The Queens of Crime

Chapter One

F EbrUARY 1, 1931

L ONDON, E NGLAND

None of us is as we appear, I think as I watch the woman enter the marble-trimmed lobby of Brown’s Hotel. Her step is hesitant, her gray cloche hat is perfectly nondescript and low on her forehead, and her eyes are averted from the gaze of high-hatted bellhops helping a well-heeled family of five with their mountain of trunks. Who would ever believe that this meek creature is capable of arranging unspeakable murders and seeing into the minds of the most dastardly criminals? For that matter, who would believe that I am?

She pauses and scans the bustling space, seeming not to see me. She looks so uncomfortable that one would think this was not her self-professed favorite establishment. I cannot stand to watch her flounder for another painful moment, so I raise my hand in welcome.

When my presence still does not register, I wave and call out, “Good afternoon. I do believe our table is ready in the Drawing Room.”

Recognition and relief flutter across her face in equal measure. I gesture to the right, where the inviting warmth of the wood-paneled tearoom beckons, and she follows me with a quickened stride toward our table for two. We settle into sage-green upholstered chairs arranged in front of a small ornate hearth ablaze with a welcoming fire.

Although we exchange a few words in greeting, I do not initiate conversation until the waitress finishes taking our tea order—chamomile for her and Earl Grey for me. An uncharacteristic silence has overtaken me, a quiet that my dear mama repeatedly wished for during my chatterbox childhood. I furtively study my teatime guest as she plays with a wayward curl and tucks it back into her hat.

How could this be the same animated woman I met at Hatchards bookshop on Piccadilly nearly five years ago? A woman who strode right past the queue of patrons waiting for her to sign her latest novel and greeted me with a warm embrace when I popped into the shop? A woman with an infectious laugh and a bright crimson scarf tied around her neck? The woman I see peek out from time to time, but only in the secure comfort of mutual friends’ dining rooms and parlors? That confident woman is the one I need for the endeavor I’ll be proposing today.

Even though I know what’s happened to her—by Jove, the whole country does—I’m sometimes gobsmacked by the transformation since the early days of our acquaintance. One cannot fully imagine the damage done to her confidence from the blanketing of newspaper articles during her infamous eleven-day disappearance, five years ago, when her automobile was found empty on the edge of a cliff and the largest manhunt in England’s history was launched. The search was undertaken by policemen and hundreds of volunteers and bloodhounds and airplanes and even me, to no avail. Thankfully, she emerged in northern England unscathed—except by the indignity of having her now ex-husband’s dirty extramarital laundry aired—but shrouded in a mystifying silence with no explanation and a cowed character to boot. Her vanishing remains the greatest unsolved mystery in her canon.

But studying her now, I wonder. Has the vivacious, bold woman really disappeared? Or can she simply not bear the public gaze? We shall see.

How would I have reacted to such a highly publicized broadcasting of my own peccadilloes? I’m not immune to improprieties myself, but I do not believe that anyone would be the wiser upon meeting me. Or even suspect an untoward thing. All my shame is tucked away within my bullish exterior. Done and dusted.

Then I remember a line from one of my guest’s short stories, a frippery involving married sleuths Tommy and Tuppence: “Very few of us are what we seem.” And I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that the woman I met in that bookstore five years ago is still there, hiding beneath the surface and emerging only when unthreatened. Somehow I need to draw her out.

Her gray-blue eyes peer out over the top of the Drawing Room’s impossibly tall teatime menu, and I leap upon this first overture. “This menu is chockablock with delicacies. Every single item looks simply scrumptious. What tickles your fancy?” I ask.

“Well,” she answers in a soft voice, “the full tea does include orange poppy-seed cake.”

“Is that a favorite?” I venture.

“Oh, yes. It might even count as the favorite,” she answers, with a glimmer in her eye. If we must first chitchat about gastronomical delights, so be it. It certainly will not be a reach for me. I’m so well known for my adoration of the culinary arts that my husband, Mac, dedicated his cookery book to me.

I chortle as my eyes skim the list. “I wish I had only one favorite. If I’m being perfectly honest, I haven’t encountered a single tea sandwich, scone, pudding, or sponge that I couldn’t befriend.”

At the thought, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the wall opposite. A little rounder than I’d been in my twenties, but still the same sparkling eyes and winsome smile, or so I’ve been told by a select few. Not to mention that in my thirties, I’ve learned how to dress so that I accentuate rather than hide my curves. On balance, still attractive, I suppose. Even though I’ve never been the belle of anyone’s ball—except Mac’s, perhaps.

She chuckles, which I consider an unequivocal victory from this reticent creature. “Shall we order the full tea? If it was good enough for Queen Victoria, I daresay it’s more than good enough for us.” I’m referencing our stalwart matriarch from times gone by who—rumor has it—adored teatime at Brown’s Hotel.

“Let’s,” she says, leaning forward with a conspiratorial gleam in her eye.

I signal our waitress, and with the order placed, I turn toward my guest. Ice between us now broken, I bestow upon her my most generous smile. No more tiptoeing or holding back for her benefit. The undertaking I’m about to present will require a certain amount of moxie, and the waters must be tested. So I plunge in, bracing myself.

“Mrs. Christie, I want to thank you for agreeing to join me today. I know you are generally disinclined to be out and about,” I say, obliquely referring to her reclusiveness.

“I was delighted to receive your invitation to tea, Miss Sayers. I always enjoy a good chin-wag with you when we have the odd dinner or drinks around town with fellow writers. Although I don’t think we’ve met just the two of us since before the, the—” She pauses, then seems to think better of finishing that sentence. “Well, it was a pleasure hearing from you, and please do call me Agatha.”

“Only if you’ll call me Dorothy.”

“You have a deal, Dorothy,” she replies, her face open, the hint of a warm smile on her lips.

“Speaking of invitations, I was tickled when you agreed to accept my other one as well. To join me in becoming a member of the Detection Club, soon to be the preeminent organization of mystery writers.” I get to the matter at hand, and I’m formal about it. I am a founder, after all.

The slight curl of her mouth and receptive expression vanish in a blink, replaced by an inscrutable blankness. Is Agatha backing away from her decision to accept? Confound it, I think. Have I startled the skittish cat back into her corner? If only I had mustered a modicum of patience, perhaps I could have made my petition at a more auspicious moment. Maybe after wading through a sea of innocuous small talk. But restraint and polite conversation have never been in my nature.

“I must have had an uncommonly bold moment when I said yes,” Agatha finally replies, one side of her mouth lifting again in, dare I say it, a smile. Hope returns to me; she hasn’t replaced her yes with a no. “I haven’t been in the company of an entire club of people since the—the incident.”

So here we have it, I think. She’s actually going to refer to it .

“Wasn’t it Emily Dickinson who said that fortune befriends the bold? Anyway, who among us has not had an ‘incident,’ Agatha?” I say, my cheeks growing hot thinking of my own. “And the so-called faultless lives of others are actually at fault for much. But I’m only planning on having about twenty other writers in the club, most of whom you know fairly well and who respect you too much to refer to said ‘incident.’”

“That gives one some relief,” she says with a slow broadening of her half smile until it becomes full.

“Hold tight to that boldness, because I will have greater need of you as I prepare to launch the Detection Club.”