“I guess the best way to describe the way I solve the murders is that I serve the work,” I reply.
“What on earth does that mean? Sounds very mystical,” Ngaio—of course—says.
I don’t let her shake me. “I take direction from it and shape it according to that guidance. I don’t let my own predilections or potential readers’ desires dictate the course of the plot or its conclusion.”
“So you let the muse direct you?” Emma asks.
“That’s one way to describe it. Although for me, the muse is God rather than the ancient Greek mythological figure with a capitalM. I grew up in a religious household; my father was an Anglican vicar.Those teachings have never left me, although they have taken on their own form in my adult years.”
The women are quiet. Religious beliefs are a topic upon which we haven’t touched. Although why not? We are dealing with life and death as well as good and evil in the case of May Daniels. This secular age in which we live and the intellectual labors in which we engage don’t lend themselves to religion, I suppose. That is a conversation, however, for another day.
Or is it?
“I’m not saying that religion will help us reach a solution to May Daniels’s murder—I hardly think Moses will descend with tablets naming the killer and the best way to trap him,” I say, and the women laugh in relief. Did they think I was about to embark on a sermon? “But if we use our own muses—whatever inspires us as writers, not the detectives we’ve been playing at—as the guide, how would we bring about the just and right solution for May? What device would we use?”
“I know what technique I would use,” Ngaio says.
“So do I,” Emma says in agreement.
“I do as well,” Margery says. “I wonder if we are all landing on the same approach.”
“Why don’t I go first?” Agatha leans forward, a grin on her face. She’s enjoying this little game immensely. I suppose it isn’t often we have similarly situated others with whom to discuss the ins and outs of our work. Isn’t that the main reason I formed the Detection Club in the first place? To provide a forum for exactly this sort of discussion? So that we wouldn’t be considered mad for speaking aloud the many ways the latest kitchen gadget could be used as a murder weapon? Of course, I had originally thought we’d be considering fictional mysteries. I had no idea that the behavior by certain male Detection Club members would spur us into solving actual crimes.
“By all means: you have the floor.”
“Close your eyes for a moment,” Agatha instructs us, and weobey. “You have all been at this juncture before. The factual threads are coming together. An image is forming of May and Louis and the assault and May’s pregnancy and the other missing girl and the manner in which May’s involvement made her dangerous. Am I correct?”
I squint through my lashes to see the others nodding, and I join in before shutting my eyes again.
“But the image is only an outline without a clear shape. We have a sense of the why as well as the how. Yet there is a big blank spot in the center of that image—the who—and identifying that who requires the characters to reveal their guilt or innocence to us.”
As expected, Ngaio interjects, “I’d argue that Louis is that who. May practically identifies him in her letter.”
I chime in. “You may well be correct, Ngaio. But we are talking about the device we will choose toproveit.”
“Exactly,” Agatha says, concurring. “To me, the obvious choice is a gathering of the circle of suspects. We will bring together all the possible perpetrators under the auspices of revealing the murderer’s identity—and they will do the work for us.”
“That’s what I was thinking!” Margaret squeals delightedly.
Emma sits back and beams contentedly. “Outstanding.”
“We hardly have a circle,” Ngaio mutters. “We’ve only got the one.”
“Do we?” I ask, and the women stare at me.
I continue. “We have Louis, of course. That is a given. Even though I’m no longer entirely sold on his guilt, he’s despicable enough to consider. We know he’s married with children and a cheater to boot. He had an affair with May—tossing her off when it didn’t suit him—and undoubtedly has had numerous other paramours. Certainly he flirted with Leonora Denning on her last night—a coincidence that’s impossible to ignore—and look how quickly he jumped at Margery when she seemed to be on offer.”
Ngaio gives me an unexpectedly wide grin. “My point exactly.”
“What I learned about him and his father last night from my husband would seem to seal his fate as the murderer.”
“What is that?” Emma asks.
“Mac and I discussed the fact that his father had a very low birth.” I cannot bring myself to say the word “bastard,” and Agatha gives me a sympathetic nod of understanding. “To make the sort of incredible climb that he did, Jimmy had to create opportunities for himself. A boy born in the slums has to use whatever means are at his disposal to make money and connections—in this case, gambling and horses and moneylending and probably worse with a fast crowd of aristocrats, celebrities, and affluent businessmen who commit their own multitude of sins. When he’d amassed enough cash, he put window dressing on it and created Mathers Insurance. And now Jimmy Williams has the desperate desire to create for his son the sort of prosperous, respectable existence he wanted for himself.”
“Is Louis involved in the same illegal enterprises as his father?” Margery asks.
“Mac suspects not. He’s heard rumors that Jimmy still has a hand in loan sharking and the like, but he seems to be shielding his son from his shady dealings. Directing him toward the reputable aspects of Mathers Insurance. But certainly Louis would understand the nature of the people to whom he sells insurance and with whom his father still socializes. And he would have a healthy appreciation for the kind of person his father is, since Jimmy controls Louis with an iron fist. He has all his hopes of gentility pinned on his son.”
