That word again,I think. It sears every time.
“Language, Ngaio,” Emma says automatically. But when she glances around the restaurant to see the reaction to Ngaio’s language and recalls that we are alone in here, she says, “Although I quite agree he is awful. Far worse than a bastard—he’s the devil.”
Agatha continues.
When I met him as we’d arranged—wearing a too-casual dress because I could no longer squeeze into one of the expensive frocks he’d bought me—I was practically paralyzed with fear. I was only able to calm my nerves with a few cocktails. After we ordered, we made small talk about my upcoming trip, and he started to ask probing questions about our itinerary. I cannot say precisely what about his inquiries unnerved me, butI excused myself and retired to the lavatory, praying that my course of action would become clear.
When I stepped out of the lavatory, his back was to me, and I had a unobstructed pathway to the front door. Creeping past our table, I hastened to the hostess stand, retrieved my travel bag, and left the restaurant. With nowhere else to go, I splurged on a cab and spent the night at the station. My train to Brighton left first thing.
I tried to hide my apprehension and constant nausea from poor Celia during our trip. This was difficult, because I was fixated on what I should do next. More and more, I felt I wanted to keep the baby. But how would I support us?
When we landed here in Boulogne, I did my level best to enjoy the day with Celia. But when I begged off a visit to a dress shop on rue de Lille and rested in a little park—praying for my nausea to pass—a strange man approached me. He sidled up to me on the bench and told me that “arrangements” had been made for me with a local doctor. All I had to do was follow him.
Rage rendered me momentarily immobile. How dare he? A gentleman sitting nearby on another bench rose and approached us, asking me in fluent English if I was quite all right. When I informed him that no, I wasn’t, the stranger took off.
Shaken, I refused the kindly man’s offer of tea and wrote down this account. As I did, the events took on a new shape, and I wondered about the stranger. Had he been sent to get rid of me as well as the baby?
I must take precautions. I don’t know what will happen from this point forward, but I must leave this evidence behind should anything happen to me. I will hide this letter in the Left Luggage lockers in the Gare Centrale,but I will inform Celia of its existence. She can retrieve it if the situation warrants.
Celia, if you are reading this, I am sorry to get you wrapped up in this mess. You’ve been a good and loyal friend, and I apologize. I’ve kept the letter as nameless as possible to keep you safe; I’m hoping that, if you share this with the authorities, they might be able to fill in the blanks. If someone else has retrieved this document, well, then, I am sorry for very different reasons.
Chapter Forty-Five
APRIL 15, 1931
BOULOGNE-SUR-MER,FRANCE
I cannot sleep. Tossing this way and that, I tell myself it’s because the covers are too meager or the bed too soft. But I know why rest won’t come. May haunts me, body and spirit.
“I must leave this evidence behind should anything happen to me.” Her words echo in my mind like a whisper in the central dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. There, 250 steps up in the Whispering Gallery, the softest sound will bounce from one side of the gallery to the other, perfectly repeated.
The Queens must act. This is why we’ve come together, isn’t it? At first, we played at being detectives. Even when faced with an actual mystery, we only toyed with solving a heinous crime perpetrated upon an innocent young woman. I’m mortified to admit that it was a lark.
Yet it has become all too real and all too tragic. A girl caught in the cross fire. And her baby.
And we are the only ones—aside from her killer—who know the truth and certainly the only ones who will do right by May. But how can we be true detectives when we only write about detectives? This is the conundrum that has me thrashing about in my bed.
My hotel room has gradually shifted from pitch black to blue-gray as dawn approaches. The wardrobe and washbasin materializeas outlines against the brightening light. My traveling dress, coat, hat, and gloves are laid out on the desk next to my satchel and seem to have taken on human form.
But where shall I go? To an English police station with May’s letter in hand? To the French police? I distrust both, given their lackluster pursuit of May’s killer and their absolute refusal to coordinate efforts. What does that leave us with? Bypassing the police and attempting contact with a senior government official we trust? Must we resort to the press?
Mac could be helpful in this regard, but I don’t want to get him tangled up in this unless we’re sure it’s the best and only course. Wide awake and turning the possibilities around in my mind, I hear a tiny sound. I stay still and listen. Is it a mouse traipsing through this elegant building, picking up the odd croissant crumb or nibble of Camembert? I’m inclined to chalk the sounds up to ancient creaks, but then I hear the click of a lock. Followed by another. And I know it’s anything but an innocent animal.
It’s an intruder.
Reaching for the heavy pewter candlestick on my nightstand, I grip it at my side. I then lie perfectly still, as if in the deepest sleep, and watch the door open a sliver. The silhouette of a man stands out against the dim sconces lining the hallway, and I brace myself for his entry. All the while praying I’m having a terrible nightmare.
He steps inside.
Suddenly I realize that my awareness of the trespass provides an opportunity. As the door opens wider to allow his broad shoulders to enter, I scream at the top of my lungs, “Get out of my room!”
Rather than lunging toward me with a weapon—which was one possibility—the trespasser takes the other tack. He flees.
The Queens come racing in through the open door. Agatha in her voluminous flowery nightgown. Ngaio in the sort of striped silk pajamas that Mac adores. Margery in a flouncy, sleeveless violet confection. And Emma in a lace nightdress with a neck so high Ifeel like I’m choking just looking it. Even in their bedclothes, they are in character.
They settle around me on the bed. Concerned chatter overwhelms me until one question makes its way through: “What did he want?” The Queens had seen the interloper take flight, and his profile revealed him to be a man.
“If I had to guess?”
