Silence and Circumstance

By Roy Dimond

Agatha Christie, pawn or puppet-master? For eleven days in December 1926, that was the question all of England was asking. Was she kidnapped, or possibly a pawn trapped in an international mystery? Or could she actually be the puppet-master, secretly manipulating an entire nation from behind her typewriter? Did one of the most disciplined writing minds the world has ever known really just “black out,” only to somehow reappear eleven days later, feeble and disorientated at a spa hotel? And what really was written in her missing diary regarding those eleven mysterious days? Through a weaving of facts and fiction, the adventure unfolds through the perspective of her governess, Charlotte “Carlo” Fisher. Having accepted the role of confidante to the great writer, and ignited by the receipt of a mysterious letter, Charlotte embarks on a sinister and harrowing quest. In her exploits, Charlotte is aided by many of the famous and elite of the twentieth century. While Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his protégé, Ian Fleming, speed towards Istanbul on the Orient Express in search of Agatha’s diary, Charlotte discovers clues that dispatch her to Berlin where she stumbles into a world gone mad. Mysterious societies emerge from the shadows, and it appears something dark is rising...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Untreed Reads
• Release date: Mar 23, 2015
• ISBN: 9781611878097

Roy Dimond

Roy Dimond lives with his wife in Victoria, British Columbia, a small community on Vancouver Island on the west coast of Canada.In his first life, Roy had the honor of helping at risk children and their families. In his second life, he pursues his love of travel and writing. Having explored four continents from Cuzco to Kyoto, Santorini to Tsumago, his wanderings have all found a way into his stories.Roy’s first book is called The Singing Bowl, his second novel is titled, Silence and Circumstance, and his third book is titled I, Bully. He is already working on his next adventure.

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Author

Silence and Circumstance

By Roy Dimond

Copyright 2015 by Roy Dimond

Cover Copyright 2015 by Untreed Reads Publishing

Cover Design by Ginny Glass

The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher or author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. The characters, dialogue and events in this book are wholly fictional, and any resemblance to companies and actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.

www.untreedreads.com

Silence and Circumstance

Roy Dimond

To Joan Pynn, my wonderful mother-in-law, and Roy Pynn my late father-in-law who both welcomed me into their home and loved me like a son. Thank you for raising such wonderful daughters.

Our times together mean so much to ME!

Acknowledgments

No book is written by the author alone. First acknowledgment should go to my wonderful wife, Lorraine, for her never-ending patience and ability to listen and offer sound plot advice, as we hike in the old growth forest.

My agent, Malaga Baldi, whose support and effort on my behalf are valued beyond words. Thank you, Malaga.

To Jay Hartman and K.D. Sullivan and everyone associated with Untreed Reads, thank you for not only believing in my book, but for making the entire publishing process enlightening and enjoyable. Your professionalism and work ethic are greatly appreciated.

I would also like to thank fellow writers Jeff Leitch, Donald Platt, David Ward, Ed Kardos and Madi Predda who have been so supportive and helpful along the way. Your love of writing inspires me.

Lastly, I would like to thank my readers. Especially to those who have taken the time to contact me—from Portugal to India to England, and beyond. I cherish all of you.

These acknowledgments would not be complete, however, without thanking the finest mystery writer of all time, Agatha Christie. Her books have given countless hours of enjoyment to countless readers and inspired this author to write this novel in honour of her. Many a stormy night I sat beside the fire reading her wonderful novels. Thank you, Agatha.

Cast of Characters

(In order of appearance)

Charlotte Carlo Fisher: Governess of the Christie estate. Friend and confidant of Agatha Christie. Age, early twenties.

Mrs. Agatha Christie: Born September 15, 1890. Pen name Mary Westmacott. Author of The Mysterious Affair at Styles, The Murder on the Links, The Man in the Brown Suit, Poirot Investigates and The Secret of the Chimneys. Her latest effort, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd promises to elevate her into England’s writing pantheon. Age, 36.

