“At first I’d been disappointed when my editor pulled me off the Daniels matter. No longer. This Tarrington arrest will be front-page news for weeks, if not months.”
“Speaking of the Daniels investigation, any news on May? Even though I was only on the case for a couple of days, the poor girl’s death tugs at my heartstrings.”
Mac kisses my cheek. “I’ve become inured to crime, having covered it for decades. But you, you’ve always been a softie.”
I laugh.No one’s ever called me a softie,I think. Brash, yes. Tenacious, of course. Bright, often. Overwhelming, sometimes. But the sorts of words typically used to describe women—the ones suggestingthat we’re delicate, feminine, shy, and hesitant? Never. Only Mac sees my tender underbelly, and well he should. He knowsallmy secrets. Even the one I am determined to keep hidden from all others forever.
“This softie would love to hear that May’s killer has been found,” I say, prompting him along.
“And even this hardened reporter would love to hear that sort of news.” He yawns and mutters, “Sadly, the only scuttlebutt among pressmen is that the French authorities might close up the case on the strength of that syringe. Unless the victim’s family can afford to start their own civil proceeding to keep the investigation alive, or unless Miss McCarthy surfaces on French soil, it seems the gendarmes are chalking the whole unfortunate incident up to drugs, overdose, or a deal gone wrong.”
I feel sick hearing this verdict spoken aloud, even though, of course, I had expected it. Do I dare allow myself to cling to the hope that the Queens can change the final outcome? Hope has so often disappointed me.
“That’s a cop-out, and it doesn’t make a lick of sense in any event.” I am riled up now. “Why would a nurse travel all the way to France to procure morphine when it must be readily available all over her hospital? She probably administered it countless times a day and would have been able to give herself some if she was so inclined. Even if she had taken the morphine from the hospital to sell, wouldn’t there be more evidence than a sole syringe?”
“Hadn’t thought about it that way.” His tone is low and serious. Not his usual.
I hate to lump Mac in with the myopic group of reporters I encountered in Boulogne. My husband has proved to be a delightful surprise in most respects. How many men would champion their wives’ success in business and books? But even the best of us can fall into tired, lazy ways of thinking and pigeonhole people in the process. One must continually remind oneself that people are not precisely as they seem.
“Let’s hope for new evidence,” I say and pull him tight.
Mac echoes my call. “Let’s.”
If I’m being honest, I am relieved he’s not covering May Daniels anymore, even if it makes my access to information more difficult. His coverage—capitalizing on the discovery of the needle near the body—had been terribly upsetting. I’d felt riven with disloyalty to the Queens. On the one hand, I’ve been urging them to investigate May’s death, while on the other hand, my own husband had been penning articles that practically ensured the police would stop hunting for her killer. And truth be told, I don’t like thinking about my husband in a negative light. I work hard to push away disappointed thoughts about Mac on other matters.
“Mac, I think you’ve got the better end of the bargain. The Tarrington case is about to explode, while the Daniels case is on the wane.” I push myself to standing. “But if you hear any tidbits about the matter of poor Miss Daniels—either way—I’d be curious. Never like a loose end, as you know.”
Stretching out my hand to my husband, I focus on the here and now. “Shall we to bed?”
His face brightens, and a mischievous smile forms underneath his bushy mustache. “We shall. We have another delicious project to work on, if I’m not mistaken.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
MARCH 29, 1931
LONDON,ENGLAND
“To justice for May.” I raise a small crystal glass of amber liquid.
“To justice for May,” the women repeat, each careful to touch her glass with every other.
How this investigation has changed,I think. It began as a way to prove ourselves to certain male Detection Club members. But it has morphed into an urgent quest to do right.
Although it is teatime at the University Women’s Club, we eschewed tea for something stiffer. As Emma declared upon arrival, “The subject today calls for a bracing drink.” We all readily agreed to a round of sherries. Greedily, even.
Settling into the upholstered chair near the fire, I take in each Queen. How could it only be nine days since the Detection Club induction ceremony? In the short span since, we have all traversed the English Channel twice, two of us have careened north by train to Birmingham and back again, and all of us have tooled around London by Tube and tram and bus and cab. I’ve explored areas new to me and talked to all manner of folks, even impersonating a reporter to do so. Most important, I’ve walked in May’s shoes. Immersing myself in a real-life killing has transformed how I think about this terrible business, and I wonder if the Queens feel the same. Will it make it harder for us to pretend at murder again in the pages of our books?
The women have assumed their roles. Emma, our stately matriarch of sorts, has taken the center seat on the sofa across from me, another fur wrapped around her shoulders; she must have a veritable wardrobe of them. Margery and Ngaio flank her on either side, with Ngaio in her wide-legged pantsuit and Margery in a flowery frock. Agatha sits alone in the upholstered chair to my right, hiding her strength behind frumpiness as always. This tableau is becoming familiar and, dare I say, reassuring.
But I wonder about the facades. Each woman selects particular apparel and adopts a certain demeanor to assume a chosen role, one our group then reinforces with our interactions. Are these facades just costumes and disguises for the assigned parts? If Agatha dressed as a doyenne and I wore pantsuits, would we take on the qualities of Emma and Ngaio? Who are these women under their masks?
It suddenly occurs to me that everyone is silent, waiting for me to begin. Normally I’d take the helm without a second thought, but I find myself hesitating, thinking about my own role among the Queens. Questioning what I want it to be.
“What have we learned?” I finally ask.
When no one answers, I put my drink down and reach for my writing paper and pencils. “Let’s start with a timeline.”
Ngaio and I begin talking about our interview with May’s sisters, holding off on describing the hidden articles we found. They merit a separate conversation. Agatha chimes in about our discussion with Celia. When these facts are combined with those gathered during our investigation in Boulogne, the police reports, and the public record, I fill several sheets of writing paper with a series of events.
