Ngaio offers Gilbert a serene smile. The usually unflappable Gilbert freezes at the sight of her. He knows Ngaio, of course, but he also knows that her name wasn’t on the original approved list of Detection Club members. As his eyes widen, the silver tray holding the skull lowers, and Eric threatens to slide off and clatter to the ground. I rush to Gilbert’s side, placing a supportive hand under the tray. He glances at me in a panic.
Will Gilbert refuse to swear her in? Will the wager I’m making fail miserably—and the Detection Club, complete with the women who deserve to be in its ranks, along with it? I do not want to let these women down.
A ripple of alarm passes through the sea of black like a rogue wave. While no one actually objects, I realize that I’ve got to act the part of lifeguard to save this moment. Otherwise the men’s reaction could turn into a riptide and pull us all under.
Turning toward Gilbert, I begin to recite the oath. As if the problem is that he’s forgotten the words of the pledge. “I vow that the detectives I create…”
Thus prompted, Gilbert continues on where I leave off. Ngaio places her hand on the skull and takes the vow.
By the time the glittering Emma, every inch the Hungarian baroness, moves to the front of the queue, Gilbert does not miss a beat. He is similarly smooth with the fresh-faced English rose Margery, in her amethyst-hued bias-cut gown—a Vionnet copy, if I’m not mistaken, but no less lovely for being a knockoff. And whenAgatha, wearing a sacklike puffed-sleeve dress of slate gray, the evening equivalent of one of her dowdy tweed skirt suits, stands before him, Gilbert actually smiles. In fact, he nods over at me, as if swearing in these women was the agreed-upon plan all along.
Agatha is the last one in the queue. When she finishes reciting her vow, she scuttles toward Emma, Ngaio, and Margery, who gather like a small bouquet. To the newly minted members, Gilbert calls out with a flourish, “Welcome to the Detection Club!”
Chapter Six
MARCH 20, 1931
LONDON,ENGLAND
The chandeliers of the Northumberland Avenue Hotel ballroom illuminate, and applause erupts. When the clapping dies down, quite a few folks offer me congratulations and handshakes for the role I played in forming the club. I feel both elated and relieved at the way in which the Detection Club ceremony transpired. The fanciful opening ritual seems well received, and the men appear not too put out by the unexpected addition of more women writers. Above all, I hope the rites inspired members to extol one another’s talents, support one another’s novels, collaborate on books, and elevate our genre so reviewers see that our detective novels are every bit as good as so-called literary fiction. A tall order, I know, but no one has ever accused me of setting my sights too low.
Chatter breaks out as club leaders’ robes are doffed, and the event transforms from a ceremony into a drinks party. Waiters circulate around the room, offering canapés and an assortment of cocktails. The rage for cocktails, a trend imported from America, where the juices and mixers mask the Prohibition-banned alcohol, has not abated, much to the chagrin of the traditional Detection Club members.
I hear a loud request for “a smoky Scotch” instead of the fruity cocktails, and for a moment, it drowns out the agitated voices discussing the communism, fascism, socialism, and Irish independencenipping at England’s heels. Amid this furor, I hear Milward Kennedy, the creator of the private investigator Sir George Bull and the Inspector Cornford stories, ask Anthony Berkeley Cox, “Is it true that the club might secure a space of its own? The Northumberland Avenue Hotel is perfectly fine, of course, but it would be wonderful to have a private space to discuss murder and crime without raising eyebrows. If I had a pound for every quizzical look…”
I’ve no wish to talk politics, butthisis a conversation I’d like to join. Leaning toward the men, I interject, “You heard right, Milward. The Detection Club has secured a contract with Hodder & Stoughton for a collaborative detective novel loosely titledThe Floating Admiral.Any member can contribute. With the proceeds of that advance, I’m fairly certain we can afford to rent premises of our own.”
“Count me in,” Anthony says, and Milward agrees. “Me, too.”
Milward asks, “Do you have a location in mind?”
“Actually, yes. There are a few rooms at 31 Gerrard Street in Soho available for let, and they’d serve well for meeting and dining.”
I hear Anthony reply, “Excellent,” as a hand on my arm swings me around to another group of eavesdropping members eager to hear about the book collaboration and new club space. I’m nearly hoarse after repeatedly describing these developments when I spot Emma, Ngaio, and Margery chatting alone near the fireplace.
I make a beeline for the women. I needn’t weave through the crowds because no one stands anywhere near them.
“You’re not worried about the plague?” Ngaio asks me, drawing deeply on her cigarette as I join the group.
I’m confused by her comment. “Pardon?”
She gestures to herself, Margery, and Emma. “Can you not tell that we have the plague? Everyone else seems to know—they’re keeping their distance, after all.”
I chuckle, but it isn’t actually funny. True, we sprung the women on the original Detection Club members at the ceremony today, but that doesn’t mean they should be ostracized. The deed has beendone, and it is poor form for the men to alienate them. Especially since Emma, Ngaio, and Margery are known to most of them.
“The ceremony was topping,” Margery interjects, undoubtedly sensing the mood. “Great fun.”
While I appreciate her kind words, I’d expected a positive reaction from Margery. Cheeriness seems to be her nature. To my surprise, however, Ngaio echoes Margery. “Just the right amount of camp and macabre in equal measures.”
“Well,” Emma sniffs, “it wasn’t exactlyrealpomp and circumstance, but I suppose that was the point, wasn’t it? Just a bit of faux ritualistic fun.”
This is high praise coming from these two discerning women. “That was the precise intention.”
“But now that we are sworn in, perhaps we should leave. Give these blokes a chance to get used to an ‘abundance’ of women in their midst,” Ngaio says in her New Zealand lilt. She’s tugging at her evening dress and looking, for all the world, as though she’d like to tear it off and put on one of her infamous pantsuits instead. Her penchant for menswear is inspiring. For all my self-proclaimed brashness, I’m not quite that bold. Not yet, anyway.
“Itisrather uncomfortable,” Margery mutters.
Emma adds, “I’m not used to being treated in this manner.”