Mr. Archie Christie: Born 1890. Colonel Christie of the Royal Flying Corps cut quite the dashing figure when he courted his wife. They married Christmas Eve 1914. In 1924, the Christies traveled around the world as the business manager for the director of the British Empire Mission. In 1925, he bought a home that they named Styles House after his wife’s novel. Fanatical golfer. Age, 36.

Rosalind Christie: Born August 5, 1919. Daughter of Archie and Agatha. Favorite pet is Peter, a floppy-eared terrier. Age, 7.

Moe Berg: Born March 2, 1902. Baseball player. Graduated Princeton University and Columbia Law School. Speaks several languages, and was known for reading ten newspapers a day. Intellectual. Age, 24.

John Steinbeck: Born February 27, 1902. Attended Stanford University. Unemployed and failing as a writer, he now travels. Every journey and soul that he meets is fodder for his next unpublished manuscript. Age, 24.

Dorothy Sayers: Born June 13, 1893. Writer, poet, creator of the character Lord Peter Wimsey. Coined the phrase, It pays to advertise. Speaks several languages. Age, 33.

Dashiell Hammett: Born May 27, 1894. Quit school at thirteen and eventually worked for the Pinkerton Detective Agency. Left the agency over their union-busting strategies, turning to drink, writing and smoking. Has a number of short stories published, but despite showing great promise, especially in the area of hard-boiled detective novels, he is relatively unknown. Age, 32.

Dorothy Parker: Born August 22, 1893. Founding member of the Algonquin Round Table. Poet, short-story writer, critic and satirist. Dorothy revealed her true nature early, being asked to leave a Roman Catholic elementary school when she characterized the Immaculate Conception as, Spontaneous combustion. Age, 33.

Lillian Hellman: Born June 20, 1905. Playwright, supporter of many left-wing causes and lifelong friend of both Dashiell Hammett and Dorothy Parker. Age, 21.

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle: Born May 22, 1859. Physician and writer. A Study in Scarlet appeared in Beeton’s Christmas Annual in 1887 introducing Sherlock Holmes to the world. Keen football goaltender, cricketer and golfer. Due to his efforts, the Court of Criminal Appeal was formed after his research exonerated two men of crimes they had not committed. After the death of his beloved wife, as well as many other family members, spiritualism became a powerful influence in his life. Age, 67.

Ian Fleming: Born May 28, 1908. Interested in the Navy, as well as writing fiction, nonfiction and children’s books. Educated near the estate of the ancestors of the Elizabethan spy, John Bond at a preparatory school on the Isle of Purbeck in Dorset. The Bond family motto was Non Sufficit Orbis, The World Is Not Enough. Age, 18.

Ernest Hemingway: Born July 21, 1899. Wounded during World War I in Italy as an ambulance driver. Young writer, whose first book The Sun Also Rises shows great potential. Enthusiastic participant in boxing, track and field, water polo and American football. Age, 27.

Pablo Picasso: Born October 25, 1881. Painter and sculptor. Once questioned about the theft of the Mona Lisa he was exonerated. Famous for his Blue Period and his influence on Cubism. His pictures would surely be appreciated for all time. Age, 45.

Bertrand Russell: Born May 18, 1872. Led revolt against idealism and was one of the founders of analytical philosophy. Went to jail for pacifism in World War I. Traveled Russia and met with Vladimir Ilyich Lenin. Also traveled in China. Age, 54.

D. H. Lawrence: Born September 11, 1885. Persecuted because of his writing, he left on a Savage pilgrimage and traveled the world. Age, 41.

C.S. Lewis: Born November 29, 1898. Experienced trench warfare in The Somme during the First World War. Close friends with J. R. R. Tolkien, they formed The Inklings who met privately for years before revealing themselves. Age, 28.

H. G. Wells: Born September 21, 1866. Herbert George Wells, The Father of Science Fiction, is a socialist and until World War I, a pacifist. Presently working on his latest manuscript, The Autocracy of Mr. Parham portraying the rise of fascist dictators. He predicts a World War beginning in 1940. Age, 60.

