When Poirot Met Sherlock
Inspiration: In the December of 1926, Agatha Christie went missing from her home in Sunningdale. The police dubbed it as the most famous disappearance, with suspicions of suicide and elopement. The case was aided by none other than Arthur Conan Doyle, his efforts leading to Christie being discovered, 11 days later, at a spa in Harrowgate. Albeit unhurt, Agatha Christie had no memory of the eleven days, when she had disappeared.
3rd December, 1926, Sunningdale.
Agatha Christie is not a detective.
She wished those words would appear on her forehead, each time someone came up to her for advice on a personal mystery.
She stood in a shop, named Fiona’s Boutique, as the owner, Mr Sherman Fields, trembled before her.
‘Mrs Christie, thank God,’ he said, gripping her hands, ‘There is evil, evil, I say.’
‘Mr Fields,’ said Agatha, placing a hand on his shoulder, ‘I am here to help. Please, calm down. Begin from the beginning.’
Shutting the door and drawing the blinds. He led her to an attic.
‘Martha,’ he called, drawing a girl to the room, ‘Tea, please.’
‘You rest, Mr Fields. I will do it,’ said the girl, regarding Agatha with half a glance, before making a fuss with Mr Fields.
‘My only son has been murdered,’ he said, looking Agatha in the eye, ‘I am sure of it. I just need to prove it.’
Agatha stared at the man.
‘Is your son missing?’ she said.
‘He has been murdered.’
The bell at the door rang, making Mr Field gasp.
Agatha made her way to the door, opening it to find a man, barely twenty, holding a parcel.
‘Hello,’ said the man, looking at the ground, ‘I’ve brought this bread for Papa.’
‘Papa?’ Agatha stared in disbelief, ‘Do you mean Mr Fields?’
‘Sherman Fields, yes.’
‘My son has been murdered, you have to believe me.’
‘Good day, Papa,’ slurred the boy, before turning on his heel.
‘I just need to prove it,’ blabbered Mr Fields.
‘This is madness,’ Agatha remarked, ‘Your son-.’
‘Just brought in some bread,’ came a different man’s voice, making her turn suddenly, ‘That is the mystery, Agatha Christie.’
Agatha gasped, taking in the man, aged, handsome, with elegant, white moustaches, and eyes shining with solemn fondness as Agatha grinned.
‘Arthur Conan Doyle,’ she said, curtseying.
‘Perhaps it is fate that brings us together in these, suspicious, circumstances.’
‘You mean you-,’
‘Have my services employed for this case, yes.’
‘Mr Doyle, I don’t mean to be untoward but you and I are not detectives. If that man with the bread is indeed Mr Fields’ son, then, this is a case for the neurologist.’
‘A moment, Mrs Christie,’ Doyle said, taking Agatha to the side. He spoke to Mr Fields for a while, before letting the man rest in the attic and joining Agatha in the shop.
‘Here’s the case from the horse’s mouth. Mr Fields and his son Jonah run this boutique. Fourteen days ago, Jonah Fields set off for Surrey to nurse a broken heart. The boy didn’t write or wire for eleven days, and on the twelfth day, he came back with a loaf of bread, but Mr Fields is convinced that the Jonah who has returned is not his son, albeit he looks, speaks and conducts himself exactly way Jonah did. I have a photograph to aid the description.’
‘Is this really a mystery?’
‘Do you not feel it, Mrs Christie?’
Agatha shut her eyes, momentarily, before speaking.
‘Where did Jonah go for a holiday?’
Doyle lit a pipe, his eyes shining with non-smiling satisfaction.
‘The Silent Pool, Surrey.’
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On the morning of 4th December, 1926, a Morris Cowley car was found on the banks of a lake, called “The Silent Pool” in Surrey. Agatha Christie has been reported missing from her home, in Sunningdale, following a row with her husband Archibald Christie.
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Doyle remained hidden from Martha, the receptionist in Mr Fields’ shop. It had been a week since Agatha had taken off on the path of Jonah Fields, and like him, there had been no word.
Then, the doorbell rang.
Martha answered it, aloof to Doyle’s presence, taking the packet of bread from Jonah Fields. She patted the boy on his head.
Doyle frowned. He crept out from behind the rack, catching a glimpse of a slip of paper, sliding down Jonah’s collar.
He waited till Martha made her way upstairs, before making his way to the reception.
He picked a page and chequebook, lying on the chair, only to see a page filled with Mr Fields’ signature.
‘Why would he sign all over a page?’ Doyle whispered.
He held his breath as Martha’s footsteps inched closer as realisation struck him.
‘Why would she sign all over a page using his signature?’
Doyle stole away behind the rack, near the telephone desk, just as Martha took a seat. As if on cue, the telephone rang, its sound muffled amidst the clothes.
‘Do not be fooled by deep blue eyes,’ came a female voice, as Doyle answered the phone.
‘They do it with mirrors,’ he whispered, ‘Mrs Christie, pray tell.’
‘The bread, Doyle,’ Agatha cried, ‘Sparkling Cyanide.’
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Putting up a facade about being a woman jilted in love, in need for peace wasn’t hard. Its truthfulness scared her, till Agatha saw the proceedings at the spa at Harrowgate, where she’d been taken from the Pool.
She pretended to be an heiress, Teresa Neele, before feigning the ailment of sleepwalking to deduce the most barbaric experiments she’d ever seen.
Three individuals, one of them being Jonah Fields, had been brought to the spa, on the pretext of curing their broken hearts. Each day, a “healer” would feed them sweet toffees and keep them awake all night, till they resembled pale ghosts. The healer would then send them to three different homes, allegedly those of their families, with supplies, which Agatha discovered, were laced with cyanide, on her latest sleepwalk.
No wonder Mr Fields thought Jonah was murdered. He was drugged, with no self control. Just a living corpse.
Agatha was to be one the potential experiments but she was considered too weak and her “family” was untraceable.
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Arthur Conan Doyle sat by Sherman Fields, while the latter shoved the new loaf of bread in the trash. The man never ate the bread, and his own apprehensions had kept him alive.
Doyle held a book of cheques in his hand, glancing at the clock.
At the stroke of twelve, the doorbell rang.
Doyle made his way down, stopping on the penultimate step as Martha opened the door, revealing the police.
The commotion drew Mr Fields from his room, while Martha stood frozen at the threshold.
‘Miss Martha,’ said the Inspector, ‘You are hereby charged with embezzling funds from the Fiona’s Boutique, under a false name. Here’s the warrant for your arrest.’
‘But, but-,’ Martha stammered.
‘It’s true, isn’t it?’ said Doyle, ‘You knew this boutique isn’t just a rustic shop. You make for the Queen, don’t you, Mr Fields? It is a humble secret. Luring Jonah Fields from Surrey, drugging him, making him unwittingly poison his own father and then trapping him for patricide before parting with the Royal Payment through forged cheques. A lovely way to do business.’
‘Thank you, Sir,’ said the bobby, leading Martha out.
‘Go to the spa at Harrowgate,’ Doyle said, ‘You will find this woman’s vile cult and the closure of another case.’
‘Jonah, drugged, framed for patricide? The Queen! What if she finds out? I’m ruined,’ Mr Fields cried.
Doyle lit a pipe, closing the case on his side.
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14th December, 1926.
Agatha Christie seen walking out of spa at Harrowgate.
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‘Mrs Christie,’ said the inspector, interrogating Agatha, ‘Can you confirm that Jonah Fields was involved in illegal hypnotic experiments?’
She glanced at Mr Fields and Doyle, waiting outside the room, before turning to the police.
‘I have not the slightest idea.’
By: Samiksha Deshpande
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