The Christie Caper (14 page)

As his rich voice rolled through the auditorium, conversations fell away.

Annie smiled her thanks and knew it was time. Lady Gwendolyn was already seated on the platform, those inquiring eyes surveying the audience. Annie ran lightly up the steps. At the lectern, she looked out at the sea of smiling faces and couldn’t keep from grinning. “You wonderful people, welcome. Welcome to a celebration of a remarkable life. Do you love Agatha Christie?”

“Yes!” the audience thundered, loving it.

“Who wrote the best mysteries ever?”

The shout reverberated like crashing surf, “
CHRIS—
TIEEEEE.”

Annie blinked back a tear. This was no time to get emotional—but what a response! “We are enormously fortunate today to have with us as our principal speaker a woman who is not only an authority on the life and times of Agatha Christie, but a woman who is also one of the premier mystery writers in the world today. It is my pleasure and my honor to present to you—Lady Gwendolyn Tompkins!”

Lady Gwendolyn smiled graciously at the welcoming cheers. She ignored the lectern. Her high, clear voice, without need of a microphone, rolled across the auditorium. “It is indeed a great honor and a great pleasure to speak to you about Agatha Christie. She was a grand woman, and she had a grand life. Christie was brave, gallant, enduring, determined. She knew how to love, how to laugh, in sum, how to live. In admiring her, perhaps we can gain the vision in our own lives to live with the same quiet, unsung courage, no matter what vicissitudes we face.

“… the most British of authors, yet her books are beloved around the world … born September 15, 1890, in the seaside resort of Torquay … fair-haired … the last and late-in-life child of a most genial man and a delightful woman. Her father, an American, enjoyed each and every day on its own terms … a quintessential club man, he loved to offer hospitality, and he loved good food … Agatha’s mother was a quicksilver spirit with an unusual and lively mind. Agatha
enjoyed the happiest of childhoods at Ashfield in Barton Road. The beloved baby of the family … a big sister, Madge, and big brother, Monty. The early loss of her father … imaginary playmates in the garden … Devonshire cream … dancing school … picnics, rollerskating … a coming-out season in Egypt …

“Archie Christie arrived in her life like a whirlwind, winning her heart … fair and blue-eyed, brave and exciting, Archie was handsome, determined, and impetuous. Agatha once described their mutual attraction, because they were so different, as ‘the excitement of the stranger’ … the advent of World War I, the end of an era … Archie a flying ace … Agatha a VAD in Torquay … marriage on Christmas Eve 1914 … Agatha in the dispensary, learning about poisons … a pharmacist with a fondness for a lump of curare … Agatha starting a detective story in response to a dare from Madge, writing
The Mysterious Affair at Styles,
patterning her detective after the Belgian refugees …”

Oh, it was an old, familiar, endearing story to Annie, but she relished it again.

“The war finally over … some very good years for Agatha and Archie. Rosalind’s birth. The wonderful news, in 1920, after she’d almost forgot its existence, that Bodley Head would publish her book. Agatha and Archie’s unforgettable tour of the empire. More books:
The Secret Adversary,
1922;
Murder on the Links,
1923;
Poirot Investigates
and
The Man in the Brown Suit,
1924;
The Secret of Chimneys,
1925.

“Nineteen twenty-six.” Lady Gwendolyn tolled the year. “The best of years for Agatha. And the worst.

“A watershed year in the history of the mystery … the publication of
The Murder of Roger Ackroyd
… artful, clever, brilliant … but 1926 brought also the death of Clara, her impulsive, warm, and eager mother. It brought the duty of clearing Ashfield, her childhood home. Grief-stricken, her husband absorbed in golf and business, Agatha worked in a frenzy at clearing the house, sleeping poorly, eating erratically.”

Lady Gwendolyn gazed out soberly at her enraptured listeners. “August 1926: Expecting to go on a holiday to Italy with her husband, Agatha instead is told by Archie that he
loves another woman and wants a divorce. Archie had once told Agatha that he hated it when people were ill or unhappy. He was true to his word.

