“That must have been a sight to see—the five of you overtaking France,” he says with a chuckle. “I almost pity the citizens of Boulogne. They probably had no idea what hit them. You and your brilliant cohort—no less than Agatha Christie. That terrifying duo of Baroness Orczy and the Aussie whose name I can never pronounce. The only one who might not have had the French quaking in their boots is that Margery person. What is her surname?”
“Allingham.”
“Right, right.”
I laugh at the picture he’s conjured. “Your description of the five of us in France is spot-on.”
“Did you ladies find anything?” he asks. We sit closer on the sofa, side by side, thighs touching.
“We unearthed several interesting tidbits. Although I’m not sure any of them will be admissible or lead to an arrest. One trail of clues did lead to a connection between May Daniels and some successful men in the theater and insurance businesses. But we aren’t quite sure how solid the evidence is or how provable their role.”
“Who are the men?”
“Jimmy and Louis Williams, a father and son who run the insurance concern called Mathers. And Sir Alfred Chapman, who isthe co–managing director of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, along with several other West End theaters.”
Mac sits up a little straighter and meets my eyes. His lighthearted mood has turned serious. “Be careful, Dorothy. On paper, the Williamses seem like your usual status-conscious businessmen, but Jimmy made his climb to respectability via all sorts of shady dealings—gambling, horses, you name it. I know for certain he’s still up to his eyeballs in loan sharking. He’s propped up his son in business and in marriage; he made a match for Louis with the daughter of a broke baronet who could give him a tangential tie to the aristocratic class. Jimmy is ruthless and hell-bound to keep his family in this new, respectable wealthy class.”
This is a perspective we haven’t heard. What more does Mac know? “What about Sir Alfred Chapman?”
“Oh, he’s the worst sort of man. Got himself knighted for his wartime services overseeing rationing, but the word on the street is that he was the kingpin of the Great War black market in food, stealing from the mouths of babes and women. He’s since remade himself as a preeminent showman, but I’d hate to see what he gets up to behind the scenes.”
I’m shocked. “That mild-mannered gentleman?”
“His bland, unassuming facade is often described as his greatest weapon.” Mac pauses. “Why do you believe he’s mild-mannered, Dorothy? Please tell me you haven’t had any dealings with him.”
I’ve dug myself a hole here. Nowhere to go but the truth. “Agatha and I met him at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, after a show. As far as he knows, we are just two boring matrons who met Basil Dean at a party.”
I do not mention that I left behind an autographed copy ofThe Five Red Herrings. And that Sir Alfred certainly knows who I am. It simply won’t do to have Mac worrying; we are too far gone in this investigation to back away now.
“It best stay that way, my love,” he says as he wraps himselfaround me. “Promise me you won’t get too close to them. They are nasty pieces of work.” He is in earnest.
I bestow a coy, wide smile on him. He would never, ever underestimate me, but at this hour of night, as we sit snugly together on the couch, he might just be susceptible to my wiles. “Mac, my dear, we are just a group of female mystery writers gathering at the University Women’s Club and in restaurants to noodle on this puzzle over tea. What possible interest could they have in us? And what threat could we pose to men such as those?”
Chapter Fifty-Three
APRIL 17, 1931
LONDON,ENGLAND
The bookshelves have been dusted and the wooden floors swept. I’ve wiped clean the kitchen surfaces and tidied the drafts of the very tardyHave His Carcaseon my desk. The timeline has been pinned to the wall alongside blank sheets of paper where we will sketch out our plan. Earlier, I braved the unseasonably brisk early morning temperatures and scampered down Great James Street to the bakery on the corner, and now reheated hot crumpets and scones sit alongside jars of orange marmalade and berry jam, stacks of small porcelain plates, teacups, and a steaming pot of tea on the sofa table. A fire burns in the hearth. The flat has even been cleared of Mac, although that was his own doing; work called.
A delicate knock sounds at the door, and from the tempo, I guess that Agatha has arrived first. But when I open the door, I’m wrong. It is Emma, the Queen I’d been most anxious about inviting to my flat. She lives a razzle-dazzle life in Monte Carlo, Tuscany, and Kent, and I worry that a glimpse into my less-than-glamorous existence may alter her perception of me.
She steps into the flat and hands me her coat and hat. She peeks into the parlor, declaring, “How positively wondrous! A London pied-à-terre of the most writerly sort!”
I’d never thought of my flat as a pied-à-terre, but I’ll take the compliment.
After I guide her toward the most comfortable upholstered armchair, I rush back to answer the next knock. The three other Queens stand at the door, then pour into my flat on a wave of laughter and chatter.Has my flat ever reverberated with a cacophony of such happy sounds?I wonder, a smile spreading across my face. Too bad it took a murder and assaults and threats to prompt this cheery gathering.
The women settle on the sofa and upholstered chairs, helping themselves to crumpets and scones while I pour them tea. Once the chin-wagging dies down, I take my place at the wall facing them. “Apologies that the timeline has reappeared,” I joke, pointing to the now familiar chronology, and they laugh. “But we shan’t be focusing on that first. Instead, we will start with a question, the most pressing one before us today. How does each of you solve your murders?”
“What exactly do you mean?” Emma asks. “How do we map them out for the purposes of writing? Or how do we resolve them in the pages of our books?”
“The latter.”
“Let’s turn the question on the questioner,” Margery says with a smile. “How do you do it, Dorothy?”
This unexpected turn might take us a bit off course. A very specific idea of how we might decipher this mystery had occurred to me last evening, but I want the women to reach the same conclusion on their own.
