Chapter Five
M ARCH 20, 1931
L ONDON, E NGLAND
The procession of the Detection Club leaders makes its way to the dais in the ballroom of the Northumberland Avenue Hotel. Here I wait in a special place of honor as a club founder, wearing my usual black evening gown, freshened, I hope, with a newly embroidered spray of crystals. The dark robes of our president’s cortege swirl as they approach with flickering candles held aloft to gently illuminate the dimly lit, cavernous space. Finally, Gilbert, swathed in a crimson cape as colossal as he is and carrying a skull on a silver platter, reaches the podium.
He pivots, the folds of his blood-red cloak swooping around him until they pool at his feet. Facing the twenty-four standing club members, he recites the oath I painstakingly crafted:
I vow that the detectives I create will actually detect the crimes and mysteries presented to them using the intellect I grant to them, and I will not allow those detectives to use hocus-pocus, trickeries, superstitions, epiphanies, acts of God, skullduggeries, or divine intervention. All detectives will use fair play in solving their mysteries.
I mouth the words along with him as he continues, careful not to let my volume rise above a whisper— a first, I think. I remember the many times my late parents—an Oxford-educated vicar and a gentlewoman with only brazen me for a child—asked me to lower my voice or make my gestures smaller. This was especially the case in church, the rectory where we lived, and our small village of Bluntisham. Although, truth be told, Gilbert’s voice booms so loudly throughout the space that I doubt anyone would hear me even if I shouted.
But my ebullience in hearing my oath being chanted aloud for the first time must have gotten the better of my reserve, because I suddenly feel eyes upon me. And realizing I’ve been reciting the words along with Gilbert—rather loudly, I’m afraid—I seal my mouth tight.
Our formidable president finishes and crooks his finger toward the procession, beckoning them forward. The carefully chosen members form a queue that snakes through the ballroom in a line so long I cannot see the end. Fortunate, I think, for the purposes of our plan .
As the ritual requires, one author after another approaches the dais and places a hand on the skull, a theatrical prop we’ve named Eric. Gilbert then asks each one in turn, “Will you abide by this sacred oath? Because,” he warns, “if you fail in your solemn duty, other writers will anticipate your plots, total strangers will sue you for libel, your pages will swarm with misprints, and your sales will continually diminish!”
I watch as a veritable who’s who of mystery writers wends its way to the front. I smile and nod at this cadre of talented wordsmiths and puzzle masters, all of whom I know and, for the most part, respect. I try to suss out the authors’ shadow selves, their fictional detectives who, I’m guessing, lurk beneath the surface. I know that Harriet Vane, my intrepid mystery novelist, whose paths have begun to cross with my gentleman detective, Lord Peter Wimsey, hides just beneath the self I present to the world. Increasingly, her journey resembles my own, but Freud would be terribly disappointed in how long it took to me to realize that. Now that I do, though, I sometimes wonder where Harriet begins and I end.
Finally I see a flash of color in the queue. The last of the black-suited gentlemen swears his oath and steps aside, revealing the striking, self-possessed Ngaio in a gown of moss green. She, like the other women, had marked time in the corridor outside the ballroom, waiting until this moment to reveal themselves.
Ngaio offers Gilbert a serene smile. The usually unflappable Gilbert freezes at the sight of her. He knows Ngaio, of course, but he also knows that her name wasn’t on the original approved list of Detection Club members. As his eyes widen, the silver tray holding the skull lowers, and Eric threatens to slide off and clatter to the ground. I rush to Gilbert’s side, placing a supportive hand under the tray. He glances at me in a panic.
Will Gilbert refuse to swear her in? Will the wager I’m making fail miserably—and the Detection Club, complete with the women who deserve to be in its ranks, along with it? I do not want to let these women down.
A ripple of alarm passes through the sea of black like a rogue wave. While no one actually objects, I realize that I’ve got to act the part of lifeguard to save this moment. Otherwise the men’s reaction could turn into a riptide and pull us all under.
Turning toward Gilbert, I begin to recite the oath. As if the problem is that he’s forgotten the words of the pledge. “I vow that the detectives I create…”
Thus prompted, Gilbert continues on where I leave off. Ngaio places her hand on the skull and takes the vow.
By the time the glittering Emma, every inch the Hungarian baroness, moves to the front of the queue, Gilbert does not miss a beat. He is similarly smooth with the fresh-faced English rose Margery, in her amethyst-hued bias-cut gown—a Vionnet copy, if I’m not mistaken, but no less lovely for being a knockoff. And when Agatha, wearing a sacklike puffed-sleeve dress of slate gray, the evening equivalent of one of her dowdy tweed skirt suits, stands before him, Gilbert actually smiles. In fact, he nods over at me, as if swearing in these women was the agreed-upon plan all along.
Agatha is the last one in the queue. When she finishes reciting her vow, she scuttles toward Emma, Ngaio, and Margery, who gather like a small bouquet. To the newly minted members, Gilbert calls out with a flourish, “Welcome to the Detection Club!”