Chapter Ten
M ARCH 23, 1931
B OULOGNE-SUR- M ER, F RANCE
I return to the open area near the column. The police are long gone, and the briefing is over, but the journalists remain. They huddle in groups of three and four, speaking in hushed tones, undoubtedly about the latest rumors.
Near the base of the enormous Napoleon’s column, I find Mac engrossed in conversation with three other newspapermen. Their faces are animated as they speak, and they write in their notepads at the same time. Mac glances up when I join their circle but immediately shifts his attention back to the men.
This is my moment.
“Mac?” I ask quietly.
“What’s that, Dorothy?” Mac replies, his tone distracted and his eyes still on the other reporters.
“I may head back into town, do a spot of writing at a café or the inn.”
“Makes sense. Don’t know when I’ll be done here.” He distractedly busses me on the cheek, then rejoins the exchange.
“See you back at the room before dinner,” I call back to him, even though I know I’ll get no answer. I think that I’ve never been so grateful to be ignored.
The women are already seated at a table for five by the time I arrive at the Café Royal. I stride across the ornate dining room, past the phalanx of turquoise pillars wrapped with faux golden ivy under matching chandeliers and a frescoed ceiling, thinking how perfect this venue is. No self-respecting reporter would ever consider setting foot in this feminine, fancifully decorated restaurant. No danger of discovery here.
I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrored wall. The winds near the column have done a number on my hair, and I wish I’d taken a moment to freshen up. A lady keeps her hair and her nails tidy, I can almost hear my mother scold, words I’ve ignored most of my life. I’ve been so eager to recount my findings and tap into the wisdom of these women that I didn’t think about my appearance.
But I should have. Look at the Queens, I think. Emma stares up at me, resplendent in her signature pearls and matching drop earrings, ermine fur stole draped over the back of her chair. She wears her silver hair swept up in an outdated style and an emerald dress in keeping with that vintage. Ngaio meets my gaze head-on, sporting one of her infamous pantsuits, a cigarette smoldering between her fingers as usual. Margery wears a bright lemon-colored dress and matching heels, which match her sunny disposition to a tee. She looks like a beam of sunshine compared to Agatha’s brown-and-rust houndstooth dress, frumpy in its shapeless design and dull fabric.
“A French café for a French mystery?” Margery asks with a smile, gesturing around the glittering restaurant.
“Indeed, and I am beyond grateful for your willingness to join me here. I know how many demands you have on your time,” I reply, reminded of my own looming deadline for my next Lord Peter Wimsey and Harriet Vane book, Have His Carcase . “Work, family, husbands.”
“My dear Montagu is busy overseeing renovations at our home in Monte Carlo until later this spring, and I’m only too happy for the distraction,” Emma professes. She has spoken glowingly of her husband of thirty-six years, Montagu Barstow.
Agatha smiles at Emma. “My husband, Max, won’t be back for more than a month. He’s overseeing an archaeological excavation in Syria and always spends the winter and early spring on a dig. So I’m delighted for the company.”
“I wonder if my Philip will even notice I’m gone.” Margery chuckles as she says, “When I left for Boulogne, four of my husband’s closest chums from Christ’s Hospital school arrived to stay for a week. They’ll be up to their usual antics, and I’m pleased as punch to be here instead.”
“What about you, Ngaio? Not too much of an imposition?” I ask. Ngaio has proved to be cagily silent about her personal life, but I do not want to ignore her.
“No worries here. As Oberon said to Puck in Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream, I am fancy-free,” she answers with a smile, a subtle reminder that she’s had as much success in the theater as she’s had in mysteries.
“Well, I apologize for all the subterfuge, including ignoring you as we disembarked from the ferry yesterday,” I say to Margery.
“I shouldn’t have waved,” Margery says. “That was my mistake.”
“Oh, don’t apologize, Dorothy. It’s part of the fun,” Emma coos.
“It’s a most delicious puzzle in a most delicious setting.” Margery rubs her hands together in anticipation.
