“How terribly sad, Lieutenant Christie. Well, if you like, you can share Ashfield’s gardens with me. Come and visit them whenever you can get to Torquay.”
He turned those blue eyes on me again, as if trying to capture me in them. “If you mean it, Miss Miller, I would be honored.”
I wanted to see this unusual man again. The thoughts of my own commitment to Reggie began to creep in, along with a certain amount of guilt, but I held fast. “Lieutenant Christie, I would like nothing more.”
Chapter Six
Day One after the Disappearance
Saturday, December 4, 1926
Styles, Sunningdale, England
As he hurries out of his study, Archie nearly collides with the round-hatted young policeman who’d procured him from Hurtmore Cottage. He gives the man a dismissive glance and storms off to the kitchen where a gaggle of police have assembled. As he stomps off, he prays he’s embarking on the right approach by playing the part of the aggrieved, furious husband.
“What is the meaning of this? Why are the lot of you huddled around in my kitchen instead of combing the vicinity?” Archie barks at them, forcing a vitriol he doesn’t feel into his tone.
One of the officers, a younger fellow with surprisingly soft features, ignores Archie’s scolding and says instead, “Sir, I’m sure this is all very overwhelming. And distressing, of course.”
“That is an understatement,” Archie says, then assumes all of his six feet in the hopes of asserting his dominion. “I want to see the officer in charge.”
The young policeman scurries off to fetch a middle-aged man, dressed in an ill-fitting gray suit and a rumpled overcoat, who emerges from the throng of officers. Archie studies this barrel-chested officer, jowly and unkempt with a few crumbs in his sandy-colored mustache, as he approaches with an outstretched hand and a genial half smile. It’s the sort of expression that attempts to convey both sympathy and warmth at the same time, one the officer has trotted out on countless other occasions, perhaps in his guise as a country police officer. It seems false, and in the policeman’s wary stare, Archie also senses an undercurrent of suspicion and latent intellect. He will have to tread cautiously.
“Mr. Christie, I’d like to introduce you to Deputy Chief Constable Kenward,” the junior fellow says, giving a half bow in this Kenward’s direction. How does this man manage such deference from his men with such a disheveled appearance? Archie wonders, but then the eminent nature of the man’s title registers, and it gives him a start. Why has such a senior police detective been assigned to this case?
As Archie scrambles to assemble his thoughts and adjust his approach, Kenward says, “Good to meet you, Mr. Christie. The Surrey County Police Headquarters has referred the case to me for oversight, you see, and I’ll do all I can to help.” He does not react to Archie’s little tirade.
Archie shakes Kenward’s rather damp hand and, reassessing his approach, finally responds. “Apologies for the outburst, Deputy Chief Constable Kenward. As you can imagine, it’s a very upsetting time. I appreciate your assistance, and I’m sorry to be making your acquaintance in such trying circumstances.”
“Of course, sir, we understand that emotions run high in such times. But I’ll do my best by your wife, I can promise you that. That way, you won’t feel the need for such a flare-up in the future, I hope.” The rebuke is implicit—Archie will be allowed this one eruption only—and the nattering of Kenward’s underlings ceases as he delivers it. The room grows uncomfortably silent, a stillness brimming with unspoken judgments.
“Thank you for understanding,” Archie says, and police officers begin their chatter again.
“I assure you that we are doing all we can to locate your missing wife,” Kenward repeats.
My missing wife, Archie thinks to himself. Those three words spoken aloud by a senior police official make the unthinkable very possible, and he finds himself unable to speak.
Kenward fills the void. “I have a few questions for you, Colonel, of an ordinary sort. Might we retire to your study to discuss them?”
Archie suddenly realizes that he does not want to be interrogated amid these officers, that he craves the privacy of his study if personal demons are to be aired. He also recognizes that he needs the brief walk to gather himself and his answers.
With a nod, Archie pivots and leads Kenward back into his study. Suddenly uncomfortable having the lawman so close to the hearth—he can’t risk the constable ferreting out a wayward scrap of the singed letter amid the ashes—he directs him to the chair farthest from the fireplace. Then Archie selects a chair for himself such that Kenward must face away from the flames.
Pulling out a leather-bound notebook and a fountain pen from the inner pocket of his overcoat, the constable begins. “All routine questions, sir, I assure you. We are trying to establish a timeline. When did you last see your wife?”
“On Friday morning, around nine o’clock. Just before I left for work.”
The scratch of pen on paper fills the air, and a wave of recollection washes over Archie. That distinctive sound belongs to his wife and usually permeates Styles. It is the sound of his wife’s thoughts.
“Do you recall the exchange you had that morning?” Kenward asks, shaking Archie loose from his reverie.
With a start, Archie wonders about the staff. Have the police interviewed them already? He’ll have to be cautious.
Willing himself not to stammer, he answers. “Not with any degree of precision. I imagine that we had the usual morning discussion. Schedules, news, little stories about our seven-year-old daughter, Rosalind, things like that.”
“Did you discuss your weekend plans?”
Was the policeman laying a trap? What did he know?
Archie gives a vague response. “I don’t recall exactly. We may have.”
“What were your respective weekend plans, sir?”
“My wife had plans to visit Yorkshire for the weekend. As you know, I spent the weekend with my friends Mr. and Mrs. James of Hurtmore Cottage. One of your men fetched me from there.”
“Do you and your wife often spend the weekends separately?” Kenward asks, keeping his eyes fixed on his journal.
Tread carefully, Archie tells himself. Every question might bring him one step closer to a snare.
“When the occasion demands.”
“That doesn’t answer my question, sir.”
“You have my answer, Deputy Chief Constable.” As soon as the sharp words leave his mouth, Archie regrets it. He knows that a man worried about his wife—desperate to find her—would not lash out at a policeman for asking routine questions. He would answer any and every question willingly. What must this policeman think of him? Kenward is cannier than his rumpled appearance suggests, Archie suspects.