“When he placed his order, he had a funny accent. Can’t say that I’m an expert about that, so no idea where he’s from.”
“Have the police told you anything else?”
“Like what?”
“Have they asked you to identify anyone they have in custody? Or asked you to work with an artist to create a sketch of the man?”
He scoffs, and his father joins in. “No. And I doubt they ever will.”
“Why is that?”
The young man answers. “Because when we checked just now, that officer told us they’ve decided the letter’s a hoax.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
MARCH 30, 1931
LONDON,ENGLAND
I pace my flat. My dog-eared college dictionary catches my eye on the jam-packed bookshelves, and I reach for it. Flipping through the pages, I don’t stop until I find that word: “Hoax: a deception, sometimes done in humor and often involving a falsehood or fiction.” How on earth could the police label that confession a hoax without any sort of investigation? Not to mention there is absolutely nothing humorous about either the confession or May’s murder. My rage flares. It’s no wonder I can’t work.
Returning the tome to pride of place on my bookshelf, I realize that I’d do practically anything other than write at the moment. How hard it is to concentrate on the fictional murder at the heart of my novel when we have a very real one to solve. The Queens will gather tomorrow to split up the next tasks—interviewing employees at the theater whereCavalcadeis being performed to determine whom May met with backstage, tracking down everyone mentioned in thatDaily Heraldarticle to see if any of them has a connection to May, attempting to get the official records on the missing London girl to see if there’s any tie to May, interviewing shopgirls at Madame Isobel’s, combing through copies of the Boulogne witness statements to see if anyone else saw May talk with a man. But tomorrow seems forever away.
I’m considering reorganizing a bookshelf when I hear a knockon the door. Who on earth could that be? Mac had stayed at the flat the last two evenings, but he’s left for our home in Essex to finish his profile on Tarrington now that the solicitor is in custody awaiting trial. And anyway, he’s got a key. Anyone else—school chums, cousins, professional friends—would arrange at meeting in advance. My schedule is too unpredictable to chance a visit.
Unlatching the door, I peer through the crack to see Margery.What a surprise,I think. Of all the Queens, she’s the last I’d expect to pop round.
I swing the door open wide and usher her inside. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d stop in to see if you’d like to stroll by Madame Isobel’s. A bit of legwork before the meeting tomorrow.”
“My, oh, my, would that be a welcome break from Harriet Vane and Peter Wimsey!” I exclaim with an excited clap.
She chuckles. “Struggling to write as well? I can’t face another page.”
“I was just about to reconfigure my bookshelves rather than tackle more snappy dialogue between Harriet and Peter.”
“I was contemplating repainting a bedroom.”
When our laughter subsides, I ask, “Were you really in the neighborhood?”
“Of course not. But your flat is only a fifteen-minute walk from Madame Isobel’s shop, on Regent Street, so I took a chance you’d be home.”
“Brilliant.” I’m already reaching for my coat and handbag. “Let’s go.”
A rare crispness permeates the air rather than the dampness and drizzle typical of spring. Margery has a lightness in her step and a mood that is infectious, and the stroll to Regent Street is unexpectedly quick. Margery is the Queen I know the least, and her witticisms and enthusiasm make her delightful company.
Why do I drift toward the other Queens rather than Margery?Am I a bit wary, thanks to the rumors that her aristocratic detective, Albert Campion, was created as a parody of my Wimsey? Or is it because she seems the sort of eager, stylish young woman who might have rejected me at university? Do I gravitate toward the older, sager Queens because of what they may teach me?
As I listen to Margery prattle on, I realize her chatter is anything but prattle. She is telling me the story of her life as we walk, as naturally as if we were having a chin-wag about the weather. Born to writer parents—her father was the editor of theNew London Journaland theChristian Globe,and her mother wrote stories for women’s magazines—she came by her talents early and honestly. Her husband, a designer and an artist, seems that rare sort of man who supports his wife’s career. Like Mac. He even creates the covers for her novels, and they’ve been so successful that he’ll be designing them for other mystery novelists. I find her sharp, engaging, and pleasant beneath her ardent exterior.
We slow our pace when we reach the shops lining Regent Street. Madame Isobel’s establishment is located at number 223—that much I’d already researched. We now play at window-shopping. A millinery displaying a navy-blue Basque beret, which we deem attractive and practical. A pair of irresistible black-and-white spectator heels at a shoe store. Very audibly, we ooh and aah and fantasize about which we’d purchase first.
When we reach the front window at Madame Isobel’s, I don’t have to pretend at awe. The expansive window displays only one singular item. There, against the backdrop of a gray quilted screen, is a floor-length vermilion gown that’s a river of undulating silk. I literally cannot take my eyes off it. It’s the sort of garment I’d never be able to afford or pull off but about which I dream.
Only when Margery asks, “Shall we?” do I pull myself away.
Stepping inside the elegant salon, a cocoon of silver silk and linen, we survey a row of glittering crystal-laden court presentation gowns. We stop to examine an unusual dress with a black-and-tartan skirt. Then, as we’d planned, we linger at the day dresses.
