“May we keep this?” she asks.
“Of course not. It is my last copy, and I need to keep it for those in charge.” His expression is smug, and his message clear: she is no official, unworthy of his time and documents. And while he has a point, his tone is unbearable. “I cannot be distributing this document to justanyone.”
At this, Emma seems to have reached her limit. Her cheeks bloom red, and her shoulders square as if facing off against an enemy. It is my turn to step in.
Sliding him pictures of May and Celia, I say, “You may have seen these photographs before. Were you on duty on October 16, the day these women arrived on the ferry?”
“Oui.”
“Do you recognize either of these young women?”
As he studies the photographs and newspaper clippings—which I borrowed from Mac’s files—a horn bellows. Through one of the arched windows on the wall opposite, I see sailors laying a gangway from a ship to the terminal. Suddenly, other uniformed station workers appear, readying to receive the hundreds of passengers assembling on the gangway and the deck of the ship.
In this morass, I spot Agatha, Ngaio, and Margery. They are being ushered out of the Gare Maritime customs area, a uniformed staff member at each of their elbows.
What have they done? I’m tempted to race over and see what sort of jam they’ve gotten themselves into, but duty to May requires that I finish with this boor first.
“No, I do not recollect either of these faces.” He pushes the pictures back to me. “Now if you will be so kind as to excuse yourselves.”
How rude,I think, but I say nothing, lest I risk missing out on whatever minuscule crumb he might be willing to share.
“You are certain?” I push one last time.
“Madame.” His lip curls again as he looks to the dozens of people streaming into the station. “As I told the gendarmes, one plain English girl looks very much like another, especially in a crowd.”
Chapter Twelve
MARCH 23, 1931
BOULOGNE-SUR-MER,FRANCE
Emma and I race over to the others as best we are able. Agatha, Ngaio, and Margery have been backed into a corner of the Gare Maritime by a uniformed official who seems to be lecturing them. Their faces are blank and confused, of course, because their French is limited. Before we reach them, a police officer has joined the station agent.
The gendarme’s finger now points at them, and he shouts, “Le panneau indiqué clairementNE PAS ENTRER.”
“Apologies, Officer,” I say in French as I try to catch my breath. “My friends do not speak French, so they didn’t understand that the sign statedDO NOT ENTER.”
He turns his dark, angry eyes on me. “That is no excuse. The women entered a restricted customs zone. And continued onward even after this agent”—he gestures to the Gare Maritime official—“called to them.”
“They are awfully sorry,” Emma adds, offering him her sweetest little-old-lady expression.
Reaching into his jacket, the gendarme pulls out a small pad of paper and a pencil. “Contrition is irrelevant. They broke the law and must be cited for it.”
“Please,” I beg, “do not cite them. We are just five English ladieshere to tour your beautiful city, and these women had no ill intent.” I shoot them a glance. “Their only crime is ignorance.”
He hesitates, giving the threesome a once-over. “They should consider themselves warned. I will not hold back a second time. Now go!”
Emma and I grab the women by their hands and lead them out of the station. As we slink away, I wonder,Have I orchestrated yet another opportunity for this glorious group of women to be slighted?I hope this treatment doesn’t put the Queens off entirely.
“All we were doing was peering at the passengers as they left their ship,” Margery complains. “We didn’t need to be manhandled in such a rough way.”
“I do believe Ngaio crossed over the official customs line as she stared at the passengers’ arrival,” Agatha explains. “A line that had been clearly demarcated on the ground in yellow paint and placed there to better sort passengers by nationality for customs purposes.”
Ngaio shrugs. “Lesson learned. I still don’t think the punishment fits the crime.”
“Near punishment,” I say, correcting her. “Emma and I arrived in time to waylay the formal citation.”
Margery’s expression is sheepish. “Thank you. Did you two have better luck?” she asks, deftly changing the subject.
