she looked down at the guest book. I needed a long, hot bath, as Kurs’s flat in London had had no facilities beyond a lavatory and a basin. He had given me a bowl of hot water that morning, but how I longed for a proper soak.

  ‘Yes, we do. How long are you staying?’

  ‘For at least a week, I should imagine,’ I said.

  ‘The rate is seven guineas a week for board and lodging.’

  ‘That seems very reasonable,’ I said. Kurs had provided me with a certain amount of information – information that I should follow to the letter – but it was curious that he had allowed me some freedom as to imagining where I had come from. ‘I’ve just arrived – from South Africa, from Cape Town,’ I said. I remembered how I had enjoyed that trip there with Archie. ‘I’m so looking forward to spending some time relaxing here in Harrogate after the rather busy three weeks I have had since arriving in England.’

  ‘Well, I am certain we can promise you that. The weather won’t be quite as nice as you are used to back home, but Harrogate is, as I am sure you will discover for yourself, rather famous for its top-class service. I’m not sure if you are aware but in the hotel we have a range of superior facilities such as a Turkish Bath and the Vichy Bath, if you are interested. Could I take your name?’

  ‘Neele. Mrs Teresa Neele,’ I said. I decided to change my imaginary status to that of a married woman, as I didn’t want to attract the wrong sort of attention from the male guests at the hotel.

  ‘Very good, Mrs Neele. Do you have any luggage that the porter can help you with?’

  ‘No, my luggage is arriving separately,’ I said. The ease with which I lied gave me something of a thrill. ‘But I am looking forward to doing a spot of shopping. I’ve heard there are some rather good shops here.’

  ‘Indeed. If you need a list of names please let me know. Now, here is your key, Room 105.’

  I turned away and started to make my way to the stairs when I heard the receptionist’s voice.

  ‘Oh, Mrs Neele, Mrs Neele?’

  I returned to the desk.

  ‘I’m sorry, I forgot to give you this. There’s a letter for you that just arrived.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said.

  As soon as I entered the comfortable room, with its pink rose-print wallpaper, I felt myself relaxing. I savoured the silence. I walked over to stand by the armchair next to the window and look out at the lawns and the fine specimen trees at the front. I spotted a couple of young blonde-haired children, accompanied by their governess, playing with a spinning top and squealing in delight. The sight of the young girl reminded me of my little Rosalind. How I missed her already. I tried to picture what she might be doing. Had she asked for me? I hated to think of her waking up and me not being there. But then the alternative was so much worse. I was not here to take the waters or recover my health, although I was in desperate need of such a course of treatment. The letter I held in my hand was a testament to my real purpose. I couldn’t avoid opening it any longer. I sat down on my bed and started to read.

  Dear Mrs Christie, or should that be Neele?

  I do hope you have an enjoyable stay at the Hydro. They say it is one of Harrogate’s finest hotels.

  To prepare yourself for your role I think it only right that you try and get into character. Think of yourself of one of the great actresses of the London stage and lose your inhibitions. From now on, you can discard the sensible Mrs Christie and have a little fun. Your first task is to go down to the Palm Court tonight and, when the band strike up, as I am sure they will, ‘Yes! We Have No Bananas’, take to the dance floor and dance the Charleston. If you don’t do this I’ll think you a terrible sport. Not only that, but I will take your rejection of this simple task as a refusal to accept your future challenges.

  I will be watching you, but please do not try to talk to me, even though I know you may find it difficult to resist.

  Yours most sincerely

  Dr Patrick Kurs

  The man was an utter sadist. I could just picture him sitting in the bar as he watched me humiliate myself on the dance floor. The whole thing was ridiculous. I was not in the mood, I did not have any evening clothes and I hardly had the figure for it anyway. But did I have a choice? Was it too late to go to the police? Of course, I could show the authorities the letters, but what if Kurs then did something awful out of spite? Even if the police caught him and locked him up, would my family be safe? One day, he said, when I was least expecting it, he would do something terrible. The things he had suggested were too awful to recall, but one of the less obscene scenarios was the blinding of my child. How
could I live with myself if that came about? It was too ghastly to contemplate.

