“Obviously it wasn’t me. I would hardly send someone to harm this girl and blame it on my son,” Jimmy Williams scoffs.
A shadow crosses over Sir Alfred’s face, and suddenly, the innocuous older gentleman appears less insipid and more nefarious. It is as if an invisible mask has lifted.
His lip curls as he says to Jimmy and Louis, “Why are we even entertaining these crones, gentlemen? Who would ever believe five women writers of mystery fiction? These women lie for a living.”
So he does know who weallare. Of course he knows my identity; I left one of my novels in his care, after all. But Agatha introduced herself as Mrs. Mallowan, although I suppose Sir Alfred could have done some digging into Agatha’s identity through his partner, Basil Dean, who knows Agatha’s sister. The others should be entirely unknown to him, assuming Louis kept to our bargain.
“Evidence turns our so-called fiction into fact, Sir Alfred,” I proclaim.
His disturbingly pale eyes shift to me, and when they meet mine, there is venom in them. “By ‘evidence,’ do you mean your precious letter, Dorothy?” By calling me by my given name, he insults me and hopes to diminish me. “The one you worked so hard to locate? The one that will never be admissible in a court of law in England or France? What possible difference could a letter from a silly young woman mean tous? A young woman who, according to the newspapers, had loose morals and was addicted to morphine?” Shaking his head dramatically, he twists toward Louis. “What terrible taste in women you have, Louis—a slut and a morphine addict? And you expect us to believe you never had sex with her? Please. It seems to me that you had every motive for murder.”
Jimmy yells, “How dare you speak to my son that way?”
“It was you, wasn’t it?” Louis fumes at Sir Alfred. “You were the one who raped May. I unwittingly sent her into your hateful arms when I asked her to stop by your office after she sawCavalcade.”
“You mean you didn’t send her to me as a gift?” Sir Alfred gives Louis a sickening smile and lets out a horrible laugh. How could I have ever perceived this monster as a harmless gentleman? “I assumed it was tit for tat—repayment for the chorus line of actressesI routinely place in your path. Not to mention a violinist.” His eyebrow lifts knowingly. “If only the violinist had been as docile as your nurse.”
What does he mean by that? Suddenly I think I know, and I am disgusted by the possibilities racing through my mind.
Louis lunges at Sir Alfred, punching the older man squarely in the mouth and jaw and knocking Jimmy sideways in the process. Sir Alfred falls back, clutching at his face. Louis goes after him again, yelling, “May was good and kind. How dare you?!” His fist is raised for another punch, but his father manages to hold him back.
I watch the scene. Sir Alfred has essentially confessed to raping May—and, as the “father” referred to in her letter, insisting on an abortion—but we need to take this one step further. And perhaps more. We are nearly there.
Dabbing at his bloody lip with a handkerchief, he gestures to us with his other hand. “I can’t believe you are giving credence to the unsupported vitriol these women are spewing, Louis. And you as well, Jimmy. That girl doesn’t matter unless you make her matter. Same with these women.”
I glance at Margery. “Would you mind asking the receptionist to bring in a cloth for Sir Alfred’s lip?”
Margery gives me a confused look, and Ngaio opens her mouth, undoubtedly to admonish me for helping this dastardly fellow. But Agatha silences her by placing a hand on her arm. This next part of the plan I’ve only confided to Agatha just minutes ago.
A moment later, the meeting-room doors swing open, and Miss Bennett follows Margery inside, several cloths in her hand. “Alfred,” she exclaims at the sight of the man’s bloody face, then covers her mouth. “I mean, Sir Alfred, are you quite all right?”
As she hastens toward him, I glance over at Agatha, who nods and says, “Sir Alfred, after what you just said, are you still maintaining that you did not assault Miss Daniels? That you were not the father of her child?”
“I was just joking before. Why in the name of God would Iconcern myself with some lowly nurse—a floozy at that? When I’ve got an interchangeable lineup of dazzling dancing girls at my beck and call at my theater? I’m not an idiot, like Louis over there.”
Miss Bennett freezes in her ministrations. Louis’s body tenses, as if he’s about to pounce again. So does Jimmy’s. He doesn’t like anyone denigrating his son.
Sir Alfred keeps talking. “And anyway, wasn’t there a confession?”
I shiver at his mention of the confession, then freeze. How did he know about it? Discovery of the note hadn’t made the news. The immediate dismissal by the police eviscerated all its legitimacy, and the reporters never put wind in its sails.
Then I realize: Sir Alfred must have orchestrated the “confession” himself. And I have another epiphany. He arranged the letter Leonora Denning supposedly wrote to her parents, too, explaining away her disappearance. This terrible man is also responsible for whatever wrong was done to poor Miss Denning and the attempt to cover it up.
Should I call him out? Or continue down this line of questioning? Not only Louis but also Miss Bennett are listening intently, and the time is ripe to finish what we started.
“So, Sir Alfred, you didn’t send someone to keep an eye on Louis Williams here at Mathers Insurance? Someone he wouldn’t suspect but who would be able to keep track of his relationship with Miss Daniels? Perhaps at the behest of his father, who wasn’t keen on the pair? He couldn’t have his married son entangled with a—how did you put it?—‘nobody nurse.’”
Sir Alfred stares at me, his eyes poisonous, as does Jimmy. Louis stares at Sir Alfred and then his father, awareness descending upon him slowly.
When I speak again, the eyes of all three men are fixed upon me. The eyes of Miss Bennett, however, do not move from Sir Alfred. “Someone like Miss Millicent Bennett here? A former performer in your West End shows who’s grown perhaps a little long in thetooth? Someone who would do this favor for a price? A role in a show? An ongoing relationship with you?”
It is now Miss Bennett’s turn to stare at me.
I face her. “The information he wanted at first didn’t seem like much, did it? Just listening in on a few telephone conversations, opening a few letters, rifling through some drawers. Miss Daniels’s address. The sorts of contact they’d had. The where and the when of their dates.” I ignore Miss Bennett’s narrowing eyes and continue with my gamble. “But then Miss Daniels went missing. You begged Sir Alfred to release you from this assignment. He asked you to stay a little longer—telling you that your long-awaited stage role wasn’t quite ready—and you did, even though you became increasingly uncomfortable when May Daniels’s body was found. But still, you kept working for him. When I left my travel satchel at your desk more than a week ago, you were able to procure my full name, weren’t you? That’s how Sir Alfred was able to send someone to attack me after I stopped in here.”
Jimmy pivots toward Sir Alfred. “You did all this? Raped that poor girl at the theater? Then killed her later? Stalked and attacked this woman?” He points to me.
Sir Alfred doesn’t reply at first. He hasn’t stopped glaring at me. Finally he turns toward Jimmy. “Don’t act as though you are innocent, Jimmy. Who asked me to keep an eye on your feckless son in the first place? Who suggested I handle the situation when I told you she was pregnant? Who referred me to Charlie Fletcher, that thug who collects your loan-sharking debts from deadbeats who won’t pay?”
