“I have a few follow-up queries about your trip to Brighton and Boulogne. Once you reached Boulogne, were you two togetherthe entire time?” I’m thinking about the account by the British expatriate.
“Yes,” she answers quickly, but then pauses. “Actually, no. May wasn’t feeling terribly well, so she did take a rest in a park near rue de Lille while I shopped. It was brief, though, perhaps twenty to thirty minutes.”
Nodding as if I’d expected this reply, I then ask the question that’s been preoccupying me. “I know you’ve been asked about this before, Miss McCarthy, but did Miss Daniels have a suitor?”
She hesitates before answering. “Not that she told me.”
In that pause, I sense a world of suspicions. Conjectures that Celia has been reluctant to voice given the sordid public innuendos to which both women have been subject.
I push further, hoping for a name. “Perhaps she didn’t tell you about a beau, but perhaps you had a hunch based on something you saw? The theater tickets toCavalcade,perhaps?”
Sipping my tea, I wait. As if I have all the time in the world. As if nothing hinges on what she may tell us.
“Well, not that it really matters,” Celia ventures, “but May had a few dates last summer and early autumn.”
“With the same person?”
“She never said who the man was—even when I pressed—just that he was established and could afford nice dinners and West End performances.Cavalcadewas one of several shows she saw that summer and autumn.”
“Any other details you remember?”
She’s quiet for a long moment, then adds, “She had these two gorgeous silk dresses that she’d wear on those dates. They looked really expensive, and I asked her how she afforded them. I knew money was tight.”
“What did she tell you?” I ask.
“She didn’t answer. The only reply I got was a very satisfied smile.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
MARCH 28, 1931
LONDON,ENGLAND
The hour is late by the time I return to London and reach my Georgian-style building on Great James Street. The staircase and corridor leading to my flat are so dark that I fumble in my handbag for my keys. What on earth has happened to the lighting from the brass chandelier over the steps? I must stop by the superintendent’s flat in the morning to report the outage; this simply isn’t safe. When I finally manage to jiggle the keys into the lock and step into my flat, relief washes over me. This three-room space is my refuge.
I’d been living in this light-filled white-paneled flat for five years when Mac and I married. Given that my job in advertising required that I remain in London during the week, Mac and I decided to keep the flat but acquired a little country house in Witham, Essex. We retire there on weekends, although Mac sometimes decamps there on weekdays when he’s writing a book or a longer newspaper piece. Now that I’ve given up my advertising career to write novels exclusively, I may do the same.
As I cross the parlor to turn on a lamp, a gravelly voice emerges from the darkness. “Dorothy?”
I scream. Turning toward the sound, I reach behind me for the letter opener on my desk, which is against the wall near the lamp. A man sprawls out across the sofa, and his silhouette is familiar.
“Mac?” I ask, my arm relaxing at my side—although I don’t release my grip on the sharp brass instrument. “Is that you?”
“Who else would it be, my love?”
“You scared me half to death; I hadn’t expected you back until tomorrow,” I reply, my heart still racing.
Returning the letter opener to its place on my desk, I switch on the light. Mac suddenly realizes what I’d been doing and says with a laugh, “Had you been about to stab me?”
“Not this time,” I reply with a laugh of my own.
Mac pats the empty spot on the sofa next to him, and I plop down. He snakes his arm around my shoulders. Part of me wants to crawl into bed with him and surrender to exhaustion, and another part is desperate for any updates on May’s case he might still be privy to. The latter wins out.
“Is the Tarrington coverage going well?” I ask.
“Indeed. The slippery eel has finally been caught in the net. That’s what brought me back to London early. Tarrington is in custody and will be sailing into the London harbor tomorrow morning. My editor sent me ahead to cover his arrival from this side of the English Channel.”
I clap excitedly. “Just deserts! I can’t wait to see your piece in the paper. Tarrington’s comeuppance will make for fine reading.”
