“Then let’s put an end to this nonsense,” I pronounce and gesture toward the clusters of men—and one woman, Agatha—gathered around the ballroom. “Let’s go spread your plague. Or, at the very least, inoculate these people.”
I lead the women toward Agatha, who’s deep in conversation with Gilbert. If the club president engages pleasantly with the three women, it might serve as the necessary stamp of approval for the other men to follow.Sheep,I think with a shake of my head.They will not go anywhere unless their shepherd leads.
As we weave our way through the little groups of men, I hear whispers. Audible enough for us to detect as we pass. Very intentionally.
“Make way, make way,” one gravelly-throated fellow murmurs, stepping back. As if we did indeed have an infectious disease.
“We shouldnotallow any Tom, Dick, or Harry into the Detection Club—our status will be lowered rather than raised,” another man says in a whisper bordering on a hiss.
“Don’t you mean any Mary, Helen, or Barbara?” someone hisses back with a chuckle.
“Better yet—Emma, Margery, and Ngaio?”
Riotous laughter ensues, and I am torn between turning and slugging the offenders—an act of violence I haven’t committed since an ill-fated childhood squabble in Papa’s rectory—or running out with the women in tow. I feel terrible that they are enduring this sort of snubbing and abuse. How foolish I’d been to think this plan would work.
But I feel Emma’s hand on my elbow propelling me ahead, so we continue our progress toward Agatha and Gilbert. Still, I wonder about my project’s worthiness at this point. Even with Gilbert’s blessing, will the members welcome the women? What would it take? Do the women even want to risk it?
How his voice carries,I think as we get closer to Gilbert and Agatha. He is pontificating in a loud, lecturing tone as if Agatha is a classroom of students or a BBC radio audience. I’m guessing this conversation is not of her making, and I wish we could rescue her instead of exploiting the situation.
“Gilbert,” I say with a broad smile, “you know Baroness Orczy, Mrs. Allingham, and Miss Marsh, isn’t that right?”
“Of course. It’s always a pleasure to see you,” he replies with a dramatic bow, “although, truth be told, I hadn’t expected to see your lovely faces tonight.”
I decide to ignore this slight dressed up in compliments, and I hope the others can as well. As I open my mouth to praise him on his performance and draw the women into a conversation about the ritual, Gilbert beats me to it. “Well, it seems as though I shouldexcuse myself. Your ladies-in-waiting have summoned you, Agatha. As your king, I give my queen leave.”
Even Gilbert is playing this game? Rushing away as soon as the women reach his side? Referring to himself as our king? I am flabbergasted by his behavior. Or am I being too sensitive given the context?
Instead of allowing Gilbert to slink off, grateful to be free of him, Agatha squares her shoulders and stares at him. For a moment, her eyes flash with the intensity of Agatha of old, and the steeliness in her tone harks back to the days before she became the subject of newspaper headlines.
“There are no ladies-in-waiting here, Gilbert. There are only queens. And you are not our king.”
Chapter Seven
MARCH 20, 1931
LONDON,ENGLAND
Who would have believed Agatha capable of such speed?
Emma, Ngaio, Margery, and I race to keep up with her as she storms out of the ballroom and marches down the long hallway to the lobby of the Northumberland Avenue Hotel. The bellman opens the front door as she approaches, and just as she’s about to step outside, I catch her.
“Agatha, wait!”
She turns toward me, eyes blazing, and says, “Why should I? I heard the comments the men made about Emma, Ngaio, and Margery. And Gilbert, well, he’s insufferable—trying to scuttle away from us and then calling himself my king!”
The other women reach us, flanking us on either side. “I don’t know what’s gotten into Gilbert. It’s not exactly like him,” I say. “In fact, I think he was attempting a joke.”
“It wasn’t funny.”
“I know. Anyway, the Detection Club is meant to be an egalitarian group where we support one another’s endeavors, not a hierarchy with the famous G. K. Chesterton at the top and women at the bottom—or absent altogether. The presidential position is one I’d envisioned us taking turns with. Even though this is not Gilbert’s permanentreign,it seems the presidential role has gone to his head.”
Margery says, “He’s got a big enough one.”
We laugh at her unexpected quip, and joining in the momentary frivolity, I add, “Do you know how long it took to find a cape that would fit him? I had to have one specially made.”
When the laughter subsides, Emma, still panting from the exertion of chasing after Agatha, says, “We cannot allow them to defeat us by driving us away with their… theirmesquinerie—I cannot think of the English word for this.”
I have never seen Emma at a loss for words, English, French, or otherwise. This unfortunate situation must have flapped the unflappable baroness.