Marlene Dietrich: Born December 21, 1901. Actress and singer in silent movies. Active participant in the Berlin drag galas and one of the first women to wear men’s clothing. All who know her believe that she is a rising star. Age, 25.

John Ronald Reuel Tolkien: Born January 3, 1892. Better known as J. R. R. Served in The Somme like his close friend C.S. Lewis. As a professor at Pembroke College, Oxford, he worked on many manuscripts that he believes will never be published. Founding member of The Coalbiters, he introduced C.S. Lewis to the secret Inklings. Age, 34.

Albert Einstein: Born March 14, 1879. Won the Nobel Peace Prize in 1921 the same year that he won the Matteucci Medal. In 1925 he received the Copley Medal from the Royal Society. Age, 47.

T. S. Eliot: Born September 26, 1888. American by birth, and immigrated to England in 1914. His poetry led the modernist movement. Obsessed with Mark Twain’s Tom Sawyer. Possible affair between Bertrand Russell and Eliot’s wife. Age, 38.

Chapter One

A Most Peculiar Letter

As Agatha Christie’s governess, I had absolutely no warning that today was the day my role in her life would evolve from instructor to confidant. A mysterious letter had just arrived, and the contents, I deciphered, were most upsetting. That had not taken any great insight, since immediately upon opening the envelope Mr. and Mrs. Christie had a terrible row. Moments earlier, they had been discussing going on a trip to the United States of America to see the World’s Fair in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, when suddenly, the letter dramatically changed their discourse.

The previous governess had been let go for reasons that were never shared, and not wanting my employees to be upset, I practiced discretion in all matters. I stood discreetly behind my employer as her husband ranted. Mrs. Christie was no shrinking violet and she soon gave as good as she got. Having been in her employment long enough, I knew that once their argument was spent, they would leave the room silently and separately. I nervously adjusted my dress and tried to compose myself, while true to form, they both retreated to separate areas of the house. I found that witnessing yet another of their arguments was most upsetting. Mr. Christie’s cigar still burned in an oversized stone ashtray brought back from their world travels. I, of course, left the letter untouched, and more importantly, unread. After stubbing out the smoldering cigar, I folded his paper at the article about golfer Bobby Jones and placed it next to the book he read each evening, Arrowsmith, by Sinclair Lewis. I left the room and tiptoed down the hallway.

After these arguments, the Christies would always find separate rooms where they would sit boiling in silence. He, lighting another cigar in a sizeable study while sitting behind his rather ostentatious desk muttering and writing correspondence. She, in a small cramped room where a large overstuffed chair wrapped itself around her until she was lost in another plot. Cigarette after cigarette piled higher in an ashtray, a habit she would soon come to hate. The room listened to her murmured twists as another character died horribly.

Reverberating through the house was the song that Mrs. Christie so often played after an argument, the rather aptly named, Dead Man Blues, by Jelly Roll Morton. I always assumed that she did it to get under her husband’s skin, as often, he would yell from another floor for her to, Shut that bloody American music off! His bellowed protest was predictably responded to by a corresponding increase in the music’s volume.

Fortunately, my room was in the lower section of their structurally charming home. Named, Styles after Mrs. Christie’s first novel, it was located near Sunningdale, Berkshire. My bedroom looked out onto a wild English garden where every spring roses and lilacs fought for attention. Each morning I woke to their perfumes and was grateful for their gifts. On the more pleasant days, it was just Mrs. Christie, her young daughter Rosalind, her pet terrier Peter and me. We often spent our time puttering about as Mr. Christie spent more and more time at the nearest golf course, or after a disagreement, in London.

After this particular argument, a now accustomed frigid silence descended, signaling for me to either walk gingerly around the house, or to take dear Rosalind and not so dear Peter outside. Since the butterflies were just returning to this part of England, I did my best to distract the child as we played outside. As was her habit, Rosalind happily sang a little song. Unfortunately, if truth were told, she had a rather dreadful voice, but was as darling as a child could be. On the other hand, little Peter had a terrier yap and was generally annoying when not sleeping. Sometimes, we would toss the stick for Peter the Beast, as I called him, and laugh as he bounded about trying to nip at butterflies.

