In December 1926, Agatha Christie disappeared for 11 days. What could have happened? [FRAGMENT KSI¡¯KI]

Marie Benedict “The Disappearance of Pani Christie”, translated by Ewa Panksyk-Kluczkowska, Znak Horyzont – excerpt:

Dozens of men in evening dresses stood in the corner of the gleaming ballroom, but none of them matched the arrogant invitation. Finally, I spotted a man with wavy blonde hair, staring at me, standing at the edge of the dance floor. I haven’t seen him talk to any of the other gentlemen, nor have I seen him lead a lady to the dance floor. He only moved to go to the orchestra and have a word with the conductor. Then he returned to his position.

The final chords sounded, and Mr. Clifford escorted me to my seat – beside my close friend Nan Watts, out of breath from a quick dance with my parents’ handsome friend. As the orchestra started the next song and a ruddy young gentleman ran for Nan, I glanced at my pass to find out whose turn it was.

A hand appeared on my wrist. I looked up to see the intense blue eyes of the man who had been staring at me before. Instinctively I withdrew my hand, but he pulled the pass from me and laced his fingers with mine.

“Forget the pass for that one dance,” he said in a low, serious voice that I recognized as responsible for the cheeky taunts a few minutes ago. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing and was shocked that he took my pass. You just never get out of the queue dancing with someone, even if you lose your pass.

I thought I heard the characteristic chords of Irving Berlin’s famous tune. It sounded like Alexander’s Ragtime Band, but I had to be wrong. The Cliffords would never order such a modern composition from an orchestra. In fact, I predicted that they would be agitated at this departure from the standard set; the repertoire included classical symphonic pieces juxtaposed with sedate dances, which had no chance to ignite young passions.

He studied my face as I listened to the music.

“I hope you like Berlin,” he said with a slightly satisfied smile.

– This is your initiative ?!

He smiled embarrassed, dimples appeared in his cheeks.

– I overheard you telling your friend that she misses some more fashionable music.

– How did you do it? I was amazed not only by his audacity but also by his determination. She… flattered me. Nobody has ever made such a beautiful gesture for me. Certainly none of the random competitors my mom tried to match me with in Cairo on my social debut two years ago. It had to be held there because the cost of the London debut – numerous fashionable gowns, parties that must be attended and spent, the cost of renting a house in high season – was too high due to my mother’s modest financial resources. And even dear Reggie, whom I have known all my life as the kindly older brother of my dear friends, the Lucy sisters, though he has recently become something more to me, has made no such effort. Reggie and I accepted – as did our families – that one day we would get married. We will get married, although we could not imagine anything concrete. At the moment, against the backdrop of these show-offs, our relationship felt like a mild affair, albeit a comfortable one.

– Is that important? He asked.

Suddenly I felt dizzy. I looked down, a blush flooded my face, and I shook my head.

“I hope you will dance with me …” he said quietly and firmly.

I heard my mother’s voice in my head, warning me against dancing with a man to whom I had not been introduced in the right form, and who probably had deceitfully won an invitation to a ball at Ugbrooke House and turned my pass to ruin, but I said:

– Yes.

Could the dance threaten me with something?

The first day after my disappearance

Saturday, December 4, 1926

Hurtmore Cottage, Godalming, England

At the James’s, the breakfast table is prepared with a precision that evokes a pleasant sense of accuracy and satisfaction, which he has rarely experienced since his return from the war. The shiny cutlery sits tangentially against the Minton porcelain, perfectly spaced and perfectly even. Delicately decorated plates, seemingly like a Grasmere pattern, stand five centimeters from the edge of the table, in the center an eye-catching composition of holly twigs – modest, yet elegant. “By God,” he thinks to himself, “this is the order that gives man a respite.”

Why is there no such perfection with him? Why is he constantly attacked by lack of discipline, emotions and the needs of the household? Indignation builds up in him and feels completely justified in his righteousness.

“Time for a toast, I think,” his host, Sam James, announces, nodding to his wife, Madge. She, in turn, signals the uniformed maid, who is reaching for a bottle of champagne that is cooling in a crystal bucket on the sideboard.

“Archie, we wanted to toast your plans yesterday, but the unexpected visit from a priest …” Madge begins to explain.

A soft pink shadow covers Nancy’s cheeks and while she looks cute, Archie understands that James’ focus on their relationship makes her embarrassed. He wants to ease the situation.

“I appreciate that gesture very much, dear Madge,” he says, holding up his hand, “but it’s not necessary.”

“Archie, please,” Madge stops him quickly, “we’re all happy about your plans.” And you will have few opportunities to celebrate.

“We insist,” Sam says with his wife.

It would be rude to protest further, Nancy understands silently. It is the impeccable manners that bind them together, and he values ​​them very much in her. It does not have to categorically remind you of the correctness, as in other spheres of your life. Especially at home.

– Thank you very much – he says to the hosts. – Your support means a lot to me. Nancy nods back at his words.

Crystal glasses twinkle as the maid pours into them one by one straw-colored champagne. The last one is just filling up when there is a knock on the dining room door.

“Sorry to bother you …” A woman’s voice with a country accent comes from the hallway. – There’s a phone call for the colonel.

Archie looks questioningly at Nancy. He hadn’t expected a call so quickly, if ever, especially since he had tried to keep his whereabouts a secret over the weekend. For an obvious reason. Nancy sets her glass down and gently touches his elbow. It’s a tacit confession that the phone call bothers her too.

– Please forgive me. Archi nods to the hosts as they set their glasses down on an unblemished tablecloth.

As he stands up, buttoning his jacket button, he bows slightly to Nancy with a confidence she doesn’t feel at all. He leaves the dining room decisively, quietly closing the door behind him.

“This way, sir,” says the maid.

He follows her into a tiny room beneath the intricately ornate main steps of the Hurtmore Cottage – what an inappropriate name for this palace. There, a tall telephone with a receiver on the table is waiting for him.

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