Chapter Fourteen
M ARCH 23, 1931
B OULOGNE-SUR- M ER, F RANCE
The darkness disorients. Even at dusk, the muted pinkish light peeking in from the open door is bright compared to the dank, windowless interior of the Vole Hole. Could the tacky cigarette residue coating every surface and the vicious gossip swirling in the air also blacken the establishment? I think so.
“She sought out the French drug trade—”
“You know there’s a tie between white slavers and the drug dealers. Maybe she got wrapped up—”
“In my opinion, she asked for it—”
“The proximity of the syringe to her purse certainly suggests—”
“Why else would she be up at Napoleon’s column? Tourists don’t often go up there. It seems out of the way—”
The reporters’ nitwittery buzzes around me as I sit next to my husband at a crowded zinc-top table in the Vole Hole. How far these stories have spun since this morning—from the briefing statements to suppositions to tales to full-blown fantasies. This is a young woman whose life was snuffed out before it could even begin, I think, feeling sick at the aspersions being cast upon her. All these men can think about is how to make headlines out of her terrible demise—in the name of their own gain. They are accepting one questionable piece of evidence at face value—a syringe near the body—and building scaffolding all around it in order to construct “fact-based” narratives that they’ll toss out into the world without undertaking their own investigations.
Mac is mid-theory: “Perhaps the girls had a rendezvous at Napoleon’s column to buy drugs. Or sell them.” The men nod in agreement, then a cacophony of sound erupts as each vies to offer his version of the events. They nip like dogs at the heels of a dead girl, my own husband among them.
How different my witty, supportive husband seems in the throes of this journalistic chase, I think. How can he be so discerning with the guard at Napoleon’s column but buy into this sort of debased conjecturing? Even his thought processes seem transformed by this quest for a scandalous scoop. I certainly hope that, when this assignment is over, he will metamorphose back.
All at once, a single notion plagues me. Why has not one of these men questioned the logic of two young English nurses traveling all the way to France for morphine when they undoubtedly had easy access to the drug at the hospital where they worked every single day? If an injection of an opiate was what they sought, they certainly did not have to take a train to Brighton followed by a ferry to France to get it. This fact calls into question all the theorizing around me. And the notion of the women as drug dealers is laughable. To me, a syringe of morphine discovered near a dead body is an example of the most obvious technique employed by mystery authors: a red herring.
This thought stops me short. If there is a red herring, there is a plot and a formidable murderer. One who has conspired to kill May Daniels. Why on earth would a twenty-one-year-old nurse on a day trip to France merit the attentions of an accomplished murderer?
This question has me spinning like a top, and suddenly, the cacophony of the men and the fug of the smoke and the weight of May’s death feel oppressive, even claustrophobic. “I need some air,” I say to Mac.
“Are you quite all right, Dorothy?” He studies my face. “Your cheeks look flushed.”
“Yes. It’s—it’s just rather warm in here,” I say, reassuring him.
“I’ll come with you.” He reaches for his coat.
“No, stay. You never know what you might overhear.”
His hand is still on his lightweight charcoal overcoat. “I don’t want you walking around Boulogne by yourself at night.”
I force a smile onto my lips. “I’ll hardly be tramping around the streets. Our inn is right around the corner, and I’ll just grab a bite at that brasserie on my way.”
“Only if you’re certain.” He releases his grip, and the coat falls back onto the chair.
“I am.”
I stumble outside, saddened by the men’s speculations. Slowly ambling down rue de Lille, I make my way to the brasserie where I directed Agatha: the blue-awninged La Pierre Chaude. I’m a bit earlier than the seven o’clock we’d set to meet, but it will give me a chance to record all the information I’ve gathered. And make sense of it, if I can.
As soon as I gaze around the restaurant, I wonder if I’ve made a poor choice; the restaurant is empty except for one gray-haired gentleman supping alone. Then I remember that it’s unfashionably early for French diners and follow the hostess to a table for five.
I sip on a glass of the house white wine, pull out my little notebook, and begin to jot down what I’ve learned. As I write, it seems to me that the disappearance and murder have been carefully orchestrated. The death of Miss May Daniels is no random act of violence and certainly no drug deal gone wrong.
The magnitude of my suppositions washes over me, and more sadness for the life cut short takes hold. Such a terrible waste, I think. Tears trickle down my cheeks. Before I can dab at them with one of the simple but serviceable cotton squares I keep in my handbag, an embroidered linen handkerchief appears before my face.
“I say, madame, you look in need of this,” my fellow diner says in an Englishman’s English.
“Thank you, sir. But I have one of my own.” I reach for one from my handbag.
“Always happy to help a maiden in distress,” he says, tucking his handkerchief back in the pocket of his brown tweed jacket.
His voice bears a note of disappointment. Judging by the lines around his eyes and on his forehead and by the whiteness of his hair, I’d place him around sixty-five to seventy years of age. Clearly English from his accent, and clearly dining alone. Had he hoped that his gesture would earn him a little company?
“How did you know that I’m English?” I ask, figuring the least I could offer is a bit of kindly conversation.
“One develops a sixth sense of it when one has lived here as long as I have. I daresay I can spot a countryman—or countrywoman, for that matter—from a good bit off.”
“Have you made Boulogne your home long, then?”
“For the better part of a decade. Passed through here during the Great War and always had a longing to return. When I retired from the navy, I made the move.”
“Have you found French life to your liking?”
“I have. One could wish for a few more English compatriots from time to time, but it is a pleasant existence otherwise,” he says, then asks, “Are you here as a tourist? I have some first-rate lesser-known sites I could recommend.”
“Thank you kindly, but I’m actually here with my husband. He’s reporting on the situation with the English nurse, Miss May Daniels.”
He shakes his head. “Ah, I was very sorry to read about that. The locals don’t like to talk about it much—scared it’ll impact the tourist trade—but I’ve kept abreast of it in the English papers.”
“Very sad business,” I remark, thinking of his comment about the locals. Certainly the millinery shopgirl shared that fear of negative economic impact. Could it also account for the reticence of the French authorities to work with their English counterparts?
“I see that it has hit you hard,” he says. “You know, a British friend of mine—Mr. Marks—spotted the missing nurse alone in the little park near rue de Lille the day of her disappearance.”
“I assume your friend shared this with the police.”
“He left for England not long afterward. Every year, he spends several months with his daughter in Yorkshire. But I assume he spoke with the authorities.”
“Did your friend mention what time he saw the young woman?”
He shakes his head. “None of his letters referenced that. You’d have to ask him for the precise details.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back in Boulogne?”
“He usually returns in April and stays through October.” He reaches into his jacket pocket and withdraws a slim leather address book. “Let me note his address in Yorkshire for you in the event you’d like to speak with him sooner rather than later.”
“Did your friend mention what Miss Daniels was doing in the park?” I ask as he jots the address down.
“Crying, for part of the time.” He pauses, then blurts out, as if he’s just remembered, “And writing. She was writing something, quite furiously.”
My heart races at these additional tidbits, presumably heretofore unknown. Or, if reported to the police by Mr. Marks, ignored. I’m about to ask for more details when I hear the jangle of bells and feel a cold current of air. I glance over at the restaurant entrance to see the expectant faces of Agatha, Emma, Ngaio, and Margery.
A picture is forming in my mind of the day May disappeared, but the shape has not fully materialized. But we will fit the puzzle pieces together. I excuse myself to welcome the Queens.