The room is hazy with cigar smoke. At a vast oval mahogany table sit two men, puffing away. As we file in, they stare. They are familiar to some of us. The silver-haired man in the crisp navy windowpane-plaid suit and horn-rimmed glasses is Louis’s father, Jimmy. And the unprepossessing man with the graying blond hair and slate-colored tweed suit is, of course, Sir Alfred Chapman.
None of us is what we seem,I remind myself.
Before Louis can introduce us, Jimmy jumps up and says, “These are the women with disconcerting information about some criminal activities? They don’t exactly look the part. In fact, they look very like some prospective Mathers Insurance clients I’ve met.” This he murmurs with a raised eyebrow.
There’s that working-class Welsh accent again,I think. Unlike Miss Bennett’s accent, it is not carefully hidden. This inflection, I suspect, gets trotted out when he thinks it will move the needle. What is it about us that this man believes will be affected by a working-class Welsh lilt? Does he imagine we’ll be more sympathetic? Clearly he recognizes some of us from our reconnaissance visits here, but otherwise how did Louis describe us? When we persuaded him to helpus today—blackmailed him into doing so, more like—we had, in the end, shared our names with him. In giving him very specific instructions on how he should set forth the reason for our meeting, we ordered him to keep our identities vague.
The ever-imposing Emma steps forward. Undeterred, she says, “We are every bit the part. Do not underestimate us.”
“Can you believe this?” Jimmy scoffs, turning to his son and Sir Alfred and then back to us. “I applaud your audacity. I almost can’t wait to hear what flimsy magician’s tricks you think you’ve got up your sleeve.”
“Please, Father,” Louis implores.
“Take a seat, ladies. Never let it be said that we denied chairs to elderly women,” Jimmy says, making a show of offering us the empty seats across from him. He then glances at Margery and adds, “Yourself excepted, darling.”
“I’ll remain here,” I reply, keeping my voice level and strong. I refuse to be shaken. Standing tall, I pull May’s letter out of my handbag and say, “These are the final words of Miss May Daniels, written in the hours before her disappearance and death, on October 16.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Sir Alfred shooting a glance at Jimmy, who bellows, “Who is May Daniels?”
I ignore this question and begin. No additional context. And no explanation of the letter’s previous whereabouts. I want May to speak for herself before the men who did wrong by her.
As I read May’s words aloud, I periodically glance at the men’s faces. I don’t know what I expected, but they are strangely quiet. Had I envisioned fist-thumping denials that give way to a confession? Perhaps I hoped for tears of remorse? If this were one of my novels, I’d probably have them do all three in quick succession.
“What nonsense.” Jimmy finally speaks, forcing a laugh. It sounds hollow and false. “How dare you march intomyplace of work and accuse us of having something to do with the death of this girl— some nobody nurse—when her letter never even mentions any of us. I could sue you for slander.”
“Oh, Mr. Williams, did you think the letter was all we had?” It’s my turn to laugh. “I just wanted to return Miss Daniels’s voice to her one last time, since you all rendered her voiceless.”
Jimmy glances over at Louis, making a show of shaking his head. “How could you let these madwomen in here, son? What delusional mutterings.”
I do not dignify his response with a reply. Instead, I say, “In June of 1930, Louis Williams entered into a relationship with a young nurse, May Daniels. So that she’d be smartly dressed for their evenings out to dinner and the theater—tickets courtesy of you, Sir Alfred—Mr. Williams the younger purchased two gowns for Miss Daniels at the designer shop Madame Isobel. We have the receipts. This relationship continued throughout the summer, as Miss Daniels’s friend Celia McCarthy can attest. There is no denying that Louis Williams is the ‘beau’ referenced in Miss Daniels’s letter.”
“That part is true, Father,” Louis says, his eyes downcast.
Jimmy, pointedly, does not look at his son. I see no sign of surprise on his face.
“Mr. Williams the younger was, in fact, one of the last people to see Miss Daniels alive,” I say. “They had a dinner date at Rules restaurant the night before she left for Boulogne—October 14. The Rules staff will support this.”
The room is silent. None of the men makes eye contact with me or with one another. “It’s an awfully suspicious confluence of events, particularly in light of May’s letter. How did she put it? ‘In the late summer, my innocence was taken from me in an act that brought me great shame. A surprise assault. Against my will… “Get rid of it.” That was the first thing he said. The second thing? “I can find someone to take care of it.”… In Boulogne… a strange man approached me. He sidled up to me on the bench and told me that “arrangements” had been made for me with a local doctor. All I had to do was follow him.… I wondered about the stranger. Had he been sent to get rid of me as well as the baby?’”
I pause for a reaction but receive none. Where are Jimmy’s protestations now?
I continue. “It makes for a compelling case against the young Mr. Williams, especially because large quantities of blood were found beneath May Daniels’s body. Consistent with an abortion or miscarriage. And of course, Mr. Williams’s questioning by the police in the case of another missing girl—the violinist Leonora Denning, who also vanished in October after performing inCavalcade—doesn’t weigh in his favor.”
“My God,” Jimmy Williams utters, staring down at the table. All bravado and condescension are gone; only concern and surprise remain.
“There is one problem with this story, Father,” Louis says, meeting Jimmy’s eyes.
“Just one? The story seems positively riddled with them. Beginning with these women.” He points to us, summoning a flash of anger and righteousness again. But it peters out quickly, and he deflates like an old balloon.
“I never had relations with May Daniels.”
Jimmy sputters, “What?”
“Never. So while I wooed her and lied to her and certainly tried to sleep with her, I had no luck consummating the affair. In fact, the relationship had been on the wane long before she left for Boulogne. I was not the father of May’s child, and I had nothing to do with her death.” His eyes are plaintive and pleading.
I exchange glances with the other women. Our job is to gauge these men’s reactions. My instinct tells me that neither Louis nor his father is lying. But what do the other Queens intuit?
“If Louis isn’t responsible for May’s baby or her death, then I think we know who is. Don’t we?” I say, ensuring that, while my words may be quizzical, my tone is not. I want the men to believe we already know the answer and have proof.
