“How on earth do you know that?” Ngaio asks, her tone impressed rather than irritated.
Emma chuckles, clearly pleased with the reaction. “We had a Roentgen desk in the family château in Tarnaörs, and I spent many happy childhood hours playing with it.” She enjoys trotting out her lavish origins as the daughter of a Hungarian nobleman who served the Austro-Hungarian emperor before the entire family was driven out by a revolt. This boastfulness is noticeable, and I wonder how it will sit with us as time goes on.
The clip-clop of shoe heels sounds out again as the women congregate around the desk. “So,” Margery asks, “if I turn this key, drawers will magically appear?”
“They should,” Emma answers knowingly.
I hear a pop and a squeal of excitement from Margery.
“Ingenious,” Ngaio says. “What a perfect place to hide a murder weapon. The average person would have no idea about these secret compartments.”
Then, in a dejected voice, Margery says, “It’s empty.”
“There must be more to it,” Agatha says. “Let me take a closer look.”
The library is silent save for the opening and closing of drawers. “What’s this?” Agatha asks.
A spring sounds, followed by a bang, and I nearly jump up from the floor. “How did you do that?” Emma asks.
Agatha answers, “I felt a button on the underside of one of the secret drawers, and I pressed it.”
“There’s another layer of hidden drawers behind them,” Margery exclaims.
An expectant silence settles on the library. Finally I hear a rustling and an exultant “Here it is! A heavy brass paperweight tied with a red ribbon!”
At that moment, the grandfather clock strikes four, and the locked doors to the library fling open. I rise from the floor and begin applauding.
“I never doubted you for a second, as you can see.” I gesture to the Champagne flutes entering the room on a waiter’s silver tray. “Congratulations on solving my murder!”
Chapter Four
FEBRUARY 10, 1931
LONDON,ENGLAND
“Did you see that poor fellow’s face when you announced that we’d solved yourmurder?” Margery asks as the waiter closes the library doors behind him. Her stylishly bobbed hair quivers as she giggles.
“I don’t think the hallowed halls of the University Women’s Club have seen much in the way of violent crime. Especially murder,” I add with a giggle of my own, thinking about the waiter’s wide eyes and gaping mouth.
“That would make a fine book title,” Emma says with a smile. “Murder at the University Women’s Club.”
Laughter resonates throughout the library, and I wonder whether the club has ever been the scene of such merriment. This private club for women, the only one of its kind in London, does not actually require a university education, just a deep curiosity about the world and an interest in the life of the mind. It is usually a serious club for serious women.
“Thatwasgood fun. Apologies if I got a little wrapped up in the game.” Ngaio’s expression is a bit sheepish, and her gaze lands on Emma, to whom the bulk of her barbs were directed. She then settles on an upholstered crimson chair in a shadowy corner, a cigarette in one hand and a Champagne flute in another.
“I think weallgot a bit wrapped up. No harm done, I hope?”Emma says with a nod toward Ngaio, who nods back, and I breathe a sigh of relief at this shared olive branch. “It was like being inside one of our novels.”
“It wasveryamusing,” Agatha says, a note of surprise in her voice, as if she hadn’t expected to enjoy herself. Placing her Champagne on the wide marble-topped fireplace mantel, she twists the shiny gold band on her ring finger. Silently, I pray that her marriage to archaeologist Max Mallowan fits better than the last. The pairing is unlikely—he’s at least a decade younger and spends a goodly part of the year in Syria on excavations—but she seems content.
I wonder about the private lives of the other women. Although we mercifully forsake the banal small talk that is often women’s curse, I am curious about their husbands—or lack thereof—their homes, their families, even their religious beliefs. Have they had the great fortune to find a supportive husband, like my Mac? Or have they endured public ignominy at the hands of a scoundrel, like Agatha’s first husband? The issue of how clever women with a desire for intellectual fulfillment and independence find proper partners fascinates me. But now is not the time for such thoughts.
“An impressive display of sleuthing talent. And teamwork!” I raise my glass in toast to the women, and we clink and drink the fizzy gold liquid. “Brava, ladies!”
“Hear! Hear!” Emma calls out. “Let’s raise our glass to our hostess as well.”
As I sip my Champagne, I study the women in turn. Even though we each currently call London home, we hail from vastly different places—continents, even. We have disparate socioeconomic backgrounds and grew up in far-ranging decades. In fact, Emma was born in the 1860s, while our youngest member, Margery, was born in 1904—Ngaio, Agatha, and I are sandwiched in the years between. And yet here we sit, united by a love of mystery writing and, I hope, the desire for camaraderie in a lonely profession. Where else in the world would the barriers of age, class, culture, and education be overcome in such a way?
I wonder if this is the right moment to launch into my practiced speech inviting the women to join us. Or should we spend some time talking about our novels in progress?