“About a very real young woman,” I remind them.
Margery’s cheeks redden. “Of course.” Her natural ebullience diminishes. “How insensitive.”
Shame floods me watching Margery’s reaction. I shouldn’t have scolded her as if she were a schoolgirl. She’s the youngest and least established of us, and behind the gaiety and displays of confidence, insecurity undoubtedly lies. It’s a feeling I know well, and, like Margery, I mask it.
Reaching out to pat her on the hand, I explain, “I only remind you because I, too, fell into the trap of thinking about May Daniels as one of my fictional characters. But that all changed today at the police briefing.”
I disclose what I’d learned today: the location of May’s body and the objects found around it. “At the end of the briefing, I saw firsthand the cramped opening between a thicket of bushes where her body was discovered. And the poor girl became all too real.”
Just then a tray bearing fillets of sole, steak frites, and coq au vin arrives, but no one reaches for a fork and knife. It seems the thought of May’s terrible end has robbed us of our appetites. No one even speaks.
In the reverential quiet of the table, I say, “As I stood over that horrible space today, I felt a compulsive need to know May Daniels. An impossibility given her passing, of course, and the exact opposite of what the police and reporters are doing, scampering about for bits and bobs of evidence about her death. But then I thought about how we come to know our characters—victims, suspects, and villains—and how that informs the solution to our mysteries. Perhaps that skill could help us here.”
“We would be filling in important blanks the authorities don’t seem interested in,” Agatha says.
“Exactly,” I say. “I, for one, create a biography for each and every one of my characters, no matter how small their roles. All the little details that never make it onto the page but help me really know them. Do you all use this approach? Might we do this for May?”
“I do the same, Dorothy,” Ngaio answers. “In fact, even before I begin to plot out my stories, I start with the characters, whether my detective or the suspects. I craft them like a sculptor, chipping away in one area and layering up in another. Only then do I have a sense of the plot and its resolution.”
As Margery nods, Emma adds, “My characters actually appear to me fully formed, even spouting dialogue occasionally. My writing is simply an effort to keep up with them.”
Agatha says, “Not me. I start with the murder. Always. I meticulously map out the method, the motive, and the murderer. Then I layer in clues and red herrings before the details about the suspects and the victim begin to creep into my mind. Only at that point do the characters begin to take shape.”
I’m not surprised by Agatha’s approach. I’d always viewed her mysteries as the twistiest puzzles with the least complicated characters. Not a criticism, mind; many, many people prefer that sort of story. It simply isn’t the type of tale or process that calls to me.
“So you’re very much driven by the puzzle of the murder, less so the characters,” I say.
“Yes, although I see how the process you all use might be more beneficial here. Particularly when everyone else is focused on physical evidence. Understanding May’s character might provide insights the authorities and journalists are lacking,” Agatha says, her eyes thoughtful.
Margery asks, “How will we go about getting to know a dead girl? I hope that doesn’t sound callous.”
“Not at all,” I assure her. “We need to be practical. While I long to return to the very beginning of May’s life to best understand her—tromp around the village she grew up in, meet her relatives, investigate the London nurses’ housing in which she lived, and interview the hospital staff with whom she worked—that will have to wait until we return to London. While we are in Boulogne, I think we can learn a great deal about who May was, her life, and her motivations by following her route while she was here. The police report lays out May’s activities on that day, but we will draw our own conclusions.”
From my handbag, I fish out the copy of the official police report I borrowed from Mac. I then slide it across the table for them to peruse. They study it while nibbling on their lunches.
“We could start where May began—with her arrival in the harbor,” Ngaio suggests. “According to the report, May and Celia’s ferry, the Glendower, docked in Boulogne around two o’clock in the afternoon. They sailed from Brighton, where they planned to return that evening after a few hours’ sightseeing.”
Emma chimes in. “I assume they came via the Gare Maritime, the station through which we passed. Should we start there after lunch?”
I nod. “Let’s follow in May’s footsteps in the order they occurred. Until she disappeared into thin air.”