Chapter Thirty-One
APRIL 2, 1931
LONDON,ENGLAND
Has there been a single moment of silence on the train back to London? I don’t mean the roar of the train, the bellowing of the whistle, the many stops, or the conductor’s announcements. I mean our chatter. Agatha and I have not ceased speculating since the moment we settled into our seats this morning.
“We must put some order to the evidence about May’s private life that we’ve been gathering like a pair of magpies,” I announce. “What is it your detective Hercule Poirot says when the investigation is going full throttle and the facts are pouring in?”
“We must use our ‘little gray cells.’”
“That’s it! Amid the gray cells, perhaps we can sprinkle in what Wimsey’s mother calls women’s special intelligence—‘mother-wit.’”
“Oh, I like that,” Agatha says with a giggle. “I do feel like a real-life Poirot today. Usually my existence more closely resembles Miss Marple’s.”
“And I feel like a real-life Harriet Vane,” I reply. Pulling out my trusty journal, I begin a list. “First, May definitely had a beau over the summer and fall of 1930. A secret one.”
“One who’s well off enough to purchase two gowns from Madame Isobel’s and take her on dates to West End theaters,” Agatha adds. “Most likely Louis Williams, as deduced from the Madame Isobel receipts and the hidden newspaper article. We don’t knowwhether she was aware that he’s married with children. Although the kindly girl described by her sisters isn’t the sort to have an affair. She actually seems more like the sort of girl who is preyed upon.”
“Second, in August, she had plans to seeCavalcadewith this suitor. When he could not make the show, she used the tickets with her friend Celia,” I say, making a note of this.
She nods and continues. “Third, on October 2, May reads aDaily Heraldarticle about a missing girl whose final night was spent in the company of West End theater folks at Café de Paris—and none other than Louis Williams.”
“And this article has such an impact on May that she carefully clips it and squirrels it away,” I say.
“Fourth, less than two weeks later, on October 14, she spends an unaccounted-for night in London on her way to meet Celia in Brighton,” Agatha says while I write.
“She may have been in the company of Louis,” I add. “We have no other inkling of where she might have been.”
“Fifth, the girls took a day trip from Brighton to Boulogne on October 16, during which time May disappears. Months later, when her body is discovered, large quantities of blood are found underneath, as if she’d miscarried or had a procedure of some sort. There is also ample evidence that she was suffering from chronic nausea.” I record this final point as Agatha finishes.
“And this suggests that the mystery beau had gotten her pregnant,” I say in summary.
“Possibly. If May was indeed with Louis the night before she headed to Brighton and informed him of the pregnancy then, he may have pushed an abortion on her. Maybe he’s the one who organized the trip to Boulogne, possibly even at the last minute,” Agatha says.
I allow myself to envision all these disparate pieces coming together. But there is one element that simply doesn’t fit. “This theory would explain the hemorrhaging—but not May’s carefully plotted disappearance from the train station.”
She sighs. “I know. And we really have nothing in the way of solid proof. I’m hoping the visit to the Theatre Royal tonight will provide some tangible link between May and Louis. Perhaps someone at the theater will remember May and whom she met backstage—something that would definitively tie her to Louis. What we currently have is supposition.”
I shut the journal and change the subject. “Did Madge make the theater connections she hoped for? We certainly did.”
“Basil Dean told her that he wanted to read her play, if you can believe it.”
“I can. Your sister can deploy her charms when she wishes.”
“Tonight, at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, so will we.”
We grow quiet, turning these elements around in our minds while the train’s chug slows. I turn to my friend and ask, “Agatha, you know when you near the end of a novel and most of the threads are knitting together nicely, but there are those one or two rogue filaments that resist you until the bitter end?”
“Of course. I’m facing that quandary at the moment withPeril at End House.”
“Somehow you always manage to make those threads part of a seamless whole, right?”
“Yes,” she answers, and we smile at each other. We’ve both experienced that golden moment when all the elements of the story—character, setting, themes, and plot—coalesce into a shining, unbroken whole. Capturing that elusive moment is why we write.
“We will do that again here. Not for ourselves and not for our stories. We will do it for May.”
The train grinds to a slow halt as it pulls into Euston station. Agatha and I exchange brief farewells as we disembark. She heads toward the Tube taking her to her Campden Street flat, in Kensington, and I veer toward my own Tube line. I’m about to board my train when I have a sudden urge to look Louis Williams in the face. Even a brief glimpse into his eyes, just to see the sort of man he is, would suffice. Glancing around, I realize that it wouldn’t take me terriblylong to get to Leadenhall Street. And I make a snap decision to stop in Louis Williams’s office.
