The Queens of Crime

Chapter Thirteen

M ARCH 23, 1931

B OULOGNE-SUR- M ER, F RANCE

Leaving the H?tel Morveaux , we continue on May and Celia’s path. We eye the Gare Centrale, which contains the washrooms where May was last seen alive, but we pass it. We’d already determined to adhere to the girls’ route, and the rue de Lille was their next destination; the train station was last. How else can we see the world through their eyes?

We are quiet as we trudge up the slope toward rue de Lille . Are the others imagining what May and Celia might have been thinking as they made this same trek? Were the girls dreaming of returning home to England with new, fashionable French chapeaux? I find myself scripting the scene in my head.

The route grows surprisingly steep, and more than once, I offer to hail a cab. Even though she’s breathless and I hear her mutter something about the “weary-making walk,” Emma refuses. So does Margery, who is limping in her spindly, stylish shoes. She should have chosen sensible oxfords or T-straps, as the rest of us did.

We reach the cobblestone street, oohing and aahing over rue de Lille’s adorable shops as if we were sightseers ourselves. Popping in each one, we banter with the shopkeepers, asking seemingly innocent questions about “the poor English nurse” and selfishly lingering in the confiserie, with its irresistible, picture-perfect candies. But we have more success with the sweets than with information, because none of the saleswomen recalls seeing May and Celia. Although, of course, everyone knows about them.

At the end of the lane, we find the millinery. The store contains an astonishing array of hats on display, from the ubiquitous slouchy cloche in every color imaginable to variations on Elsa Schiaparelli’s knit Madcap in silk and linen and wool to the classic beret reinterpreted with feathers and fringe and wild hues. The girls must have been wild for the chapeaux on offer here.

The store is crowded with shoppers but seemingly devoid of employees. In the back, I finally spy the sole salesgirl finishing up with a customer. Linking my arm with Emma’s, I pull her toward the auburn-haired girl, who sports a fanciful cobalt-blue beret. She’s an excellent advertisement for the milliner’s wares.

“Excusez-moi, mademoiselle?”

“Oui, mesdames?” Despite her youth—I’d place her at perhaps nineteen or twenty—her pale blue eyes are weary, with dark circles underneath.

“My friend is in the market for a new wardrobe of hats. We were hoping you could measure her and make some suggestions from your wonderful options,” I say, and Emma offers the girl a wide smile.

The girl’s expression brightens at the thought of a large sale, and she rushes off to grab her measuring tape. “I’ll look a fool in these girlish confections. I’d prefer to stay with my classic headpieces,” Emma protests, touching the vibrant purple feather on her hat, which has a wider brim than is currently stylish.

“As well you should. No one has ever accused me of being fashion-forward, and that’s how I like it. You and I know what suits us, the latest trends be damned,” I say, thinking that I don’t have the funds for the recent styles even if I did have the inclination. That said, a useful rubberized rain hat catches my eye, and I reach for it.

“You’d have done better roping Margery into this little exercise,” she says, glancing over at Margery, who has tried on one of the Elsa Schiaparelli Madcaps and is gazing at herself in a mirror.

“I very intentionally chose you,” I explain, taking a peek at myself in the rain hat. Not the most glamorous cap, but it will certainly come in handy. “You see, we will never find a hat to your liking here, which will prolong our time with the salesgirl and give us ample opportunity for questions.”

Emma beams at me approvingly as the girl returns with a measuring tape in hand. After the several minutes it takes for the girl to determine the right size, Emma peruses the recommended styles and dons a few. I watch and say to the girl, “You certainly know your wares. Have you worked here long?”

“I just finished my apprenticeship. Today is the first day I’ve been permitted to work in the shop alone, in fact.”

That explains the weary eyes and dark circles, I think but do not say. Instead, I offer her congratulations and ask, “How long did your apprenticeship last?”

“Six months.”

I count back and realize she may well have been here in October, when May and Celia visited the shop. Time to find out what she knows.

“You’re acquitting yourself admirably,” I tell her, and she grins at the compliment. “But I do hope you are taking good care on the streets, mademoiselle. We’ve read that the poor missing English girl’s body was just found, and a young lady like yourself must take extra precautions.”

“That is exactly what I told the milliner.” Her voice drops to a whisper. “But he told me not to be hysterical.”

“I hardly think it’s hysterical to be concerned,” I say, patting her on the arm. “It’s smart. With any luck, the police will resolve the matter soon, and you can rest easy.”

“The gendarmes have been sniffing around since she disappeared, in the fall, and have made no arrests. They didn’t even take my statements about the girls seriously. So I’m not optimistic that they’ll identify her killer.”

“What statements about the girls?” I ask, as I pay for the rain hat.

“The young nurses shopped here on the afternoon of Miss Daniels’s disappearance. I shared this with the authorities when they interviewed everyone on rue de Lille.”

“Did you wait on them?”

“Not exactly. It was just the beginning of my apprenticeship, so I shadowed Monsieur as he assisted the young ladies.”

“How did you find them?”

“The light-haired nurse was very spirited and excitable; she wanted to try on so many hats that Monsieur became irritated. He hid it well, of course,” she hastens to add.

“Of course,” I say. “What of the dark-haired nurse? Miss Daniels?”

