“Let me guess,” Emma says. “You would add Jimmy Williams to our circle of suspects as well.”
“Wouldn’t you?” I ask.
The women nod, and Ngaio cannot help but state the obvious. With sarcasm. “Well, that makes two suspects. More of a line than a circle.”
“Have you forgotten the other person that keeps popping up? Sir Alfred Chapman?” I ask.
“Sir Alfred? He doesn’t sound as though he’d swat a fly,” Ngaio says.
“Sir Alfred is not what he seems. He may have been knighted for his work with food rationing during the Great War, but Mac is fairly certain that he also dealt in the black market. So he was taking milk and eggs and produce away from the citizens and reselling it at a hefty premium. He’s best known, of course, for his theater empire, owning and running many theaters in the West End and elsewhere. But don’t forget about the theater world’s dark underbelly. All those young, vulnerable women, desperate for jobs and vying for roles.”
“These men all seem rotten.” Emma sounds disgusted.
“So shall we add Sir Alfred to the circle?” I ask.
“Yes,” Agatha says, her eyes shining. “Let’s gather all three men and force them to disclose their natures.”
“As you did inThe Mysterious Affair at Styles.”I smile at Agatha.
“As you did inThe Five Red Herrings,Dorothy,” Agatha says.
I share my smile with the others. “Perhaps our circle of suspects will shake loose a killer. And the truth will come out.”
Chapter Fifty-Four
APRIL 18, 1931
LONDON,ENGLAND
The other Queens and I ride the elevator up in silence. It is empty save for the five of us, as is most of the office building. We purposely chose a time after normal working hours for this solemn task.
Are they anxious? Heaven knows I am; thank goodness I wore dark colors to hide my nervous perspiration. This may not be the first time we’ve acted the part of detectives, but it’s certainly our first time performing at the crucial denouement. Much more is at stake than the fate of a fictional character in the elaborate scheme we have in mind today.
The elevator doors part, and we step as one into the foyer of Mathers Insurance. We nod at the Pinkerton man, who is seated in the lobby, keeping watch. The same bored blond clerk sits at the reception desk as before, presumably here after hours to admit us.
Emma says “Excuse me” several times before the woman deigns to respond. This time, I get a closer look at her reading material: it isThe Stage,a weekly publication covering theater goings-on. Queued up next in her pile isThe Era,another theater paper.Interesting,I think as my mind whirls.
“Yes?” she asks, as if we are interrupting her. But then her eyes narrow as if she might just actually recollect a few of us. Or perhaps this is another part of her standard inhospitable greeting.
“We are here for an appointment with Mr. Williams.” Emma speaks for us, as we’d decided. She’s very difficult to refuse. “Junior,” she adds when I nudge her.
The clerk glances over at an open calendar on her desk. “He’s already in a meeting upstairs with some gentlemen, but I don’t see any ladies’ names on the list of attendees.”
“If you would ask Mr. Williams, I’m sure he will instruct you to escort us in,” Emma insists. Her voice is low and her tone polite, but her eyes flash sternly.
“No name on the list, no entrance. Thus no need to ask Mr. Williams anything. It’s as simple as that.” The clerk’s voice is every bit as hard and unyielding as Emma’s. The only softness in her tone is the slightest Irish lilt, one she’s worked to hide.
It seems Emma has met her match in this unflinching, ennui-dripping clerk.
At this, Louis walks into the room, a wan smile on his lips. No trace of the overly confident young man whom we encountered at the Savoy and whom Margery fended off. He’d been a reluctant participant in our plan today, but eventually he acquiesced. Otherwise, as we made plain, May’s letter would be submitted to every newspaper in town, accompanied by a little note naming the “beau” as Louis Williams. The letter might not be enough for a conviction, but it should suffice to cause marital strife. His demeanor and pallid complexion suggest a surrender to our purpose, which helps alleviate some of my fear that he’s arranged a trap for us. Are the others similarly appeased? Opinions had varied on whether this office is indeed the most auspicious place for our gathering of suspects. It’s hostile territory, after all.
“It’s quite all right, Miss Bennett. The ladies were last-minute invitees to the meeting. You won’t find their names on the list,” he explains.
“If you say so, Mr. Williams,” she answers. Her words are perfectly proper, but her tone reveals something less respectful. Is this one of the women with whom Louis dallied? Perhaps the one Maywitnessed him with? And now Miss Bennett harbors a grudge? She doesn’t seem the sort of vulnerable woman to be charmed by him, but perhaps I’ve misjudged them both.
Without another word, Louis leads us toward the staircase. When we reach the landing, I spot a cavernous space to the left. There, two dozen or so simple empty cherrywood desks are arranged in rows, presumably the place where clerks work by the light of banker’s lamps. The greenish pools of light on the desk surfaces give the space an eerie glow.
But we don’t head in that direction. Instead we stop before a set of wide mahogany doors inset with windows. The rich, detailed wood is quite the contrast to the cheaper cherry furniture in the distance. As Louis ushers us in, Agatha and I stand at the back of our group, and she whispers, “Showtime.” I inhale deeply, noticing that she does as well.