Some months ago, both dear Rosalind and I had been banned from the play swing after a rather embarrassing episode. We had both gotten carried away and I had pushed her slightly too enthusiastically while she was hollering, Higher, higher. She had in fact catapulted higher and it was with great chagrin that I sat in the hospital while Mrs. Christie chastised me. Eventually, Rosalind’s arm healed nicely.

Despite my best efforts, I will never know if Rosalind was aware of the gloom that so often emanated from the building that she called home. I often hoped that she would only remember the butterflies.

On this particular day, as I watched Mr. Christie rush out of the house in such a state that he forgot to close the garden gate before disappearing towards the train station, Mrs. Christie strode outside and thrust the letter that had caused all the commotion into my hand. At first, I thought she might accuse me of reading their private correspondence, when suddenly she hesitated. She glared, apparently contemplating my offence and then her face softened, as if deciding my betrayal was impossible. Tears formed in her eyes, but with the practiced English version of Greek stoicism, refused to allow them to trickle down her cheek. Instead of an accusation I was startled to hear a half-sobbed request, Please read this.

I was actually rather shocked since until that very moment our relationship had been purely professional. Mrs. Christie was a very likeable person, and the thought that there was a certain intimacy between us made me feel valued. I was, for the first time and without fully realizing it, taking on the role of confidant. It is with great pride that I can say that over time, we became quite close and that this was the exact moment that I first became Mrs. Christie’s trusted friend.

The letter itself was definitely mysterious, but the only thing I could perceive that would cause such a row was that the words themselves were thick and sort of pawed onto the paper. Clearly a man’s writing and addressed to Mrs. Christie. I also deduced not only from the scrawl itself but also from the tone that there was no delicate female influence. It also ended oddly in that it was signed, Urgent… Your Empire and I need you. No name was attached to it.

It was a simple enough request for Agatha Christie to meet someone named Moe Berg who apparently represented our old colonies in America. Apparently, he was claiming to be involved in a diplomatic mission of the most sensitive nature. I read that he was on his way to the Kingdom of Yugoslavia, a country that I vaguely remember hearing about, but could not have pointed to on a map, and that he would only be in London for two days. The letter went on to say he would be meeting someone with the rather astonishing name of, Abd al-Aziz ibn Saud in a country that was soon going to be known as Saudi Arabia!

I had no delusions of being a detective, despite Mrs. Christie’s persistent queries about different characters and plot twists that she mused upon. When asked, I always tried to give my honest opinion as I was raised to do, but never did I entertain even the remotest thought that I was as clever as the characters in my employer’s novels. I was nevertheless fascinated by this correspondence. Why did this man have a need to tell Mrs. Christie that he would be visiting strange and exotic countries?

After accepting my position as governess, I had made it my business to know my place within the household. I was low person on the totem pole and accepted my position gratefully. One winter evening as we sat in front of a roaring fire with me knitting and Mrs. Christie frantically scribbling notes for another book, she kindly pointed out, Western Indians always put the most important figure of their totem on the bottom. Not at the top, as we so-called ‘civilized’ assume. So when we forget our British manners and replace them with our contemptible British snobbery by treating you as the least among us, please dear Charlotte, choose to see it as a sign of respect. I had always remembered her generosity that night, as well as it being the first time she had addressed me by my Christian name. Mrs. Christie did not need to acknowledge my bustling about to please her family’s every whim, but she did, and for that I appreciated her sensitivity and graciousness.

Now, however, it seemed that my role was to be somewhat more intimate. Despite our growing familiarity, one could not imagine my dismay when Mrs. Christie asked if I would actually consider meeting this Moe Berg character on her behalf. She did me the kindness of explaining, despite a quivering lip that revealed either anger at her husband or disappointment with herself, Apparently Mr. Christie absolutely forbids me. She then added, My dear Charlotte, I do not want to impose and I want it to be perfectly clear that I ask this intrusion as a friend, not as your employer. There may be some danger involved and you may, of course, without reservation, decline.

