There are books you pick up because you planned to, and there are books that pick you. The Case of the Missing Lady, one of Agatha Christie’s breeziest and most mischievous short stories from the Tommy & Tuppence canon, arrived in my life not with the structured intent of a reading list but with the scattered rhythm of a monsoon.
It was 2015. The kind of year that starts with an uncertain mood and ends with a sigh. Kolkata that July was wrapped in a melancholia you could smell—wet earth, diesel fumes, and the ghost of sunless days. A depression had gripped the Bay of Bengal, and for three days straight, it rained like the sky had misplaced something it couldn't get back.
Our home had turned into a damp cocoon. The lights were dim even at noon. The air smelt of old paperbacks and ginger tea. My phone had died a noble death the previous evening. There was no television. And there, buried somewhere under a stack of half-read books and school registers, I found a slim, tired-looking volume with Agatha Christie’s name printed in fading serif. It was a short story collection, and nestled within it—unassuming, barely 10 pages long—was The Case of the Missing Lady.
Now, let’s talk about this curious case.
Unlike Christie’s more famous creations like Poirot or Miss Marple, Tommy and Tuppence Beresford are not classic detectives. They’re partners in crime—in both investigation and marriage. They’re light-hearted, flirtatious, often impulsive, and operate on intuition as much as deduction. In many ways, they are Christie’s most “modern” duo. Less pipe-smoking analysis, more cheeky banter and cloak-and-dagger.
In The Case of the Missing Lady, the story opens with Tommy returning from a polar expedition—yes, quite literally from an expedition to the ends of the earth—only to be met with unexpected news: his fiancée, the beautiful and elusive Gabrielle, has vanished. Tommy is desperate, and with Tuppence by his side, they embark on a search that leads them from drawing rooms to dodgy nursing homes, from haughty aristocrats to deceptive caretakers.
But—and this is where Christie winks at us—the missing lady isn’t quite who we think she is. Without dropping spoilers, let’s just say that identity is fluid in this story, and appearances, as always in Christie’s world, are masks. The twist is not just clever but impishly ironic, the kind of reveal that makes you snort rather than gasp.
What stayed with me most, though, wasn’t the resolution—it was the mood. There’s something remarkably theatrical about the entire piece. The story is draped in a faint absurdity, and Tuppence, ever the quick-witted firebrand, moves through it with a confidence that makes her the engine of the narrative. Tommy plays the straight man here, the lovesick gentleman slightly out of depth, while Tuppence remains unbothered, curious, and ever so slightly amused.
Reading it during those three relentless days of rain gave the story an extra texture. Our walls sweated with humidity. The cat stared out at the courtyard like it was waiting for Noah’s Ark. And here I was, traveling through foggy London streets and sanitarium corridors with two Edwardian detectives looking for a woman who may not even exist.
I remember the moment I reached the final line. I chuckled—not a loud laugh, but that internal grin that says, “Well played, Dame Agatha.” It wasn’t a tale of murder or a grand conspiracy; it was sleight-of-hand with lipstick and lace. A featherweight story, yes, but delightful in its structure and timing.
I’ve often been asked what makes Agatha Christie endure, especially in an age where mystery is now drenched in gore and psychological trauma. My answer, especially after re-reading stories like this one, is simple: she respected the reader. She wrote mysteries that flirted with the reader’s assumptions. And she knew how to fold a plot into itself like a skilled origamist. The Case of the Missing Lady isn’t her most famous trick, but it’s certainly one of her cleverer card shuffles.
Now, on a more personal note, that 2015 monsoon was a peculiar one for me. I was in between chapters of my own life—career uncertainties, familial duties piling up like unopened envelopes, and a strange sense of stillness that hung in the air. The rain was both metaphor and mirror. It kept me in place. It reminded me of things unfinished.
And maybe that’s why this short story mattered. Because Tommy and Tuppence didn’t stay still. They ran headlong into the fog. They laughed. They improvised. They questioned. They reminded me that sometimes, the best way to survive confusion is not to over-analyze, but to act—to move, to engage, to trust your gut and go looking for your missing lady, even if she turns out to be an illusion.
After finishing the story, I did something very uncharacteristic. I read it again. Not because I hadn’t understood it the first time, but because it had left behind a light, teasing aftertaste. Like a tune stuck in your head. Or a scent you can’t quite place.
In that second reading, I noticed things I’d missed—subtle phrasing, cheeky foreshadowing, how Christie manipulated tone with just a change in sentence length. The writing was tighter than it first seemed. Each paragraph was doing three things at once: moving the plot, deepening the mystery, and building character. That’s craftsmanship you don’t often see in today’s content-saturated storytelling.
And let’s not forget Tuppence. She remains, to this day, one of my favorite female characters in Christie’s universe. She’s witty, observant, unfazed by pomp or power, and gloriously unconventional. If I were to teach this story in a classroom, I’d pitch it as an early example of a female character refusing to be boxed into a sidekick or femme fatale. Tuppence walks the line between logic and intuition. She's a feminist without the poster—sharp, self-aware, and joyfully in charge.
In comparison to the rest of the Christie-verse, The Case of the Missing Lady is a soufflé—light, airy, and not meant to be overburdened with moral gravity. It’s a palate cleanser between darker novels. But sometimes, soufflé is exactly what the soul needs—especially when the outside world is all water and gray.
That old volume has long since yellowed further. The pages curl a little now. But it sits proudly on my shelf—a reminder that even the shortest tales, read during the most unassuming moments, can linger. That year, the rains did eventually stop. The depression cleared. And I, too, moved on to other stories, other seasons.
But every time July rolls around and the thunder growls across the Hooghly, I find myself reaching for that little story again. And just like that, I'm back in 2015. Back in that room. Watching the rain. And solving one last case with Tommy and Tuppence.