The Queens of Crime

Chapter Six

M ARCH 20, 1931

L ONDON, E NGLAND

The chandeliers of the Northumberland Avenue Hotel ballroom illuminate, and applause erupts. When the clapping dies down, quite a few folks offer me congratulations and handshakes for the role I played in forming the club. I feel both elated and relieved at the way in which the Detection Club ceremony transpired. The fanciful opening ritual seems well received, and the men appear not too put out by the unexpected addition of more women writers. Above all, I hope the rites inspired members to extol one another’s talents, support one another’s novels, collaborate on books, and elevate our genre so reviewers see that our detective novels are every bit as good as so-called literary fiction. A tall order, I know, but no one has ever accused me of setting my sights too low.

Chatter breaks out as club leaders’ robes are doffed, and the event transforms from a ceremony into a drinks party. Waiters circulate around the room, offering canapés and an assortment of cocktails. The rage for cocktails, a trend imported from America, where the juices and mixers mask the Prohibition-banned alcohol, has not abated, much to the chagrin of the traditional Detection Club members.

I hear a loud request for “a smoky Scotch” instead of the fruity cocktails, and for a moment, it drowns out the agitated voices discussing the communism, fascism, socialism, and Irish independence nipping at England’s heels. Amid this furor, I hear Milward Kennedy, the creator of the private investigator Sir George Bull and the Inspector Cornford stories, ask Anthony Berkeley Cox, “Is it true that the club might secure a space of its own? The Northumberland Avenue Hotel is perfectly fine, of course, but it would be wonderful to have a private space to discuss murder and crime without raising eyebrows. If I had a pound for every quizzical look…”

I’ve no wish to talk politics, but this is a conversation I’d like to join. Leaning toward the men, I interject, “You heard right, Milward. The Detection Club has secured a contract with Hodder & Stoughton for a collaborative detective novel loosely titled The Floating Admiral. Any member can contribute. With the proceeds of that advance, I’m fairly certain we can afford to rent premises of our own.”

“Count me in,” Anthony says, and Milward agrees. “Me, too.”

Milward asks, “Do you have a location in mind?”

“Actually, yes. There are a few rooms at 31 Gerrard Street in Soho available for let, and they’d serve well for meeting and dining.”

I hear Anthony reply, “Excellent,” as a hand on my arm swings me around to another group of eavesdropping members eager to hear about the book collaboration and new club space. I’m nearly hoarse after repeatedly describing these developments when I spot Emma, Ngaio, and Margery chatting alone near the fireplace.

I make a beeline for the women. I needn’t weave through the crowds because no one stands anywhere near them.

“You’re not worried about the plague?” Ngaio asks me, drawing deeply on her cigarette as I join the group.

I’m confused by her comment. “Pardon?”

She gestures to herself, Margery, and Emma. “Can you not tell that we have the plague? Everyone else seems to know—they’re keeping their distance, after all.”

I chuckle, but it isn’t actually funny. True, we sprung the women on the original Detection Club members at the ceremony today, but that doesn’t mean they should be ostracized. The deed has been done, and it is poor form for the men to alienate them. Especially since Emma, Ngaio, and Margery are known to most of them.

“The ceremony was topping,” Margery interjects, undoubtedly sensing the mood. “Great fun.”

While I appreciate her kind words, I’d expected a positive reaction from Margery. Cheeriness seems to be her nature. To my surprise, however, Ngaio echoes Margery. “Just the right amount of camp and macabre in equal measures.”

“Well,” Emma sniffs, “it wasn’t exactly real pomp and circumstance, but I suppose that was the point, wasn’t it? Just a bit of faux ritualistic fun.”

This is high praise coming from these two discerning women. “That was the precise intention.”

“But now that we are sworn in, perhaps we should leave. Give these blokes a chance to get used to an ‘abundance’ of women in their midst,” Ngaio says in her New Zealand lilt. She’s tugging at her evening dress and looking, for all the world, as though she’d like to tear it off and put on one of her infamous pantsuits instead. Her penchant for menswear is inspiring. For all my self-proclaimed brashness, I’m not quite that bold. Not yet, anyway.

“It is rather uncomfortable,” Margery mutters.

Emma adds, “I’m not used to being treated in this manner.”

“Then let’s put an end to this nonsense,” I pronounce and gesture toward the clusters of men—and one woman, Agatha—gathered around the ballroom. “Let’s go spread your plague. Or, at the very least, inoculate these people.”

I lead the women toward Agatha, who’s deep in conversation with Gilbert. If the club president engages pleasantly with the three women, it might serve as the necessary stamp of approval for the other men to follow. Sheep, I think with a shake of my head. They will not go anywhere unless their shepherd leads.

As we weave our way through the little groups of men, I hear whispers. Audible enough for us to detect as we pass. Very intentionally.

“Make way, make way,” one gravelly-throated fellow murmurs, stepping back. As if we did indeed have an infectious disease.

“We should not allow any Tom, Dick, or Harry into the Detection Club—our status will be lowered rather than raised,” another man says in a whisper bordering on a hiss.

“Don’t you mean any Mary, Helen, or Barbara?” someone hisses back with a chuckle.

“Better yet—Emma, Margery, and Ngaio?”

Riotous laughter ensues, and I am torn between turning and slugging the offenders—an act of violence I haven’t committed since an ill-fated childhood squabble in Papa’s rectory—or running out with the women in tow. I feel terrible that they are enduring this sort of snubbing and abuse. How foolish I’d been to think this plan would work.

But I feel Emma’s hand on my elbow propelling me ahead, so we continue our progress toward Agatha and Gilbert. Still, I wonder about my project’s worthiness at this point. Even with Gilbert’s blessing, will the members welcome the women? What would it take? Do the women even want to risk it?

How his voice carries, I think as we get closer to Gilbert and Agatha. He is pontificating in a loud, lecturing tone as if Agatha is a classroom of students or a BBC radio audience. I’m guessing this conversation is not of her making, and I wish we could rescue her instead of exploiting the situation.

“Gilbert,” I say with a broad smile, “you know Baroness Orczy, Mrs. Allingham, and Miss Marsh, isn’t that right?”

“Of course. It’s always a pleasure to see you,” he replies with a dramatic bow, “although, truth be told, I hadn’t expected to see your lovely faces tonight.”

I decide to ignore this slight dressed up in compliments, and I hope the others can as well. As I open my mouth to praise him on his performance and draw the women into a conversation about the ritual, Gilbert beats me to it. “Well, it seems as though I should excuse myself. Your ladies-in-waiting have summoned you, Agatha. As your king, I give my queen leave.”

Even Gilbert is playing this game? Rushing away as soon as the women reach his side? Referring to himself as our king? I am flabbergasted by his behavior. Or am I being too sensitive given the context?

Instead of allowing Gilbert to slink off, grateful to be free of him, Agatha squares her shoulders and stares at him. For a moment, her eyes flash with the intensity of Agatha of old, and the steeliness in her tone harks back to the days before she became the subject of newspaper headlines.

“There are no ladies-in-waiting here, Gilbert. There are only queens. And you are not our king.”