“December 1926: Archie was living at his club, still pressing for a divorce. Agatha, profoundly depressed, lived at Styles and was attempting to write. At eleven o’clock on the night of December third, she drove off into the darkness. The car was found the next day on a grassy slope off the main road. No trace of Agatha. A massive search ensued Speculation arose that Archie had murdered his wife. The press had a field day, carrying reams of sensational copy. Ten days later, Agatha was discovered at a resort hotel in Harrogate, registered as Theresa Neele. The woman Archie wished to marry was Nancy Neele. Archie came to the hotel, identified Agatha, and whisked her into seclusion, issuing a statement that she was suffering from the most complete amnesia.”

The cherubic author posed the familiar questions. “A publicity stunt? An effort to humiliate her unfaithful husband? A mental collapse from stress and heartbreak?”

Lady Gwendolyn was emphatic “A mind and heart and soul can only bear so much. This was an emotional collapse. Agatha was never able, despite yeoman effort, to recall all that happened during those ten days.

“Put yourself in her place,” Lady Gwendolyn suggested quietly to her mesmerized audience. The musical voice fell away, and there was a long moment of silence.

Annie imagined how Christie must have suffered: the loss of a beloved mother, the task of clearing away the mementos of a lifetime, the betrayal by the man she’d loved and trusted, the inability to sleep because of the painful images jostling in her mind, the depression that caused food and laughter and sunlight to lose their savor, the drudgery of work contracted for but now meaningless, the anger and tears and misery.

“Then think,” and it was a clarion call, “think how dreadful to collapse in spirit and reawaken to painful reality scarred by a flood of ugly publicity. No wonder that ever afterward Christie shunned publicity, avoided reporters, was cautious in her trust.

“But,” and this was a triumphant cry, “she never gave up. Thank God for all of us, she never gave up.”

Travel. More books. A ticket to the West Indies, but a chance conversation at a dinner party convinced her to cancel that trip, go instead on the Orient Express to Baghdad. A visit to an archaeological dig. An invitation to return the next year.

“Nineteen thirty, oh, that was a very good year …”

Max Mallowan, a young archaeologist at the dig. A trip together. A happy companionship. Marriage that September, beginning a journey that would last forty-six happy years. The first Miss Marple,
The Murder at the Vicarage.

Lady Gwendolyn moved ebulliently on, totting up the triumphs, the great events, the tragedies of a long life. Happy expeditions to Max’s digs. Plays. Rosalind’s marriage. The Second World War. The birth of her cherished grandson, Mathew. Sadness at the loss of Rosalind’s husband, killed in action. Max stationed so far away in Egypt. So many wonderful books.

Fortune. Honors. Acclaim.

And a peaceful farewell January 12, 1976.

Lady Gwendolyn smiled tremulously, then concluded, her clear voice gentle, “Upon a tall and shining gravestone at the little church in Cholsey, near Winterbrook, are graven these words by Spenser:

The silence held, full of reverence, a moment of shared beauty as delicate as sunlight slanting through stained glass.

Annie, who never carried Kleenex, used the back of her hand to smudge away a tear.

A chair scraped.

The harsh sound was a discordant intrusion.

Neil Bledsoe heaved himself to his feet.

Y
ou
know what Henry Ford said.” Bledsoe’s deep voice was smug. “He said history was bunk. He was right. That’s what you’ve heard today—bunk.” His mocking eyes moved from face to face, challenging, daring, taunting.

Lady Gwendolyn’s retort was icy and immediate. “Balderdash.”

Annie jumped to her feet. But so did almost everyone else in the huge meeting room, all clamoring to be heard.

Annie yelled, “Lady Gwendolyn’s every word can be documented. The recollections of family. Friends. Letters. Business correspondence. Every single—” she broke off, belatedly realizing that she couldn’t be heard above the outraged shouts and cries of the audience.