Danger?

Some. I believe the man to be safe enough, but his business condemns him to the rather sordid side of life, and some of those elements may be near.

I glanced again at the letter and realized that I was, rather Mrs. Christie was, requested to meet him in a park near the Thames River. It was clearly suggested that she come alone. I deduced that meeting in a crowded park would indeed be safe, and discovering some false bravado, pretentiously accepted my assignment.

No need for such seriousness. Mrs. Christie dabbed at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. The pollen this year seems unusually bad. I did her the dignity of agreeing and she continued, He most likely wants to simply share some information.

So you have met him before?

A few times. Please understand, Mr. C. is well aware of my acquaintance with this man. They in fact have an understanding. She hesitated before adding, Nothing untoward dear Miss Fisher. We are old friends who have similar interests.

Emboldened by my new role in my employer’s life I asked, These interests might be?

Her eye’s squinted at my indiscretion, but considering what she was asking of me, I thought it to be a fair question. She apparently agreed. To be honest…words.

Words? I blurted.

Yes Charlotte, the written word, newspapers, books, all forms of words. We both have a… for the first time I perceived the wit that would become so a part of my life, shall we say a ‘fetish’ for words.

I decided that to ask more would be impudent, so queried only when I should leave.

Immediately, she responded while blowing her nose.

Chapter Two

An Adventure

Although no longer uncommon for a woman to travel alone, I had seldom been so adventurous, and despite it being a short trip, I found my assignment wonderfully exotic. To meet a stranger, especially a man, who may have some dangerous inclinations, was not only exhilarating, it made me feel as if I was a character in one of my famous employer’s novels.

Even as a child, I had not been good at spur-of-the-moment activities. I was a plodder, in both mind and deed. Not slow-witted mind you, just thorough, which made packing for such a spontaneous adventure more frantic than need be, or so Mrs. Christie pointed out. Despite her gentle encouragement to, Get on with it, I could not decide what one should wear to a meeting with an American diplomat in a London park. How long would I need to stay in the metropolis? Would I have time to change from the train ride to a proper walking outfit? As if reading my mind, or perhaps to hurry me along, Mrs. Christie slipped money into my purse and explained, This should help meet any needs that you might have.

As with any of my impromptu adventures, I did the best that I could. Despite my trepidation of not having the correct attire, I closed my suitcase, took a quick glance around to see if there was anything else that I might need, and then rushed to where Mrs. Christie waited.

After her surprisingly genuine hug, I became flustered and stumbled out the front door where I found myself rather painfully on my knees. My purse and suitcase of course spewed their contents across the path leading to the street, and Peter the Beast took it upon himself to scoop up my delicates and race around the neighborhood. With an almost manic glee from clenched teeth he waved his trophies so that the entire neighborhood could revel in his flag of honor. I don’t recall ever seeing his large black ears flap with such joy. Sadly, Mrs. Christie did not help the situation when she hiked her skirt above her ankles and raced after the dear, sweet little beast. All decorum was now lost as I struggled off my knees to see a number of good English gentlemen, with the very best of intentions, make the situation even more intolerable as they dashed to my employer’s assistance.

Along lane and side street I could hear Mrs. Christie’s screeching voice yelling, Peter…bad dog! Come back here with Miss Fisher’s clothes! Occasionally, I caught a painful glimpse of the herd running up one cobbled street before vanishing behind houses. Seconds later, they could be seen dashing down an alley, through someone’s yard, under drying laundry and over park benches, all the while Peter’s black floppy ears bounced with great joy.

I was actually quite impressed with Mrs. Christie’s dexterity and quickness. No doubt these skills came from all those years of roller-skating in Torquay as a youngster on the Princess Pier, a quarter-mile boardwalk that would one day become part of The Agatha Christie Mile, a place for tourists to walk in her footsteps and see the same sights she had enjoyed as a child.

The remainder of the neighborhood tittered and covered their snickering while I attempted to recover some semblance of decorum. A task of which I am confident that I succeeded magnificently, despite limping after the beast, Mrs. Christie and a dozen good English gentlemen.

