Once we reach an intersection on rue de Lille, we Queens part ways. Agatha, Ngaio, and Margery make a right-hand turn toward a café, while Emma and I head toward Place Godefroy de Bouillon. There lie the town administration and justice buildings—the eighteenth-century redbrick hôtel de ville, topped by an ancient belfry, and the elegant white-stone nineteenth-century palais de justice, respectively—between which our target sits:le poste de police.
In contrast to the area around rue de Lille, there are no tourists here. Somber-looking men in fedoras or bowlers stride purposefully in and out of these government buildings, while equally serious women in skirt suits with cinched waists and a few feminine touches follow the route as well.
We, too, dressed the part. Cloche pulled low over my forehead and hair tucked inside. Patterned scarf wrapped around the shoulders of my coat, knotted at the front. And my reading glasses, the ones I rarely wear in front of others. Emma has shed her memorablepearls and furs for Agatha’s shapeless gray wool overcoat and an old-fashioned black lace head covering purchased from a local shop. Ngaio, an experienced theater professional in New Zealand, has dabbed bits of makeup on our cheeks and eyes along with taupe lipstick instead of our usual reds, which she maintains will subtly alter our appearances. None of us has to say aloud that no one is more forgettable than a middle-aged woman of average means, and we are relying on that as well.
While we doubt anyone will remember me or Emma from our last visit to Boulogne, we did have that brief altercation with the policeman in the Gare Maritime, so we must take every precaution. Because I must become May’s sister Mrs. Lloyd, and Emma must become May’s aunt. Then we must be forgotten.
Emma holds on to my arm with her hand, playing the part of Mrs. Lloyd’s aunt. We push open the front doors to the police station and approach the reception desk. Emma and I give each other a relieved glance when a young policeman in the characteristic blue-gray gendarme’s uniform with shiny silver buttons—a gendarme we’ve never seen before—glances up from a stack of papers he appears to be studying.
“Puis-je vous aider, mesdames?” he asks, and I notice how young he looks underneath his carefully tended mustache. The facial hair is an attempt, no doubt, to add years and authority to his otherwise boyish appearance.
“Nous sommes la famille de Mademoiselle May Daniels,” Emma replies. In French far more fluent than my own, she has let him know that we are May’s family. Our facility with the language is the reason we are undertaking this task. The other Queens’ French is spotty at best, and we could not be sure that the gendarmes on duty could speak English.
“Mes condoléances,” he stammers, visibly uncomfortable. He stands up and begins walking toward us with an outstretched hand. Then, thinking better of it, he backs away, excusing himself.
He heads into a back room closed off from view by a tightly shutdoor. Emma’s hand squeezes my arm tightly, and I know she’s worried about the same thing I am. That the gendarme from the Gare Maritime will step out from behind that door and see right through our disguises.
When the young policeman reemerges, he is not alone. A decorated silver-haired police officer has joined him. Emma and I breathe a collective sigh of relief. He is a stranger.
“Mesdames, je suis vraiment désolé pour votre perte.”
“Merci, Officier…” I ask for his name.
“Officier Durand. Et vous êtes…”
“Je suis Madame Lloyd, la sœur de May Daniels. Et voici notre tante.” I gesture to Emma as I wrap up the introductions.
He nods, then asks, “Comment pouvons-nous être utiles?”
How can they be of assistance? Now that I’m no longer scared, I am angry. I want to scream that they could start by doing their jobs instead of wrapping up their investigation after the most cursory, incompetent, biased investigation on record. Obviously, I don’t say that. I say what I came here to say.
“We have come to gather my sister’s belongings and return them home,” I answer in French.
“Oh, I am afraid I will not be able to help you in that regard,” he replies—in a frustratingly French manner.
“Whyever not? Since my family and I cannot afford to proceed with a civil matter, we understood that May’s case is essentially closed. Therefore you should have no further need of her personal items,” I say, keeping my voice as calm and steady as I can. The pressure of Emma’s hand on my arm reminds me of the role we must play here.
“Well, you see, the investigation has not beenofficiallyclosed, even though it does seem clear from the syringe found at the scene that the drug trade is responsible for her death and that, as such, no more examination into the circumstances is required. Now, had the British government cooperated in extraditing Miss Celia McCarthy to Boulogne for testimony—and had that testimony contradictedour evidence on the role of drugs—then perhaps more digging would be warranted on our part. And the case would remain open.”
Murder is what happened to May,I want to shout. How could the police accept the flimsy narrative provided by the red-herring syringe? Are they that lazy or stupid? Or is there another reason they aren’t pursuing this case fully? Does the British reluctance to cooperate have much to do with it? Is someone behind all this recalcitrance?
Emma intuits my irritation and takes the reins. “But you are no longer actively pursuing it?” she asks.
“That is correct, but…” He trails off.
“But what?” Her tone is imperious.
“But we cannot release your niece’s items until all the requisite paperwork has been approved declaring the case closed,” he explains.
The younger policeman cannot resist adding, “Plus the court must give its stamp of approval.”
“Very true.” The elder officer looks over at the younger with a grateful expression. He doesn’t want to be at the mercy of May’s family by himself.
I think back on John’s sad little face, and I set free the tears that constantly threaten to surface. “Then may we at least see my sister’s things?” I sob.
“Just to look at them?” Officier Durand ventures, sensing a possible solution. It’s the result we sought all along; the poor sod has no way of knowing.
“If we cannot take them home, we would at least like to see them.” My voice wavers. “We have traveled all this way.”
