The key is now entirely in the lock. Time to turn it left or right. But when I try, it doesn’t budge. Gently, I continue fiddling with it.
“Want me to give it a go?” Margery offers.
“No—I think it’s coming,” I say, but I wonder. Why do I feel like I have to handle everything myself? I am surrounded by smart, crafty women who’ve proved they’ll do anything for the case—and for me. Is this so hard to accept? That I needn’t shoulder all burdens on my own?
The Queens cease all chatter and stare at the locker. I struggle to twist the key left then right, but it just won’t gain purchase, and I’m afraid to push too hard.
Without asking again, Margery places her hand over mine. Together we turn the key to the right—hard. And the lock springs open.
Emma claps, and despite her silvery hair and finely lined skin, I have a flash of the aristocratic child she once was. Blond curls, calf-length dress of pink silk brocade festooned with lace and pearls, governess in tow, cheering at the presentation of a special gift from Vienna or Budapest; she did grow up in the Austro-Hungarian empire, after all. Fabergé everywhere, I bet.
Will this locker bemyFabergé egg? Containing treasure of a very different kind?
I lift the locker’s latch and creak open the door. The interior is dark, and at first, the locker appears empty. Then a white object materializes at the back.
Is it the item I suspect? The writing May so furiously scribbled in the little park off rue de Lille?
With a shaking hand, I reach inside. My fingers touch several sheets of folded paper. Carefully, I slide them out from inside the dim locker into the light of the station. I then unfold them and read aloud: “To whom it may concern—My name is May Daniels…”
They are the final words of a dead girl.
Chapter Forty-Three
APRIL 14, 1931
BOULOGNE-SUR-MER,FRANCE
Have the Queens ever moved so fast? They seem to lunge at once for the papers. Even Agatha makes a grab for them.
“Is that what May was writing in the park?” Margery asks as she reaches toward me. Had she guessed earlier as well?
I back away from her grasping hands. From all the women’s outstretched fingers and their overeager expressions. Staring them down, I ask, “What has gotten into you ladies?”
I am horrified and distressed. Just days ago, I was crying over the foolhardiness of my own impulsivity, and now I’m rewarded with group impetuousness.
The women look around, as if seeing one another for the first time. As if shocked by their own actions. Agatha—no surprise—is the first to apologize. The others follow in quick succession, and even Emma’s eyes are downcast in embarrassment.
“I know we are all eager to read May’s words, but a train station is hardly the appropriate place for a close examination, particularly here in Boulogne. Let’s retire to our hotel and review the documents there in privacy.”
How very unlike their own fictional detectives,I think. I needn’t say the words aloud. They know.
No one replies. Sheepish expressions and sealed lips abound. The women gather their luggage from the manned Left Luggage desk,and we head outside to the newly dark and sleepy Boulogne streets. Two waterfront cafés are still bright with lamps and patrons, but the harbor area is otherwise empty. Only the clang of halyards can be heard, and the bobbing of docked ships can be seen alongside a trickle of travelers leaving the station.
Mercifully, the cab stand still has a taxi waiting, despite the hour, and we head toward it. No eager questions emanate from Margery, no good-natured barbs are slung between Ngaio and Emma, and no baleful glances come from Agatha.
The long black Renault approaches, and the driver calls out through the half-open window, “Vous tous?”
“Oui, all of us, please. Will we fit?” I answer in French, scanning the benches in the back and the lone seat in the front, next to the driver.
“Quatre derrière, un devant,” he replies with a puff of the cigarette dangling from his lips. In case we are dim, he holds up four fingers and points to the back, then holds up one finger and indicates the front.
I know where I need to sit. On my own, in the front. The back has too many overeager hands in close proximity.
“Rue de Bernet, numéro un.” Emma, who made our reservations, calls out the hotel address from the back, while I climb in the front. I settle in next to the cigarette smoke and the taciturn driver, and that suits me just fine after the scene at the station.
The cab ride back up the hill to Boulogne’s Old Town remains hushed. But it isn’t the stillness of exhaustion; it is the quiet of contrition. The silence, however, shatters like glass when we pull alongside a vast stone building that appears to be part of a castle, step out of the cab with our bags, and slam the doors shut behind us. Glancing around, I see that the only sign of modern-day habitation are the two lacquered cerulean-blue doors cut into the side of the structure, which is built of rough-hewn tawny stones with irregular shapes that reveal their age.
Emma pushes open a blue door as if she owns the establishment.We grab our handbags, satchels, and suitcases and follow her inside. A dapper gentleman in a narrow-cut navy-blue suit stands behind a desk but steps out to greet Emma when she introduces herself. It seems she made quite the impression when the women last stayed at this hotel.