  I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror and tried to make myself a little more presentable. I took out a small, framed photograph of Rosalind from my handbag, and placed it on the bedside table. As I did so, tears came into my eyes. I bit my lip, but the tears continued. I returned to the bathroom to splash water on my face, but I looked even worse than before. From my bag I took out some powder and applied a little to my nose and face. At least I managed to cover up those unsightly blotches. I splashed some eau de Cologne over my green jumper and dark grey cardigan and left the room.

  In the dining room I toyed with a supper of lamb chops and boiled potatoes before abandoning it and moving into the Palm Court. The music jarred my nerves, each note a form of torture. The band, comprising six men and a female singer, seemed like they were having a simply wonderful time, as did the handful of guests on the dance floor. As I took a sip of water I spotted Kurs walking into the room. He chose a seat near the band and ordered himself a drink, something non-alcoholic – the hotel was strictly teetotal – but I couldn’t make out what. He cast his eyes across the room, took in the fact that I was there, but did not allow his gaze to rest on me. He pulled something out of his briefcase, a notebook of some kind, and waited. Then he walked up to the female singer and whispered something in her ear.

  The band finished ‘You Forgot To Remember’ before they started up the melody for that ridiculous ‘Bananas’ song. I was somebody else, I told myself. I could do this. I took a deep breath, walked over to the dance floor and, with a rather theatrical flourish, started to twist my feet, before breaking out into a fast-kicking and tapping movement. As I heard the words, ‘Yes! We have no bananas/We have-a no bananas today,’ I started to swing my arms backwards and forwards to the rhythm. I couldn’t bear to look in Kurs’s direction, and mostly danced with my back to him. In fact, I tried not to look at anyone as I sensed that some people, the women in particular, thought my behaviour and my dress most peculiar. When I did swing round in Kurs’s direction I could not help but notice him. His eyes were lowered in a slightly embarrassed fashion, almost as if he had walked into a room to find me changing, and a suppressed smile snaked across his lips.

  The song continued its hellish progression, its lyrics – ‘He, he, he, he, ha, ha, ha, whatta you laugh at?’ – taunting and tormenting me until it was finally over. As the last strains from the tinny-sounding banjo faded away, my arms came to a rest at my sides, my feet slowed their pace and all the energy seemed to drain from my body. The band immediately struck up the ballad ‘All Alone’. ‘Just like a melody that lingers on/You seem to haunt me night and day . . . ’

  Blushing, I lowered my eyes as I returned to my seat. There I finished my glass of water and, without looking towards or even acknowledging Kurs, returned to my room. As soon as I was inside, I burst into tears. I felt not only humiliated but dirtied too, as if someone had stolen a part of my innocence. I undressed and crawled into bed, the lyrics of ‘All Alone’ playing in my head.

  Chapter Ten

  Kenward read and reread the notice in front of him:

  Missing from her home, Styles, Sunningdale, Berkshire, Mrs Agatha Mary Clarissa Christie, age 35; height 5 feet 7 inches; hair, red, shingled part grey; complexion fair, build slight; dressed in grey stockinette skirt, green jumper, grey and dark grey cardigan and small velour hat; wearing a platinum ring with one pearl; no wedding ring; black handbag with purse containing perhaps £5 or £10. Left home by car at 9.45 p.m. Friday, leaving note saying that she was going for a drive.

  Yes, that would do. He would arrange for the notice, which had been compiled from what Charlotte Fisher and the servants had told him, to be released later that day, together with a photograph. He and his men had taken a number of statements and had started to build up a picture, although a far from complete one, of the missing woman. How queer that she should write mysteries, he thought. From his enquiries he had gathered that Mrs Christie was something of an enigma, even to those close to her. Or was that because they weren’t revealing the whole truth? He had, after interviewing the servants at Styles, discovered that Colonel Christie and his wife had exchanged cross words on the morning of the disappearance. He had also heard gossip about the Colonel’s private life, an allegation that could have some bearing on the case. It was a rather delicate matter regarding the Colonel’s dalliance with a younger woman, and it would have to be raised at some point.

  The day’s main event, of which Kenward had high hopes, was a longer and more detailed search of the countryside around Newlands Corner. He was sure that the men would unearth something. There had been various reports relating to the disappearance, testimonies which he had in front of him at his desk. The abandoned car had apparently been spotted by a cattleman from Chilworth by the name of Harry Green. He had seen the headlights in the early morning gloom but he had decided to do nothing about it as he was on his way to work. An hour later, at about eight o’clock on Saturday morning, a gypsy boy called Jack Best had also noticed the car. Then Frederick Dore, the man who had first alerted the police, came onto the scene. He hoped that the new description would prompt more people to come forward.

