“Yes?” Agatha prods me along.
“May’s letter. What else could possibly be of interest in my hotel room? It’s not as if I have anything of value in here. If he wanted pearls or jewels, he’d head directly to room 201,” I say, referencing Emma’s room number.
“But how would he even know about the letter?” Emma asks, attempting to tuck her wayward locks back into their immobile updo, which is still largely intact. Does she sleep in that coiffure? Even in the midst of this crisis, I am amazed.
“I imagine we’ve been followed the entire time we’ve been in Boulogne. The intruder may have been in league with whoever hired my attacker in London. He may have been alerted to our presence as early as our coffee at Hôtel Morveaux. Madame Brat may seem amenable to our quest, but Boulogne is a small, insular place. I bet she told someone who told the interested party where we were sniffing around.”
“Who is this interested party?” Margery asks.
Agatha replies in her measured way. “Louis certainly has the most to lose. And he’s practically named in the letter.”
“Shall we report this forced entry to the police?” Margery asks.
“Who’s to say that the police aren’t involved in the break-in?” Agatha asks, giving us something new to chew on. “There’s something very odd about their reluctance to investigate.”
“I doubt it. Failing to properly investigate May’s murder—even at the behest of some governmental authority—is one thing, but to actively trespass and burgle is quite another,” I say.
“Perhaps you’re right.” Agatha stretches and says, “It is nearly four o’clock in the morning, and I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m wide awake. No chance I’ll be able to sleep. What say you all to breakfast and the early ferry?”
“Only if you all promise to spend our ferry ride back to England hashing out a plan,” I say. “I’m hoping one of you has a stroke of brilliance. I’m at loose ends.”
“Only ifyoupromise to take precautions that we all agree upon. After reading May’s letter and being the victim of a break-in tonight, you can no longer maintain that your injuries were an accident,” Ngaio insists.
She’s right. I can no longer pretend that my near collision with an oncoming vehicle was a simple mishap. It was an attack. Who knows if there are more to come?
“I promise.”
Chapter Forty-Six
APRIL 15, 1931
LONDON,ENGLAND
My London flat appears exactly as I left it more than a week ago. Dishes stacked in the sink and bed unmade, because Mac hasn’t been back to tend to the cleaning. A half-filled teacup perched on my nightstand, precisely as Mac had abandoned it right before we left for Ivy’s. A trail of detritus around the flat, remnants of his time caring for me before he took me to Ivy’s and then retreated to Essex to work on his new assignment.
Yet I am changed. The fear of the attack. The injuries to my head and ribs. The time with John. The rallying of the Queens. The thrilling hunt for clues in Boulogne. The devastating glimpse into May’s final hours in the pages of her letter. And the intruder in my hotel room.
Whether I’m altered for better or worse remains to be seen. So much is in flux that I cannot tell. The only thing I’m absolutely certain about is my desire for a soak in the tub. How grimy I feel after the days of travel and the sleepless night.
Heading toward the bathroom, I spot the stack of mail I’d tossed on the entryway console. The letters taunt me. In between the bills and the regular correspondence undoubtedly lies a nagging note from my editor. The delivery ofHave His Carcaseis now well past the extended due date upon which my editor and I had agreed. How will I ever return to the fictional sleuthing of Harriet and Peter? ShouldI layer in a locked-room element to keep my own interest piqued? I groan aloud at the thought of returning to the book, but we need the acceptance payment I’ll receive when I turn it in—Mac, Ivy, John, and I, that is. I don’t have the luxury of further delay.
Stop,I tell myself. All will feel lighter and achievable after a hot, bubbly bath. A simple act but a necessary one.
Dropping my soiled travel clothes on the bathroom floor and sinking into the steaming water, I close my eyes. Images from the ferry ride home float through my mind. Margery’s earnest expression and Agatha’s thoughtful one. Ngaio and Emma’s good-natured swipes and less amiable exchanges when they differed wildly as to next steps. Snippets of plans made and unmade. Decisions settled upon, then discarded.
What had we actually planned? Not a race to the police station upon arrival. When Emma declared the idea foolish, Ngaio ignored her, but when Agatha pointed out the potential for corruption in the police force and the possible exertion of power by Jimmy Williams, she listened. We finally agreed to reach out to the authorities, but only after exploring any and all ties we might have with the police or government and then making the approach through trusted, known players.
Can I bring any influential connections to the table? It’s hardly as if my upbringing as the daughter of a country vicar yields a multitude of lofty affiliations. That said, some of my Oxford classmates came from more exalted backgrounds, although most of my friends are teachers. Teaching and marriage seem to be the only two avenues open to educated women; I am an anomaly.
A name scratches at my memory. What about Charis Frankenburg, a fellow Somerville College chum who’d been a member of the Mutual Admiration Society, the group I’d formed for girls with literary ambitions? Known by her maiden name, Charis Barnett, she never did pursue writing, but had worked as a midwife and parenting educator before being named a justice of the peace in Manchester, a unique distinction for a woman. Might she have someone trustworthy and helpful in the judiciary we could speak to, even though her purview is juvenile cases? Her role might be too tangential, but I’ll contact her.
Stepping out of the bath, I catch a glimpse of my torso in the mirror. Bluish-purple marks wrap around my ribs, reminders of the pain that’s fading and the incident I’m trying desperately to forget. The attack, as I’d promised Ngaio I would call it.
I wrap my robe around myself tightly, step out into the chilly flat, and check that I’d locked the front door. To my relief, I’d latched it tight.
Satisfied, I turn back toward my bedroom to dress. As I do, the stack of mail in the entryway catches my eye again.No time like the present,I think, using a favorite phrase of my mother’s. Funny how she’s always with me, just beneath the surface. I wonder if I’ll ever have that sort of relationship with John. So much depends on Mac.
Warm and relaxed from my bath, I think I can face my editor’s harangue. Sorting the letters, I make a stack of bills, a pile of letters from friends and family, and just as I’m considering opening the missive from my publisher, Victor Gollancz, Ltd., I spot something odd. An envelope without a return address.
