Chapter Four
F EbrUARY 10, 1931
L ONDON, E NGLAND
“Did you see that poor fellow’s face when you announced that we’d solved your murder ?” Margery asks as the waiter closes the library doors behind him. Her stylishly bobbed hair quivers as she giggles.
“I don’t think the hallowed halls of the University Women’s Club have seen much in the way of violent crime. Especially murder,” I add with a giggle of my own, thinking about the waiter’s wide eyes and gaping mouth.
“That would make a fine book title,” Emma says with a smile. “ Murder at the University Women’s Club .”
Laughter resonates throughout the library, and I wonder whether the club has ever been the scene of such merriment. This private club for women, the only one of its kind in London, does not actually require a university education, just a deep curiosity about the world and an interest in the life of the mind. It is usually a serious club for serious women.
“That was good fun. Apologies if I got a little wrapped up in the game.” Ngaio’s expression is a bit sheepish, and her gaze lands on Emma, to whom the bulk of her barbs were directed. She then settles on an upholstered crimson chair in a shadowy corner, a cigarette in one hand and a Champagne flute in another.
“I think we all got a bit wrapped up. No harm done, I hope?” Emma says with a nod toward Ngaio, who nods back, and I breathe a sigh of relief at this shared olive branch. “It was like being inside one of our novels.”
“It was very amusing,” Agatha says, a note of surprise in her voice, as if she hadn’t expected to enjoy herself. Placing her Champagne on the wide marble-topped fireplace mantel, she twists the shiny gold band on her ring finger. Silently, I pray that her marriage to archaeologist Max Mallowan fits better than the last. The pairing is unlikely—he’s at least a decade younger and spends a goodly part of the year in Syria on excavations—but she seems content.
I wonder about the private lives of the other women. Although we mercifully forsake the banal small talk that is often women’s curse, I am curious about their husbands—or lack thereof—their homes, their families, even their religious beliefs. Have they had the great fortune to find a supportive husband, like my Mac? Or have they endured public ignominy at the hands of a scoundrel, like Agatha’s first husband? The issue of how clever women with a desire for intellectual fulfillment and independence find proper partners fascinates me. But now is not the time for such thoughts.
“An impressive display of sleuthing talent. And teamwork!” I raise my glass in toast to the women, and we clink and drink the fizzy gold liquid. “Brava, ladies!”
“Hear! Hear!” Emma calls out. “Let’s raise our glass to our hostess as well.”
As I sip my Champagne, I study the women in turn. Even though we each currently call London home, we hail from vastly different places—continents, even. We have disparate socioeconomic backgrounds and grew up in far-ranging decades. In fact, Emma was born in the 1860s, while our youngest member, Margery, was born in 1904—Ngaio, Agatha, and I are sandwiched in the years between. And yet here we sit, united by a love of mystery writing and, I hope, the desire for camaraderie in a lonely profession. Where else in the world would the barriers of age, class, culture, and education be overcome in such a way?
I wonder if this is the right moment to launch into my practiced speech inviting the women to join us. Or should we spend some time talking about our novels in progress?
Just then Ngaio blurts out, “All this is well and good, but why are we here?”
“Ngaio!” Emma scolds. Her voice, however, isn’t sharp this time. She sounds like a mother gently chastising a mischievous but beloved child.
I’m relieved at this lightening of the tension between Emma and Ngaio. Otherwise this venture might have been over before it had even begun. To smooth over any remaining rough edges, I smile and say, “I’m actually glad Ngaio spoke aloud the question I’m certain you’ve all been thinking. I was just about to explain everything.”
Reaching for the open bottle of Champagne on the table next to the sofa, I refill everyone’s flutes. I want the women to be in the best possible spirits for my request, no matter the expense. I’ll have to pen a short story or write an extra review of a detective novel for the Sunday Times to cover this bill, but I have every hope that it will be worthwhile.
Waiting until they’ve each had time to sip from the effervescent wine, I finally say, “Recently, I’ve been involved in forming an organization called the Detection Club, which has the purpose of bringing together the leading mystery writers in Great Britain so that we can champion our genre. It’s just come to my attention that there’s a quiet reluctance among certain members to expand the number of women in the club beyond two—Agatha and myself.”
“Well, I never, ” Emma huffs, and I imagine that indeed she may have not dealt with these issues before. As a baroness, she occupies a rarefied space, and her position and title may well buffer her from the sorts of disparagement the rest of us have undoubtedly endured. Resistance to publishing books by women who write about murder is commonplace, in my experience.
“Sadly, I have,” I reply. “I’ve encountered this attitude countless times before, even among men I consider friends and fine colleagues. Although, I admit, never in a club I helped form. But it doesn’t sit well with me. The standard-bearers of the mystery genre should be the best writers, and that includes you three.”
Ngaio lifts her glass to me. Without a word, she finishes it, then refills the flute to the rim. When no one launches in with the questions I’d expected, I continue. “You’ve seen today that we do best when we work together. The murder game could not have been solved by any one of you alone, and we will not make names for ourselves in the mystery canon alone, either. What say you to banding together in a club of our own making and infiltrating the ranks of the Detection Club as a group?”
No one stands and issues a rallying cry, but no one walks out, thankfully. Instead, Margery asks, “How will we do that if the other Detection Club members don’t want us?”
“Agatha and I have hatched a plan. As long as you feel aligned with our purpose and have an interest in uniting—within the Detection Club and without—we will make it happen,” I reply, hoping my words are rousing these women to action.
No one moves a muscle. Ngaio’s crystal Champagne flute, in fact, catches the light of the chandelier as it hovers in the air midway to her mouth. Then, as if a frozen film screen has restarted, the women continue their actions—finishing a drink, twisting a wedding ring, exhaling cigarette smoke, twirling a lock of hair around a finger.
To my surprise, Emma is the first to speak. “I say we gird our loins and proceed. Ladies, we cannot let the men have all the fun.”
“Or all the glory,” Agatha adds.
“Shall we drink to it?” Ngaio asks.
I watch as each of the women takes a drink from her glass, and, meeting Agatha’s eyes, I smile. Will we really manage to pull this off?
“What shall we call ourselves?” Margery asks, her cheeks flushed, I hope from the excitement of this venture.
I glance around, not wanting to squash any ideas by announcing the name I’ve been considering. But the room is silent, and the women are waiting for me.
“What say you to the Queens of Crime?”