“She was quiet, even reserved. I didn’t think she was very interested in a new chapeau.”

I’m surprised. Madame Brat intimated that it was May who inquired about a millinery, not Celia. “Why do you say that?”

“She wandered about the store, listlessly touching hats but not trying any on. That is why I was astonished when she returned.”

“Miss Daniels came back?”

“Yes. Sometime after she’d departed with her friend, she came in alone. She made a beeline for a dark-gray fedora, quite the opposite of the whimsical creations her friend admired. Without even trying it on, she handed me the exact number of francs it cost and left the shop without another word.”

“Did you place it in a hatbox for her?” I do not recall any reference to a hatbox in the police report—missing or found at the scene.

“No. As soon as Miss Daniels gave me the money, she hurried out of the shop. I did notice her folding the hat into her handbag, however. Monsieur was quite cross with me when he found out.”

“Why is that? I should think he’d be happy with the sale.”

“He considers his hatboxes to be the best type of promotion for the shop. Allowing a customer to leave without one is a lost opportunity, as he likes to say. And because I was beginning my apprenticeship, he hadn’t authorized me to check out clients.”

“It doesn’t sound as though Miss Daniels gave you much time to object—or run and fetch Monsieur to ring her up . ”

“That’s it exactly,” she replies, her voice rising above a whisper for the first time.

How odd, I think. It’s as if May didn’t want Celia to witness the hat purchase. Why didn’t the authorities make more of a fuss over this strange behavior? Most likely, they chalked it up to the frivolous nature and changeable mind of a young lady; that’s why the police report only makes fleeting reference to the girls’ visit to the millinery. The investigation has been underwhelming at best.

I say quietly, “Undoubtedly the gendarmes are more thorough than they seem. Even still, please be cautious.”

“I will. May I ask you for a favor?” she says, nodding at Emma, who has discovered a hat she likes—a velvet turban, of all things.

“Of course.”

“Please don’t share what I told you with anyone.”

“Whom would I tell?” I reply—a nonanswer. Because of course I will disclose this to the Queens.

“I’m not meant to discuss the dead nurse with customers. Monsieur says that murder is bad for business.”

I mime a sealing of my lips, then we return to the business of observing Emma don and doff turbans in a dizzying range of colors and fabrics. Contrary to her initial protests, the baroness might indeed purchase a wardrobe of new chapeaux today. I’m pleased this kindly girl will record a substantial sale.

A persistent tapping noise nags in the background. It grows louder until I turn toward the wide storefront window to see an eager young fellow grinning at me. “Mrs. Fleming! I say, is that you?” he yells.

I’ve been caught out. At least it’s not Mac, I think. He would not fall for the performance I’m about to give.

I return the smile and wave back. I definitely do not want him in this shop, so I gesture that I’ll meet him outside. As I stride through the millinery, I whisper to Agatha, who has been observing the exchange, “Meet me at La Pierre Chaude at seven o’clock this evening.”

Agatha nods, and then I step across the threshold.

“Have you fellows had a successful day?” I ask the reporter. His name escapes me, but if memory serves, he writes for the Liverpool Post and Mercury .

“An interesting one,” he replies, holding his cards close, as I’d expect. No self-respecting journalist would share his scoops, but the smile sneaking onto his face reveals much.

“Did you all spend the better part of the day at Napoleon’s column and the park?”

“Yes indeed. Most of us just got back to town.”

“I suppose there’s plenty to inspect in the vicinity where the body was found,” I say as if I’m simply making conversation instead of fishing for information.

“Yes.” He nods, and his eyes darken at the reference to May’s body. “Not to mention that we came across a very chatty guard.”

“One of the gendarmes assigned to keep the scene secure?” I’m surprised by this development. The French police have been closemouthed—downright uncooperative, the reporters have been saying. While the French government may not be receptive to English journalists, it is uncommon for them to be so resistant to cooperating with the English authorities, especially when dealing with an English victim or English criminal. And there have been rumors of the gendarmes and their superiors refusing to work hand in hand with our police in this matter.

He shakes his head. “No, a sentinel assigned to police the column and its pavilions year-round.”

“Ah. I didn’t realize that the memorial would merit routine patrolling.”

“The guard told us that he actually spoke with the nurses on October 16. He maintained that the girls walked around the column, and afterward, he invited them inside to climb the stair way to the top. Tremendous views, apparently. But they declined, according to him.”

I’m a little astonished at this journalist’s loose lips. But he’s young, and I suppose he perceives me as innocuous. Anyway, he knows I’ll be privy to all the more widely known developments from Mac.

“Mac didn’t say anything about the girls visiting Napoleon’s column while they were here.”

“No: that was news.” His face is bright. “Mrs. Fleming, it was quite a lesson to watch your husband in action. Mac was masterful in drawing out the details of the so-called encounter from the guard and then getting the man so tangled up in his own inconsistent statements that the guard admitted it was a lie.”

“All of it?”

“Well, the guard continued to maintain that the girls toured the area. But he admitted that he never spoke to them.”

“That’s Mac for you. I always tell him he should have been a barrister. Speaking of my husband, do you happen to know where he’s landed?”

“I do. I’ll give you one guess.”

“The Vole Hole.”