Whatever happened to Agatha Christie?

   Mysterious and more mysterious! Agatha Christie vanished from the public eye for eleven days.  Where did  she go, what did she do and why did she do it?  Still a mystery!  This is my guess—enjoy!

 December, 1926:  Sidney, third Earl of Barchester, sank deep into his leather chair. It had been a rough day at the London Stock Exchange. The family fortunes had been sadly depleted by his grandfather, the first Earl, who was part of the infamous Prince of Wales in-group.  How Victoria must have grieved over her frivolous son, so different from her dear and faithful Albert.  No sense in going back for it would only break the heart.  Sidney’s father had made sure that his son had had business training.  Of course, the estate in Yorkshire was long gone due to death duties but financially, Sidney was hanging in there. 
He sat enjoying his Scotch and soda; Bertha his wife had departed for her parents’ stately home in Kent with servants and children in tow. His eyes misted over as he imagined his children rejoicing in the Yuletide preparations.  He envisioned them dragging in the Yule log, watching the servants baking mince pies, plum puddings and fruit cakes. Margaret, his mother-in-law, she of the imperious blue eyes and arched eyebrows, ruled her servants with a rod of iron. She had picked this habit up in India where she had spent her childhood; her English boarding school had further enforced her imperialistic attitude.

 The phone rang, “Barchester here.”
 “Sidney, tis I, Agatha and I am devastated.”

 “Agatha, you and your amazing imagination. You know that you are now a household name with the publication of your mystery novel The Murder of Roger Ackroyd, the literary event of 1926. What could possibly be disturbing you, my clever precious?”

“It is that bastard Archie.  After twelve years of marriage, he has told me that he is going to leave me, in spite of our darling daughter.  He is taking off with his secretary and is seeking a divorce. You know how much I dislike the idea of divorce. I wanted to talk to you—you have been so supportive.”

 “Agatha, what do you expect of me? I am anticipating the Yuletide season with Bertha’s family in Kent so it will have to be a short sojourn.  Does sound intriguing though and you are my favourite mystery woman. Drive to Guildford, south west of London. Abandon the car but leave your fur coat and driver’s license in the car.  The police will suspect foul play and this will give us time. Call me from the nearest phone booth and I will pick you up. You and I are about to embark on the perfect lovers’ tryst and it will be our secret for all time.”

 Sidney, forty years later:

 “Had I known then that she would amass a fortune, I think that I would have had her stay for more than eleven days. But what a magical eleven days.  I cancelled all deliveries including newspapers, bread and milk. I had the phone service discontinued until further notice. She didn’t write, she barely cooked and when she did cook, she did it barely. Others know her as that magnificent mystery writer but I still see her shapely posterior as she stirred the humble porridge pot. Oh Agatha, my Agatha, I will carry the memory to my grave.  But I do resent the fact that later, she glossed over those eleven days as if they had never happened. But that’s my girl—the mystery writer. Where would the world be today without Miss Marple and the Vicar downing a good pot of tea and solving it all? Long live mystery—it certainly livens up the village green.”