This locked-room puzzle is worse than I imagined. I had assumed that we’d find a back entrance or window that sloppy gendarmes failed to observe. Or that the washroom contained shadowy corners where a young woman might be interfered with or snatched. Or, in the unlikely circumstance that May had a hand in her own vanishing—as did, I suspect, someone else I know—there was another way out. But examining this washroom, I see that none of these theories holds water.
How did May exit this washroom without drawing the attention of Celia, who stood just outside the single door? And if May herself wasn’t responsible, why would anyone go to such lengths to abscond with a middle-class British nurse from Chiswick and Ealing Isolation Hospital on a day trip to France?
“Puis-je vous offrir une serviette, madame?” the washroom attendant asks, one quizzical eyebrow raised, as I loiter at the sinks.
How long have I been standing here while my mind whirs? I have no idea. I suppose I should play along, wash my hands, and take theoffered hand towel, even though I don’t need to wash up because I didn’t use the facilities. I see that Margery and Ngaio are acting the part and lathering up. Where are Agatha and Emma?
“Oui, merci,” I say, accepting the towel and draping it across my forearm while I suds up. The attendant has probably seen all sorts of frights far worse than a preoccupied middle-aged Englishwoman staring at the sinks. Might she have even been on duty on October 16? The police report had been emphatic that the attendant witnessed nothing.
Pretending at a casual exchange as I finish and place a tip in her jar, I ask, “Avez-vous travaillé longtemps à la gare?”
“Non, Madame, j’ai commencé ce poste le mois dernier seulement.” She explains that she only took the job last month.
Wishing her a good day, I leave thetoilettes,and Margery and Ngaio aren’t far behind. I see Agatha and Emma leaning against the tiled corridor wall just outside the washroom. Intentionally or not, they stand in the position Celia would have assumed. I take a spot alongside them, observing women and girls come and go from the washroom, some in haste, others at leisure. A clock is mounted on the wall at the end of the hallway, and I imagine that Celia must have been watching that second hand tick. She probably waited with mounting impatience for her friend to come out. They had a ferry to catch, after all, and May had their tickets.
By all accounts, Celia waited five minutes for May, at which point the ferry was due to depart in another five minutes. Was her fury mounting? Or was she concerned about her friend? According to Madame Brat, May had been unwell earlier in the day. Whether she was in a huff or not, Celia then marched into thetoilettes,hunting down her friend and calling out her name. To no avail.
“Any locked-room stories come to mind that might apply?” I ask the women, hoping for inspiration.
“There’s that the Father Brown story ‘The Arrow of Heaven.’ Gilbert had the millionaire shot to death with an arrow in a locked room,” Ngaio offers.
“True,” Emma replies. “But it contains an arrow used in an unorthodox way, so it’s not helpful.”
“Agatha, you wrote a locked-room story with Poirot, didn’t you?” I ask.
She nods. “‘The Market Basing Mystery.’ A wealthy recluse holed up in his bedroom seems to have shot himself, and Poirot discovers that the gun is found in the wrong hand. It’s a locked-room scenario, but I don’t think its resolution would have any bearing here.”
I feel stuck and frustrated.
But then, as I watch the ingress and egress of the travelers, the words of the agent at the Gare Maritime return to me: “One plain English girl looks very much like another, especially in a crowd.” Suddenly I can picture the “how” of May’s disappearance.
Chapter Seventeen
MARCH 24, 1931
BOULOGNE-SUR-MER,FRANCE
“Can we agree that anyone entering or exiting the washroom must pass through this narrow hallway?” I step back from the corridor wall and study the women’s faces as I ask.
The women nod, but I watch Emma’s eyebrow arch like a question mark.
“Can we also agree that Celia would have been standing approximately where you are right now?”
“Yes,” Ngaio says. “Why are you asking?”
“Indulge me a few minutes more. So Celia would have been within inches of anyone coming out of or going into the washroom?”
They nod once more, but Margery asks, “Why are you reviewing these basic points? I thought we’d been through these particular details.”
“It will all become clear when I return. Might I ask you to stay right here until I do?”
Agatha answers for the group. “Of course, Dorothy. Do what you must.”
The women look at me curiously but remain in their positions. I scurry back into the washroom, past the attendant at the sinks and three women finishing up washing their hands, and race intoan empty stall. There, in that narrow space, I remove a wide plum-and-black-patterned shawl from my handbag, unfold it, and drape it over most of my gray wool coat. Then I slide out the ingenious rubberized wide-brimmed black rain hat I’d purchased at the millinery yesterday and replace my cloche with it. Carefully tucking my hair into the rain hat, I yank it down low on my forehead and put on my reading glasses, the ones I rarely wear in public.
Leaving the stall, I wash my hands in the sink until six women quit their stalls and begin using the adjacent sinks. I lather slowly and take my time drying my fingers on the linen cloth the attendant provides. Checking my image one last time in the mirror, I adjust the scarf to cover not only my coat but also my handbag, and I tilt the rain hat so that one side of the brim hangs lower than the other.
Then I wait for the other women in the washroom to exit.