After this horrifically embarrassing incident ended with complete and total victory by the beast, I returned to gather the remaining articles of clothes and stuff them into my suitcase. I limped past the neighborhood while looking neither to the left nor to the right. With eyes firmly set on the horizon, I strode dignified past stifled guffaws.

In front of all her friends and fans, Mrs. Christie came over and we proudly walked their gauntlet together. She loudly explained that she would be accompanying me by carriage to town, and proceeded to hail a hansom cab. For an employer to assist her child’s governess was a statement not missed by the common rabble. Sitting beside the rising star of English literature in a regal-looking horse and buggy that Prime Minister Disraeli once called, The gondolas of London, I felt like a member of the British aristocracy.

Playing at being a member of the upper crust, I adjusted my bonnet and listened to the hooves of our trotting horse resonate on the cobblestones. When I glanced down a narrow back alley, I spied Peter the Beast joyfully ripping and tearing my finest clothes while a pack of motley hounds watched. No doubt some form of canine initiation as his audience barked approvingly.

After arriving at the station, my wonderful traveling companion refused to leave my side. We sat on a bench like old school chums waiting for the London train. I patted my purse where she had placed the money, and privately made a solemn oath not to waste my employer’s earnings and to fulfill my quest expediently. I would make this grand lady, who sat beside me like a commoner, proud.

Others eventually joined us on the waiting platform; some came straggling in alone while others arrived in groups. Suddenly and without fanfare, the great monster of a train arrived. I had traveled some of our wondrous country, but mostly as a child and under the supervision of my parents. The thought came to me that this would be my first real adventure alone.

Mrs. Christie rather informally announced, Carlo, a moniker that was to become her term of affection for me, if you succeed in your mission, I have decided to officially ordain you into the OFD.

OFD? I asked.

Yes, she replied with great gravity, The Order of the Faithful Dogs. I could not tell if she was being serious or mocking, but then she hugged me and added, My husband Archie is forever banished to the OOR.

OOR? I queried.

She held me tight and whispered, The Order of Rats. I knew that instant she was being completely sincere. She added, Remember to use your little gray cells. I found this a peculiar statement until years later when she used this same phrase for one of her more famous characters.

Small steps were placed near the train’s entrance so that passengers could more easily gain access. Those saying farewell to friends and family crowded close, and compartment windows slid down allowing arms to wave last good-byes.

I watched from just inside as Mrs. Christie snapped her fingers for a cab. Suddenly to my horror, I spotted my suitcase beside the bench that we had been sitting on. Shoving my way back through the crowd of well-wishers, apologizing along the way, I was able to grab my suitcase handle just moments before a stranger reached for it. Trying to hide my lack of confidence, I stupidly took on airs. With unrelenting shame, I admit to being rude to a poor porter who was simply doing his job. It was just that I had never seen such a dark-skinned man before and I was rather startled. His Indian accent did nothing to alleviate my reaction.

Fortunately, the bobby who quickly arrived due to my shouted protests had a rather jovial attitude, for which, in time, I was both surprised and thankful. He quickly intervened and brought decorum to a tug-of-war that was going on between the stranger and myself. Once the mishap was straightened out and apologies given, of which I made sure to do my share, the incident was considered closed, although I could not forget it. Shame does not leave me easily, and I believe that to be a good trait.

After my embarrassing misunderstanding with the porter, I kept my head down, one white-knuckled hand firmly in control of my suitcase, my other hand with a vice-like grip on my purse—and all the time avoiding eye contact. Nevertheless, I did have to be a tad aggressive to jostle my way back to a train that was already huffing steam in preparation of departure.

Shoving aside those who were merely waving good-bye to those lucky enough to already be ensconced on the train, of which I should have been one, made me flush slightly with the effort. I tried waving to the man who was yelling, Last call…all aboard but he either did not see me or simply didn’t care. He did care moments later, however, when with one mighty heave my suitcase missed his torso by inches. I mistakenly assumed that if my belongings were on the train, then the monstrosity would have to wait for me.