Strolling to my desk in the corner of the parlor, I reach for my brass letter opener. My father had given me a lovely brass-and-leather desk set when I’d headed off to Oxford, and I’ve treasured it ever since. A smile curls on my lips at the thought of my Tootles, as I liked to call him. How I miss him.
I slice open the strange note, and out flutters a small square of thin paper.Not the heavy, embossed stationery my friends tend to use,I think. I pick it up from the floor, straining to read the choppy, handwritten words without my reading glasses in the fading daylight. After fetching them from my handbag and switching on the desk lamp, I hold the note under the light.
The sheet contains only two lines of text: “We know about your son. Stop your questions about May Daniels or everyone else will know about him as well.”
Chapter Forty-Seven
APRIL 16, 1931
LONDON,ENGLAND
Has a whole day really passed since I opened the threat? I honestly don’t know, but when I take a quick glimpse out the window, I can see that it’s twilight. I feel as though I’ve awakened from the most terrible haze, a drunken one at that. Certainly I have the headache to prove it.
My first reaction to the note was to down a stiff drink. Not very honorable, and not my usual response, but the shock and fear for John had been so debilitating that I couldn’t think without the numbing it would provide. The only alcohol in the flat was Mac’s single-malt whiskey from a Scottish distillery near his hometown. I usually avoid it at all costs, given its uniquely powerful effect on me. But in the absence of wine or a cordial or anything else, I downed a full glass of the liquid. And another.
The last thing I recall clearly is staring at the note, glass in hand, as I sat on the sofa in my darkening flat. Other than that, I have a blurry recollection of stumbling to the bathroom to use the toilet and then flopping down on my bed. But it had been daylight then, and now the light is dimming. It seems I’ve slept through an entire day—or spent it passed out, if I’m being honest.
I push myself to a sitting position. My temples are pounding, but I’m otherwise none the worse for wear. I am, however, still in my robe.An appalling state for a grown woman,I think. Thank goodnessno one has been here to witness this dissolution. Understandable though it may be.
I grab a comfortable skirt and sweater set from my wardrobe and slip them on, along with stockings and the slipperlike shoes I prefer at home. Perhaps in my day clothes, pretending at normalcy, I might be able to think straight.
I ignore the dog’s breakfast I’ve made of the flat and head to the kitchen. Steaming cup of tea in hand—with four sugars, thank you very much—I settle at my desk. Inhaling deeply, I dare to study the note again. What would Harriet Vane make of it? Or Lord Peter Wimsey? They’d make a list of distinguishing elements, and so shall I.
The note is handwritten in blue ink. This is notable, because most people write in black ink. Blue is more expensive and harder to come by and thus tends to be used by affluent individuals. Because blue is also used for signatures on documents, individuals accustomed to endorsing contracts and the like would likely have it on hand.
The note is not typed. This is also interesting, because if it had been typed, there would be a record left in the ribbon. Perhaps it is handwritten for this reason. While typewriter usage is common in offices, it is less common for those corresponding from home.
The paper is thin and cheap, the sort a clerk or a schoolchild might use. Not the sort of stationery used by a professional or the people in my social circle. That said, this inexpensive, flimsy sort of paper is readily available.
The envelope does not bear a return address, but it does have a postmark. Belgravia is where extremely well-to-do Londoners reside. Notably, this is neither in the financial district nor in the vicinity of Parliament and other government buildings.
The envelope was postmarked April 14. This is the day after the Queens arrived at Ivy’s home in Oxfordshire, the sameday we traveled to Boulogne. This suggests that either I was followed there or they were. The spying on Ivy and John—and me—transpired right around that time as well.
I write down a sixth point. This is not another fact about the threat itself or the envelope in which it arrived. But it lies at the core of all my fears.
Am I being threatened by the same person who threatened May? Are John and Ivy at risk of physical harm?
Does this list tell me anything I don’t already know? Not really. Other than I’m reaping what I sowed. What a fool I’d been to stop into Mathers Insurance. Stupidly, I somehow revealed my identity in that meeting, and Louis or one of his henchmen has been tailing me ever since—to my flat, to Ivy’s, to Boulogne. Putting me and John and the Queens and our investigation at risk.
I realize something else. A list like this might look promising on the pages of one of my mystery novels, but it doesn’t really reveal anything. Masquerading as a detective in fiction and actually pursuing flesh-and-blood criminals are two entirely different matters. Perhaps we’ve only told ourselves a story about our progress in May’s case. Maybe it is time to bring in the experts.
A knock sounds at the door, and I jump. I cannot answer it. What if it’s one of Louis’s goons—assuming he has goons, that is—come to finish the job he started a week earlier? I need to hide in case he forces the lock. But where? Under my bed? At the back of my wardrobe? These places sound so silly and obvious; my best chance may be to arm myself.
I’m creeping into the kitchen to grab a knife when I hear a soft female voice. “Dorothy? Are you there? It’s me—Agatha.”
Recognizing her voice, I unlock the door. My friend stands in the dim corridor, her blue eyes worried. “Are you all right?” she asks as I usher her in.
“Yes; don’t I look it?” I try for levity, even though I sense my little quip won’t land.
“Dorothy, one or another of us has been ringing you since this morning. Emma even sent over a messenger this afternoon, but no one answered your door. Where have you been?”
I sink into the sofa and invite her to do the same. Do I see the hem of a silk dress peeking out from her typically bland overcoat? Did she stop at my flat en route to an elegant dinner? It’s unlike the reclusive author, but perhaps her husband returned early from Syria.
“Here. In my cups, I’m ashamed to admit,” I say.
Agatha sighs in relief. “Thank God that’s the extent of it; the anxiety of the investigation has affected us all. You had us so very worried, though. We thought, well—”
I interject. “I can imagine what you thought, and I’m sorry. That was never my intention.”