Bledsoe strode up the central aisle. He took the platform steps in a single bound. His voice was loud enough, deep enough, to carry to the far reaches of the room. “New sources. Papers hitherto untapped. The
real
truth. What you’ve heard here”—his voice rose in disdain—“is the
official approved
biography of one of the world’s richest and most secretive women. Find out what’s been hidden, swept under the rug.”

Annie darted up the steps after him. She skidded to a stop next to Lady Gwendolyn, whose blue eyes observed Bledsoe carefully but without surprise. Annie thought in a flash that nothing had truly surprised the English author in many years.

Henny’s voice rang from a near corner. “Nonsense!”

“There is no such source!” Emma Clyde bellowed.

Annie was so angry she trembled. “You aren’t going to ruin my conference with this kind of garbage. Get out of here!”

Shouts of accusation, disbelief, query, astonishment.

Bledsoe held up his hand. He was an undeniably commanding figure, his ruddy face flushed and insolent, his sensual lips spread in a taunting smile, his powerful body poised as if for battle. Arrogantly, he surveyed the unruly audience.

Annie’s eyes, too, swept the room. Yes, the conference-goers, almost to a person, were angry and vocal about it, except for a few quite still, almost frozen faces with a common expression—the beginnings of relief! The chunky editor, the young publicist, the regal agent, the retiring author’s widow, the charming author, each face mirrored a lessening of tension, a relaxation.

Startled, Annie turned toward Bledsoe.

And realized that he was equally well aware of the curious—to her—phenomenon. And it amused him.

Beyond even her fury at his unwarranted attack on Christie, she felt a sudden revulsion. How twisted and dreadful Bledsoe was.

Lady Gwendolyn cut through to the point.

“What,” she demanded peremptorily, “do you intend?”

Bledsoe looked down at the august British author, undaunted by her manner.

“I intend that the truth about Christie shall be known.” If before he had spoken loudly, now he roared with almost evangelical fervor. “I’m a man who’s not afraid to tell the truth. People don’t like the truth. They didn’t like the truth about James Barrie. Or Mark Twain. Or Georges Simenon. People who like fairy tales are going to fight against the truth about Agatha Christie. But the world deserves to know what kind of woman she
really
was.”

Angry shouts sounded against a backdrop of jeering catcalls and whistles.

Bledsoe threw back his head and laughed, his mouth a wide slash against his scarred face. “And by God,” his voice rose above the maelstrom, “I’m the man with the guts to dig behind locked doors. You like mysteries? Solve the Mystery of Agatha Christie. I’ll tell you how you can do it. Come to
the Palmetto Court. Ten o’clock in the morning. Come one, come all. Everybody’s welcome.”

Lady Gwendolyn, her face grave, sipped at her tea. As Max finished speaking, she refilled her cup. The tea (Lapsang souchong) was the color of old mud and looked strong enough to fell a horse. Absently, her gaze abstracted, she lifted her cup again.

“So you’re telling us,” Annie said grimly to her husband, “that we can’t do a damn thing!” She flung her napkin down on her barely nibbled lunch and bounced to her feet.

Max spread his hands helplessly. “He’s a bona fide registrant of the conference. He’s a lawful guest of the hotel. He hasn’t
done
anything illegal—”

“Yet!” Annie snarled.

“Annie, you can’t libel the dead.” Max’s voice was gentle, and his eyes filled with pity.

“I’ve always felt,” Laurel murmured, “that the best policy—for those of us among the living—is simply to ignore calumny. So often unkind remarks about one’s romantic adventures are simply a reflection of petty jealousy.”

“I’m sure,” Henny said dryly, “that you have had ample experience in these matters.”

Annie furiously paced across the living room of their suite, oblivious to the soft breeze flowing in from the balcony, the caramel-rich splash of sunlight touching the white wicker with gold. She jammed a hand wildly through her thick honey-colored hair. “That’s all wrong. Dead wrong,” she exploded. “Are you telling us he can say anything he wants to about Christie? Claim she chopped up her dogs for meat pie, fed poison to her cousins, planted plastic explosives in Harrod’s, and not a damn thing can be done about it?”