In her favorite armchair, deep within the confines of her Berkshire home, Mrs. Archibald Christie leaned back and closed her eyes. In spite of the cozy fire, she shivered on the chilly December evening.
Mentally, she replayed the whirlwind of events as best she could in her addled mind. The death of her beloved mother, taken well before her time. The runaway success of her sixth novel, The Murder of Roger Ackroyd — what a profitable hobby her passion was turning into. Her beautiful, creative daughter, sweet Rosalind, how she deserved better than this.
And, of course, she thought of Archie … her husband of 12 years … her dear husband, Archie, who didn’t particularly want children, who now seemed to want … that woman.
She must not think of Archie … Was it really his intention to leave them alone? Had he demanded a divorce or had she only imagined it? Yet here she was, just 36, alone, still mourning the death of a parent and now facing the loss of her husband and home. She shivered again.
How she longed to be free of it all, to get away. Could it work? She could not tell yet where the story, her story, would end. But she knew where it would start. Her business was mystery, after all.
And then, with a cold feeling around her heart, she methodically — like one of her dastardly villains — climbed the stairs, kissed her sleeping daughter and packed a bag and coat before climbing into her green Morris Cowley motorcar and driving off into the winter night.
That Friday, Dec. 3, 1926, at 21:45 hours, Agatha Christie, the Queen of Crime and the woman the Guinness World Records book calls the best-selling novelist of all time, engineered what remains her greatest mystery of all: her own unsolved disappearance.
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Photo Attribution: By Kenny Louie from Vancouver, Canada (Mystery collection) [CC BY 2.0 (http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/2.0)], via Wikimedia Commons