The House at Riverton aka The Shifting Fog

It was late in 1922. Teddy and Hannah were hosting a dinner at number seventeen. Teddy and his father had some business with Archibald Christie, something to do with an invention he was interested in developing.

They entertained so often in those early years of the decade. But I remember that dinner particularly for a number of reasons. One was the presence of Agatha Christie herself. She had only published one book at that time, The Mysterious Affair at Styles, but already Hercule Poirot had replaced Sherlock Holmes in my imagination. The latter was a childhood friend, the former a part of my new world.

Emmeline was there too. She’d been in London for a month. She was eighteen and had made her debut from number seventeen. There was no talk of finding her a husband as there had been with Hannah. Only four years had passed since the ball at Riverton and yet the times had changed. Girls had changed. They had liberated themselves from their corsets only to throw themselves at the tyranny of the ‘diet plan’. They were all coltish legs, flat chests and smooth scalps. They no longer whispered behind their hands and hid behind shy glances. They joked and drank, smoked and swore with the boys. Waistlines had slipped, fabrics were thin and morals were thinner.

Maybe that accounts for the unusual dinner conversation that night, or perhaps it was Mrs Christie’s presence that had them speaking along such lines. Not to mention the spate of recent newspaper articles on the subject.

‘They’ll both be hanged,’ said Teddy brightly. ‘Edith Thompson and Freddy Bywaters. Just like that other fellow who killed his wife. Earlier this year, in Wales. What was his name? Army fellow, wasn’t he, Colonel?’

‘Major Herbert Rowse,’ said Colonel Christie.

Emmeline shuddered theatrically. ‘Imagine killing your very own wife, someone you’re supposed to love.’

‘Most murders are done by people who purport to love each other,’ said Mrs Christie crisply.

‘People are becoming more violent on the whole,’ said Teddy, lighting a cigar. ‘A fellow only has to open the newspaper to see that. Despite the ban on hand guns.’

‘This is England, Mr Luxton,’ said Colonel Christie. ‘Home of the fox hunt. Obtaining firearms isn’t difficult.’

‘I have a friend who always carries a hand gun,’ Emmeline said airily.

‘You do not,’ said Hannah, shaking her head. She looked at Mrs Christie. ‘My sister has seen too many American films, I’m afraid.’

‘I do,’ said Emmeline. ‘This fellow I pal around with-who shall remain nameless-said it was as easy as buying a packet of cigarettes. He offered to get me one any time I like.’

‘Harry Bentley, I’ll wager,’ said Teddy.

‘Harry?’ said Emmeline, flashing wide eyes rimmed with black lashes. ‘Harry wouldn’t hurt a fly! His brother Tom, perhaps.’

‘You know too many of the wrong people,’ said Teddy. ‘Need I remind you that hand guns are illegal, not to mention dangerous.’

Emmeline shrugged. ‘I’ve known how to shoot since I was a girl. All the ladies in our family can shoot. Grandmamma would have disowned us if we couldn’t. Just ask Hannah: she tried to dodge the hunt one year, told Grandmamma she didn’t believe it was right to kill defenceless animals. Grandmamma had something to say about that, didn’t she, Hannah?’

Hannah raised her eyebrows and took a sip of red wine as Emmeline continued. ‘She said, “Nonsense. You’re a Hartford. Shooting’s in your blood.”’

‘Be that as it may,’ said Teddy. ‘There will be no hand guns in this house. I can imagine what my constituents would make of my possessing illegal firearms!’

Emmeline rolled her eyes as Hannah said, ‘Future constituents.’

‘Do relax, Teddy,’ said Emmeline. ‘You won’t have to worry about firearms if you go on like that. You’ll give yourself a heart attack. I didn’t say I was going to get a hand gun. I was just saying that a girl can’t be too careful these days. What with husbands killing wives and wives killing husbands. Don’t you agree, Mrs Christie?’

Mrs Christie had been watching the exchange with wry amusement. ‘I’m afraid I don’t much care for firearms,’ she said. ‘Poisons are more my thing.’

‘That must be disquieting, Archie,’ said Teddy, with a show of humour for which I hadn’t given him credit. ‘A wife with a penchant for poison?’

Archibald Christie smiled thinly. ‘Just one of my wife’s delightful little hobbies.’

Husband and wife regarded one another across the table.

‘No more delightful than your own sordid little hobbies,’ said Mrs Christie. ‘And a lot less needy.’

Late in the evening, after the Christies had left, I pulled my copy of The Mysterious Affair at Styles from under my bed. It had been a gift from Alfred, and I was so absorbed with re-reading his inscription that I barely registered the telephone ringing. Mr Boyle must have answered the call and transferred it upstairs to Hannah. I thought nothing of it. It was only when Mr Boyle knocked on my door and announced the Mistress would see me that I thought to worry.

Hannah was still dressed in her oyster-coloured silk. Like liquid. Her pale hair was pressed in waves about her face and a strand of diamonds was pinned around the crown of her head. She was standing with her back to me and turned as I entered the room.

‘Grace,’ she said, taking my hands in hers. The gesture worried me. It was too personal. Something had happened.

‘Ma’am?’

‘Sit down, please.’ She led me to sit by her on the lounge and then she looked at me, blue eyes round with concern.

‘Ma’am?’

‘That was your aunt on the telephone.’

And I knew. ‘Mother,’ I said.

‘I’m so sorry, Grace.’ She shook her head gently. ‘She took a fall. There was nothing the doctor could do.’

Hannah arranged my transport back to Saffron Green. Next afternoon the car was brought round from the mews and I was packed into the back seat. It was very kind of her and much more than I expected; I was quite prepared to take the train. Nonsense, Hannah said, she was only sorry Teddy’s upcoming nomination dinner prohibited her from accompanying me.

I watched out the motor-car window as the driver turned down one street and then another, and London became less grand, more sprawling and decrepit, and eventually disappeared behind us. The countryside fled by, and the further east we drove the colder it became. Sleet peppered the windows, turning the landscape bleary; winter had bleached the world of vitality. Snow-dusted meadows bled into the mauve sky, gradually giving way to the ancient wildwood of Essex, all grey-brown and lichen green.

We left the main road and followed the lane to Saffron through the cold and lonely fen. Silvery reeds quivered in frozen streams and grandfather’s beard clung like lace to naked trees. I counted the bends and, for some reason, held my breath, releasing it only after we had passed the Riverton turn- off. The driver continued into the village and delivered me to the grey-stone cottage in Market Street, wedged silently, as it had always been, between its two sisters. The driver held the door for me and set my small suitcase on the wet pavement.

‘There you are then,’ he said.

I thanked him and he nodded.

‘I’ll collect you in five days,’ he said, ‘like the Mistress told me.’