“Miss Daniels appears to have died from strangulation.”
I gasp. Even though I knew that sort of violence was possible, I hadn’t prepared myself for it.
“But that’s not all. There was a great deal of blood in the soil underneath the body,” she continues.
This is a strange finding given the cause of death. “Did the coroner find other wounds on the body? Aside from the strangulation marks, I mean.”
“No. And the authorities appear perplexed.”
I’m confused as well. Where would all the blood emanate from if May had no other injuries? Strangulation generally doesn’t yield an abundance of blood.
The woman stares at me, her expression inscrutable but pushing me onward. She will say no more—that I can see. I must draw the next conclusions on my own.
And then it dawns on me. “There are other places from which women bleed.”
The shopkeeper nods at me, as if I’m a student who’s finally mastered a lesson.
I thank the woman and gather the others to leave.When the shop door closes behind us, the women stare at me, waiting for my revelations. I indicate a nearby park bench. As I take a spot at the center of the hard wrought-iron seat and they flank me, it occurs to me that this must be the park where May spent a few moments alone on that fateful October day.
“The autopsy apparently shows injuries to the neck consistent with strangulation. Despite the fact that there were no other wounds on the body, a great deal of Miss Daniels’s blood was discovered in the soil underneath her. The police are perplexed by this,” I tell them.
To my surprise, Agatha is the first to comment. “I cannot imagine what the police find baffling about a woman hemorrhaging. Women bleed every month, after all. To me, the only questions are the amount of blood and the reason for her hemorrhage. Was it induced by violation of her person? Or could it have been the result of a terribly heavy period or even a miscarriage?”
I hadn’t thought Agatha would be the one to lay out the options so plainly. Even in the exclusive company of females, some women are squeamish about discussing such matters. But now that propriety and euphemisms have been jettisoned, the others come racing through.
“You’ve hit the nail on the head, Agatha,” Ngaio says approvingly. Then, turning to me, she asks, “Do we know if Miss Daniels had a boyfriend? Or secret paramour? Could she have been pregnant?”
Margery lets out a low whistle. “That would shed a completely different light on this whole affair.”
“‘Affair’ being the operative word,” Ngaio quips.
Emma joins in. “It might help ascertain a motive—for May’s vanishing and for her murder. What if the hemorrhaging was the result of a back-alley abortion? Could May have snuck away from Celia for the procedure? And then it went horribly wrong?”
As the women debate these possibilities, I try to mask my shock. Never in my wildest imaginings did I think these proper women would launch headlong into a discussion of such taboo topics—subjects themalejournalists and police and governmental authorities have most studiously avoided. Even if this “female blood” yielded a crucial clue, I think the men would ignore it. And yet, as I listen to the women’s unabashed exchange, this seems the most natural topic in the world. Perhaps I’m the only one shrinking from a frank conversation about menstruation, unplanned pregnancies, miscarriage, and abortion. And I have my reasons.
“A pregnancy would certainly explain why May ordered tea and toast at the Hôtel Morveaux, an act we initially attributed to seasickness. It would also explain why, hours later, she looked forantinausea medication at the chemist’s shop. And she declined a medicine designed specifically for seasickness,” Agatha says.
“Mmm. Nausea can also stem from pregnancy,” Ngaio muses. “Or womanly conditions that can cause it to terminate.”
“Maywasin a fraught state that day. Remember that the Englishman told us his friend observed her in this very park”—I gesture around us—“alone and crying? Scribbling away? Perhaps she was suffering through a miscarriage. Or debating whether to terminate the pregnancy. Could she have been thinking through her decision by writing it all out? I know that’s how I work out my thoughts. But maybe she said nothing because she didn’t want to alert Celia to the pregnancy in the first place. Or could another sort of personal catastrophe have befallen her—perhaps of the romantic variety?”
Describing this quandary, I feel a pang. And I nearly have to hold back tears myself.
“Interesting,” Margery says, weighing in. “Although these options don’t explain the strangulation injuries.”
“Agreed,” Agatha responds.
A thoughtful silence takes hold of our group until my conjectures come spilling out. “All this informs the likelihood that, at some time during the course of that day, May began bleeding profusely—and that a separate violence was perpetrated upon her. I suppose it’s possible that the latter caused the former.”
The women nod in agreement. Shoulders squared and gaze steady, Agatha adds, “Regardless of the order of events, I think we can agree that this case demonstrates a level of premeditation. Something nefarious is at work here, and we are the only ones who seem to see it. The authorities appear content with easy, damning explanations for May’s murder.”
“My thoughts exactly.” I glance at my friends. “We’ve gone back to the beginning of May’s disappearance. Now we need to go even further back into her life. Let’s begin unearthing the secrets of May Daniels.”
Chapter Nineteen
MARCH 27, 1931
LONDON,ENGLAND
