She stands, glancing down at my slippers. “Now that I know you’re alive, get on an evening dress and appropriate shoes. We are meeting the other Queens of Crime at Simpson’s in the Strand in thirty minutes.”
How can I possibly join them? Dining at Simpson’s in the Strand after receiving that note is tantamount to firing a warning shot at the enemy. A signal that I am proceeding with the investigation. That I am not shaken by his threats. That he can reveal the existence of my illegitimate child to the entire world for all I care.
I’m not willing to do that.
How can I explain this to Agatha without revealing my secret?
“Come along. Chop-chop,” Agatha says, but I do not move. “What’s wrong, Dorothy? I’ve never known you to be at a loss for words.”
“I… I do not think I can participate in the investigation any longer.”
“I beg your pardon?” Agatha looks confused.
“I received a threat in the mail… if I continue searching forMay’s killer,” I say, careful not to explain the exact nature of the threat.
Agatha’s face hardens. “How dare he! Oh, Dorothy, why didn’t you tell us immediately? We could have already settled you somewhere safe. Out of harm’s way. Then the four of us can track down the murderer on our own, lock him behind bars, and set you free.”
Would that work? If the Queens squirreled me away in one of their homes or flats and proceeded, would that satisfy Louis or whoever is threatening me? Or would he presume that I’m still helping out behind the scenes and unleash my secret to the world? I can guess the answer.
Poor sweet John. He doesn’t deserve to be used as a pawn in this terrible game. But neither did May’s baby.
“Let’s discuss this over dinner,” Agatha says with a squeeze of my arm and a warm smile. “You’re not alone, Dorothy. You have us now.”
Her tenderness and kindness break me. The facade of strength and independence I’ve had to cultivate over the years, sometimes long and lonely ones, crumbles in the face of this friendship. And I start crying. I’ve shed more tears in front of the Queens in these past few days than I have in a decade.
She pats me on the back. “This isn’t just about the threatening letter, is it?”
I shake my head but don’t look up at her.
“I didn’t think so. Since you hardly blinked when a car sideswiped you under suspicious circumstances, I guessed a threatening note wouldn’t rattle you.”
Can I trust her with my secret? How else can I explain my decision? I’m torn between Agatha’s affection and the long-held instinct to protect my child at all costs by keeping him hidden. Letting intuition be my guide, I stand, walk to my desk, and retrieve the note. Without a word, I give it to her. Then I sit back down next to her, my head in my hands. I cannot watch her read the note; the shame is too strong.
After several interminable moments, she wraps her fingers around mine. “Is it John? Your son, I mean?” she asks with a sweet smile. There is no shock and no judgment. No clutching at pearls.
I stare at her. “How did you know?”
“The way you looked at him. The way you talk about him. It’s a mother’s love for her son, plain to see for anyone who’s looking. And now I’m looking.”
I have locked down tight the very fact of John’s existence for nearly eight years. Eight years when thoughts of him constantly crept into my mind and I had to push them away to proceed with my life as a childless woman writer. Eight years of carrying around the weight of my shame while pretending to have confidence, a can-do attitude, and, occasionally, strong moral fiber. Agatha’s tenderhearted acceptance of my child—of the fact I have a child—is so unexpected that cries give way to sobs.
Embracing me, Agatha whispers, “There, there, my dear friend. Your secret will remain safe with me should you want that. But I suspect the other Queens would receive your news with the same unequivocal acceptance as I have.”
“Do you really?” I ask.
“I do. In fact, I wonder if some have even suspected it,” she says. “But the choice is yours. To tell or not to tell. To proceed or not to proceed. This is your life and that of your son’s, and nothing is more important.”
“What would you do?”
Agatha sighs. “Oh, Dorothy, it is a decision only you can make. But as someone who has had her own secrets and deepest shame exposed on the front page of newspapers around the world, I know it’s possible to face anything and fashion a happy life afterward. We can and will do anything for our children,” she says. Then a half smirk appears on her face, and she nudges me. “Who knows? The scandal might even make you a bigger star.”
Chapter Forty-Eight
APRIL 16, 1931
LONDON,ENGLAND
We pass under the chessboard-patterned archway and into history. An establishment that began in the early nineteenth century as a chess club—hence the pattern—Simpson’s in the Strand has transformed itself into an institution frequented by the monied, titled, and politically minded. Such is its fame that it’s featured in several of Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes novels. It seems a fitting place for May Daniels’s final act to unfold.