  He didn’t understand how any man could betray his wife. That poor Mrs Christie, he thought. She must have been in a truly desperate state to leave her husband and drive to the top of that bleak hill. Or had she? Kenward took out the statements and laid them in front of them, noting down the important times and places. It was true that the evidence at the scene of the disappearance – the abandoned car, the fur coat, the driving licence – suggested that the balance of her mind had been disturbed. But if Mrs Christie had wanted to commit suicide would she have taken her handbag from the car? And why was there no trace of her body? Perhaps they would find something in the course of the next search, but he had a niggling suspicion that she had not done herself in.

  Miss Fisher had told him that Mrs Christie had left a letter for her husband, a document that the Colonel said he had burnt. When pressed on the issue, Colonel Christie maintained that its contents were private. It sounded odd to him.

  Colonel Christie maintained that on the night of Friday, 3 December, he had been staying with the Jameses at their house near Godalming. Statements from Mr and Mrs Sam James corroborated this. But could the Colonel have left the house while the other occupants were sleeping? After all, it wasn’t that far a drive between Godalming and Newlands Corner. What if the Colonel had lured his wife to the spot with the promise of some kind of reconciliation? Could he have killed her, disposed of her body and then pushed the car down the hill? Although he had no proof at the moment, he had a sneaking suspicion that the investigation might soon become a murder inquiry.

  Kenward checked his watch. It was time for him to meet his men at the scene. He had given orders for the constables to enlist the services of locals as the area that needed to be combed for clues was enormous. By the time he arrived at Newlands Corner, he was pleased to see that the civilians numbered a couple of dozen. As he got out of the car he immediately recognised one of the young men, Jack Boxall, who worked as a gardener in Guildford. Kenward regarded the fresh-faced man as something of a younger self as he himself had trained as a gardener before he had entered the police force. Boxall often dropped by his home to talk bonemeal, roses and manure, conversations that made Naomi laugh. If only the public could see the great detective talking horticulture, she would say. Since Mrs Christie’s disappearance Kenward had taken it upon himself to start reading some of her novels in case any of them contained clues. Was there not a line in one of the books about her detective, a rather silly, effeminate man who went by a foreign name, growing vegetable marrows? He rather hoped that was all they had in common.

  ‘Good morning, Boxall, thank you for volunteering,’ he said. He noticed that the boy’s father, a painter and decorator, stood some distance away in the crowd.

  He removed his hat, cleared his throat and
addressed the men.

  ‘First of all, I must thank you for coming out on a Sunday. One of the reasons why we have enlisted your help is because many of you know the area around Newlands Corner much better than we do. Some of you, I have been told, play golf on the Roughs while others regularly walk your dogs. I am asking those of you who know the terrain to keep an eye out for anything that looks unusual. If a bush or a tree or a patch of ground seems like it has been disturbed please alert one of the sergeants. Or if you see car tracks please let us know. Obviously, if you come across any garments or personal items, please do not handle these, and report them to an officer straight away. I don’t need to say how grateful we are for your help today. Let’s see what we can find.’

  Kenward then set about dividing the men into groups. He told Boxall, his father and his friends from Guildford to concentrate on the area north-west of Newlands Corner and the village of Merrow while the police and another group of locals would work on the section of land that bordered the Silent Pool. He strongly suspected that the land around the pool, if not the water itself, would throw up some clues. Using a long stick he started to beat his way through the grass and brambles. He was not young any more and, with his bulky frame, he could not move as quickly as he once did – was it really true that he had once competed in, and won, that tug of war at the London Road Rec? – but he had not lost his steely determination.

  ‘Do you think we’ll find her, sir? Mrs Christie?’ asked Tom Roberts, one of the force’s probationary constables.

  ‘I’m not sure, Roberts,’ he replied. ‘As you know, in most cases of disappearance the person involved is usually found within the first day. I don’t get a good feeling about this case, I’m afraid to say.’

  ‘Do you think the lady is – is dead, sir?’

  ‘I think it’s too early to say for certain,’ he lied.