Agatha seems to have no difficulty doing so. I watch as she homes in on a slender nurse with a dark-blond bun at the base of her neck. As the group thins, we keep pace with that same young woman. From the smoothness and ease of Agatha’s stride, I can only surmise that she’s undertaken this exercise before. For a moment, she resembles one of her new characters, an unassuming but secretly crafty detective named Miss Marple.
By the time we are three blocks from the hospital, the nurse walks alone. Our pace increases until we are just behind her. Once we reach the storefront for Lyons Tea Shop, Agatha darts forward, colliding with the young woman so hard that the nurse falls to the ground.
“Oh my, oh my,” Agatha cries out, reaching out a hand to help pull her up. “I’m ever so sorry. Are you quite all right, dear?”
Celia—for it is indeed May’s friend, the resemblance to the photograph is strong—accepts the outstretched hand. She stands and brushes off her uniform. “I’m fine,” she says.
“Please forgive a clumsy older woman,” Agatha dithers. Now she’s a feeble, nonthreatening, much older lady.
“Really, it’s no trouble,” Celia repeats. “I’m fine.”
“Would you allow my friend and me”—here Agatha gestures to me and then to the Lyons Tea Shop—“to buy you a cup of tea? It’s the least I can do.”
“Thank you for the offer, but I have an appointment.” She gives us an indulgent half smile—throwing a bone to two women nearingtheir dotage. But underneath the gesture, I see her exhaustion and hesitation. Her eyes are dark with shadowy hollows, and her skin is wan. The newspaper coverage and the loss of her friend are taking a toll.
Agatha hesitates for a second so brief that I nearly miss it. That pause serves as the only evidence that this isn’t going exactly according to plan. “I really think you should, Miss McCarthy,” she insists, standing up straight. All evidence of the doddering older woman is gone.
The girl’s eyes widen, and her mouth opens—in protest, shock, rage, or some combination thereof. I don’t know. I can only imagine that she’d like to know who the hell we are.
But before Celia can speak, Agatha announces, “You see, I know something of your situation, having been under the unfortunate scrutiny of the press and the police. I am Mrs. Agatha Christie.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
MARCH 28, 1931
BIRMINGHAM,ENGLAND
The nursing schedule. The route from the hospital to Celia’s lodging. The familiarity with our subject’s appearance. The proximity of the tea shop to our “collision” on the street. How unexpected is today’s undertaking, and how unexpected is Agatha. How handily she’s orchestrated a meeting that even the police couldn’t manage.
“Thank you for agreeing to talk with us,” Agatha says in her softest voice as we settle into stiff-backed wooden seats around a nicked wooden table. The chain of Lyons Tea Shops is known for its strong tea and signature Battenberg cakes, not always its elegant ambience. Not this particular one, in any event.
“Did I have a choice?” Celia asks, and I detect in her flat vowels a West Yorkshire accent. Did her people move from rural areas to the Yorkshire towns of Leeds or Bradford for jobs in industry? It would be in alignment with her career in nursing.
“There is always a choice, dear,” Agatha reassures Celia, then signals for a waitress. Before any conversation can ensue, she orders tea and cakes all around. “Now, I am certain you are wondering why we have hunted you down. Whether you know who I am or not—”
“I know who you are,” Celia interjects. “I remember you vanished, and your face was all over the newspapers. My mum was positively obsessed with the story.”
“Good. Then you know that I understand what it’s like to be hounded by reporters and governmental authorities.”
Celia is quiet, staring at Agatha. As am I. Agatha’s surprising sleuthing skills notwithstanding, the most astounding element of the day is her frankness. For a woman who has spent the better part of the past five years refusing to discuss her own very public disappearance, her behavior today is shocking.
“Your reluctance to talk makes perfect sense, given how you’ve been treated and how your friend May has been maligned. I wouldn’t open my mouth unless compelled, either, if I were you. And in fact, that’s the very tactic I’ve taken for five years. But we are not journalists, and we are not representatives of the police. I am a writer of mystery fiction—as is my friend, Miss Dorothy Sayers”—she points to me—“and we are interested in justice for Miss Daniels and privacy for you. If that is something you would like to pursue, then I’d advise you to break your silence and talk tous.”
Celia slides off her nursing cap, looking even younger now than her twenty-one years. And very, very pale. “How do I know I can trust you? You arewriters,after all. What’s to stop you from publishing everything I tell you in some magazine or article?”
Her point is well taken. How can we possibly assure this young woman that the information we seek will be used only for the purpose of uncovering May’s murderer? What can we offer her other than our word?
“Would you be willing to tell me all you know about Miss Daniels and about the day leading up to her disappearance if I share something with you about my own vanishing? Something that no one else knows? We would be the keeper of each other’s secrets and thus protect them at all costs.”
Celia does not answer immediately. She studies my face, then Agatha’s. “Why are you so determined to help May? To help me? You don’t know us, and I don’t know you, other than having read a couple of your books.”
Agatha squares her shoulders. “Because for too long, youngwomen like you and your friend have been judged in the court of public opinion. Whether you’re considered ‘surplus’ or damaged in some other way, your safety and your needs have been neglected. Nowhere is this more evident than in the instance of Miss Daniels, whose case is not being pursued properly because the press has dragged her through the muck. Miss Sayers and I have been through this ourselves—as have the characters in our mysteries—and we want to prevent it from happening again.”
No one moves. Not to sip tea, not to nibble cakes. Even though I’m desperate for a bite of that Battenberg, I stay still.
“I will tell you what you want to know,” Celia finally says.
I stifle an exhale.
