I glance over at Emma, who remains by the Pinkerton agent’s side. She holds up two fingers to us, signaling the police’s arrival in two minutes. I motion to Ngaio to fetch Miss Bennett from the meeting room and usher her out of Mathers Insurance before theauthorities arrive. Our bargain for Miss Bennett’s fate seems to be finalized, at the very least.
“The clock is ticking, Mr. Williams,” I say.
Jimmy turns toward his son and clasps his hands in his own. “I only ever wanted the best for you, son.”
“I know, Father. I’m sorry for taking all this”—Louis’s eyes well with tears as he gestures around the office—“and all you’ve sacrificed for granted.”
“Enough of the sentiments,” I announce. “What say you, Mr. Williams? Do you agree to our terms?”
He nods.
“I need to hear you articulate them.”
“I will tell the authorities that Sir Alfred accidentally tumbled down the stairs. But before he did, he confessed to arranging the murder of May Daniels when she became pregnant after he raped her. I will make a statement to the police that I helped him secure a goon to do the job in France.” Jimmy is expressionless and his voice heavily accented, as if he’s closed off any tender part of himself and replaced it with the slum-born thug of his earlier years.
He needs to lay out the full crime here and now. For us. And for May.
“How exactly did Miss May Daniels die?” I ask him.
His eyes impassive, Jimmy says, “My man Charlie Fletcher was hired to follow her to Boulogne from Brighton. He shadowed her throughout the day and found an opportunity to whisk her away quietly in the train station when she stepped away from her friend. He took her to a remote area outside the town proper and strangled her, during which she must have miscarried, which explains the amount of blood.”
“You will confess this to the police.” It is not a question.
“Yes,” he replies.
“Then it’s agreed. We will stay silent about your son’s relationship with Miss Daniels. But please know that we have May’s letter in a safe place. We also have compromising photographs, and wewill not hesitate to release them to the press if you waver in your statements. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
Agatha studies Jimmy, her face puckering as she does. “It’s a devil’s bargain, but then what other kind can be struck when one is negotiating with demons?”
I glance at the other Queens and, with a wordless tilt of my head, ask about their readiness to agree to this resolution. They nod. Ngaio leads Miss Bennett down the back stairway to the building’s service entrance, and Agatha, Emma, Margery, and I encircle Jimmy, Louis, and the body of Sir Alfred. When the set of gleaming steel elevator doors slides open with the ping of a bell, the Pinkerton agent escorts the uniformed officers toward us. We are ready.
As the police approach, I whisper one last warning to Jimmy. “Never forget that we women aren’t what you call us—witches or crones or madwomen or surplus or nobodies. We are all Queens.”
Chapter Fifty-Seven
DECEMBER 18, 1931
LONDON,ENGLAND
Crimson and gold tinsel twinkles in the candlelight, and an eight-foot-tall pine tree decorated with ornaments dominates one corner, radiating a woodsy aroma. A pianist sends Christmas tunes aloft in the room, and the scent of roast turkey and goose wafts through the air alongside the carols. A merry mood has overtaken the guests—whether fueled by drink, the holiday spirit, or both is anyone’s guess.
“The Savoy istheperfect spot for this event, isn’t it?” Emma gazes around the private room, quite pleased with her arrangements. Her habit of regularly taking suites at the hotel made this gathering of the Detection Club financially possible. I am immensely grateful for this moment of joy. This past year has taught me how fleeting they can be, how the darkness can rear up at any time.
“Nothing could be better,” I assure her, patting her lace-covered arm. Emma is bedecked in Victorian splendor, as is her wont. Also as usual, I am wearing my black evening gown and hoping everyone has forgotten that they’ve seen it before.Time to go shopping,I think and remind myself to ask Margery if she’ll join me. Perhaps she could help me modernize and brighten up my wardrobe, add a few articles of clothing as sunny as she is.
“Where are the others?” Emma asks, and I’ve been wondering the same thing myself. The formal portion of the club meeting endeda few minutes ago with Gilbert pontificating about the Christmas season and the opportunities afforded by holiday publication dates. A bold mix of business and pleasure, which was well received even by the most pious of the bunch. We all want to sell books, after all. But there is another very important reason for the Detection Club meeting this evening.
“Not trapped by any unsavory members, I hope,” I say.
“I thought we’d dealt with those sorts,” she retorts with a smile.
“Taught them a lesson about the benefits of having an ‘abundance’ of women in the Detection Club, haven’t we?”
“But men can be very good at wearing masks, as we’ve learned,” she says.
“And we can be very good at unmasking them,” I reply.
