“Did the police conduct a handwriting analysis?” I ask. This relatively new technique is used with growing frequency to ascertain whether a particular person penned a piece of writing.
“Yes, but it was not conclusive,” Ngaio replies.
“Another hoax,” I say, mostly to myself.
“What’s that, Dorothy?” Emma asks.
“Do we have another coincidence? First another missing girl somehow linked to Louis Williams. And now another letter explaining the disappearance away—one that turns out to be a hoax. Just like the so-called confession found in the fish-and-chips shop.”
The women grow quiet, and Agatha falls back into the worn upholstered chair. Her voice small, she asks, “Did Miss Denning ever come back? With or without this young man?”
“No.” Ngaio settles in a seat across from her. “She hasn’t been heard from since that night in October.”
I ask with hesitation, “What’s the police verdict?” I’m not sure I want to hear the answer, even though I’m quite sure what it is.
“Just another flighty young woman who ran off with her paramour. Case closed,” Ngaio says, no derision or fight in her voice. Only sadness.
“So missing young women are either labeled surplus and disregarded or labeled whores and disregarded?” Agatha asks. Her voice is now the one imbued with anger. “We must do whatever it takes to tie Louis Williams to May. And perhaps to Leonora Denning as well.”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
APRIL 14, 1931
OXFORDSHIRE,ENGLAND, AND THEENGLISHCHANNEL
“So you are feeling fit as a fiddle?” Agatha asks over tea and toast at Ivy’s the next morning. Her expression is as soft, unassuming, and kind as ever. Why, then, am I bracing myself?
“Nearly,” I answer after I finish a bite heavy with glistening ruby-red jam.Food in the country always tastes fresher and more flavorful,I think. Or does it just remind my of my upbringing in Bluntisham, where the fruits and vegetables came straight from our own garden and the jams were made at home?
“Up for travel again?” Ngaio asks, keeping her eyes on her plate. She’s more bleary-eyed than the rest of us. Had she not gone to bed when the women retired to the inn?
“I think so. Ivy and I were just discussing my imminent return to London. My tardy manuscript is calling, a feeling you all know well,” I say. “I think I’m ready for the train and the bustle of the city, although I’ll miss Ivy.”
I dare not say that it will be John I’ll miss most of all. This is the most number of days in a row that I’ve ever been able to spend with him, and saying goodbye will be difficult. The presence of the Queens will not make it any easier.
“I think Dorothy is worlds better than when she arrived. The odd nagging headache is all. But she is always welcome to stay,” Ivy adds.
The Queens nod, after which Margery turns to me and asks, “Do you think you could manage a ship ride as well as train travel? Say, on the open ocean?”
Why on earth is she inquiring about a sea voyage? In fact, now that I think about it, why are they all asking me about my ability to travel? I get the distinct impression that I’m being set up.
“Why do you ask?”
Before they can answer, the children scamper into the dining room. “All ready for school?” Ivy asks, scanning each to make certain they are dressed for the classroom and have their bags slung over their little shoulders.
“Yes,” they call out in unison.
“I’ll miss each and every one of you,” I tell them, ruffling their hair. Lingering on John’s silky locks and downcast expression, I know emotion could easily overtake me. So I say, “Ivy will keep readingThe Three Musketeersto you in the evening.”
“Will you be back soon, Cousin Dorothy?” John asks.
“Of course,” I answer, kneeling down to meet his gaze and wrapping my arms around him one last time. Then with a bullishness and lightheartedness I absolutely do not feel, I call out, “Now, off to school with the lot of you!”
The image of John’s crestfallen face flits through my mind as we cross the English Channel by ferry once more. Once the children had left for school, the Queens admitted their motive for asking about my capacity to travel. They wanted the five of us to visit Boulogne one more time in the hopes that we might shake loose some final clue definitively linking Louis and May. Not to mention that they worry about additional threats to my person that might be orchestrated in London. But will I really be safer in Boulogne? I don’t think so, not until we have the leverage of proof. Still, here we are.
“Are you feeling well? You look peaked,” Agatha whispers in my ear. She’s leaning over the bolted-down table on board the ferry where we have gathered to strategize.
How can I tell her that I’m not physically ill but heartsick? I’d have to reveal my deepest secret and my darkest shame.Never,I think, could I share the truth about John with these women, whom I respect beyond measure. Even if they’d keep my confidence—thereby preserving John’s status and my employment—they’d never look at me the same way again.
