I nod along in understanding if not perfect agreement. These sisters cling to the edge of middle class, as did May. They don’t have the cushion of money or education to prevent them from tumbling into the lower ranks if they take one step in the wrong direction. Every movement must be measured with care, and so to have their baby sister labeled “surplus” or work in an objectionable field must have been alarming.
Might I have been a “surplus” woman if I’d been a little further down the strata of social classes? If I didn’t have an Oxford education or a respectable minister for a father? If I hadn’t eventually married Mac at the ripe old age of thirty-two? After all, my financial situation is not so different from May’s or her sisters’. What about Ngaio and Margery, had the latter not married? Would they fall into the category as well? Emma and Agatha both hail from higher social classes and wouldn’t have these worries.
“May never cared about any of that. She laughed when we told her what people were saying,” Mrs. Lloyd says with a sigh. “She loved helping people of all ages, from all backgrounds.”
“She sounds like a selfless young woman,” I say.
“She was,” Mrs. Lloyd says, and Mrs. Davis tears up again. “What else do you want to know?”
Ngaio launches in before we can consult. “What was her schedule like? What did she do with her free time? What was her social circle like?”
I want to groan, but it seems Ngaio’s directness has its benefits. Mrs. Davis offers rapid-fire answers. “Well, let’s see. She workedlong days back-to-back in the hospital, followed by time off ranging from several hours to several days. Many of the girls lived in housing provided by the hospital, which afforded camaraderie if not luxury. On her time off, she would often visit me here or my sister at her home. Or she might stay with another nurse at her family’s home or take a brief holiday, as she did with Miss McCarthy. She had some Dollis Hill friends with whom she remained in touch, but her circle consisted mainly of fellow nurses and us. Not that she had much time to socialize, mind you.”
I jump in, concerned with how Ngaio might handle this next sensitive bit. “I hesitate to ask this question, but given the unpleasant bout of reporting, I feel I must. We want to set the record straight. Did Miss Daniels have a beau? Someone she regularly stepped out with?”
Mrs. Davis’s head starts shaking before Mrs. Lloyd can even speak. “No. She never spoke of a young man or mentioned one in a letter. Quite honestly, she had very little time away from the hospital, and usually she spent that time with us. If she had an admirer, we would have met him—or, at the very least, heard some gossip about him. We were close.”
I change the subject, sensing the sisters’ irritation. “I’d love to see a photograph of Miss Daniels in her nurse’s uniform. Do you have one?”
Mrs. Lloyd answers, “I believe we received a box of May’s things shipped from the hospital lodging when she disappeared last fall. I think it also contains the few items she’d temporarily left behind in Brighton when she traveled to Boulogne. It may have some photos. I haven’t had the strength to look at it in a while, but let me fetch it.”
“That would be much appreciated,” I say. “Before you do, though, I’d like to ask about her last visit. Miss Daniels spent time here before her trip to Brighton with Miss McCarthy, did she not?”
“She did,” Mrs. Davis answers. “She came here for two nights, and the three of us gathered for tea and suppers. Lovely time.”She reaches for her sister’s hand, squeezing it so tightly that white knuckles show.
“She was in good spirits when she left?” I ask.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Lloyd says, then adds, “She took the train into the city to stay with Miss McCarthy at her sister’s flat. I believe the two girls were to have a night at the theater before they traveled to Brighton.”
Alarm bells are ringing. I do not recall a single reference to a theater night in London before the nurses headed to Brighton—not in the police report, the interview notes, or the articles about May’s disappearance and death. This is a thread we must follow.
Chapter Twenty-One
MARCH 27, 1931
LONDON,ENGLAND
The box is battered and dented, yet my fingers itch to lift off the top and start pawing through it. Why am I so hopeful that an undiscovered clue might be found here, in the objects stored at her communal hospital lodging? Or brought with her on her leave?This isn’t one of my novels,I remind myself. More likely to be inside are May’s toiletries, day dresses, pajamas, and perhaps the odd letter from one of her sisters. The everyday remains of a life ended too soon.
I wait for a nod from Mrs. Lloyd and Mrs. Davis. Like a surgical assistant, Ngaio stands at my side, ready to receive each object as I pull it out. We remove the item on top and examine a nurse’s uniform. The gray dress, white apron, and nursing cap all spotless and perfectly pressed, as if May were ready to start her shift.How terribly sad,I think of the dashed hopes and plans.
Suddenly I wonder: Have I ever had my detectives experience these emotions as they study the belongings of the victim? I fear I’ve created cold and calculating investigators who don’t recognize the humanity of the deceased and feel a sense of loss at their death.
“Ah, remember when she first got her uniform?” Mrs. Lloyd asks Mrs. Davis, overtaken by the memory of their little sister.
With a sniffle, Mrs. Davis answers, “Of course. She was so very proud.”
“Didn’t she look pretty in it?” Mrs. Lloyd comments, mostly to herself. I don’t sense that it’s a question she expects her sister to answer. “So grown up.”
The parlor grows uncomfortably quiet as Ngaio slides out a luxurious emerald silk dress with a plunging neckline and a cinched waist. The sisters’ mouths are agape at the sight of this gown.
Noticing their stares, Ngaio says, “I’m sure your sister looked lovely in this as well.” It’s a surprisingly sensitive remark, given the awkwardness of the moment. Perhaps I have underestimated her.
“I don’t remember that dress,” Mrs. Davis says, her tone wary.
“Neither do I,” Mrs. Lloyd adds. “It doesn’t seem May’s style at all. Too formal. Too sophisticated. Too…” She hunts for the right word.
“Mature?” Her sister fills in the blank.
