Chapter Nineteen
M ARCH 27, 1931
L ONDON, E NGLAND
“Will you hurry up?” Ngaio calls out over her shoulder, never missing a step.
I can barely hear her good-natured cajoling over the whistle of the train and the din of the Dollis Hill station, and I can barely keep up with her lanky, long-limbed stride. Perhaps if I wore the same sort of wide-legged pants, I’d have more freedom of movement, I think. But then again, given the differences in our physiques, I doubt it would move the needle materially.
“I’m coming as fast as I can,” I yell back, my breath as labored as Emma’s had been two days before. Embarrassed by this limitation—Emma is, after all, at least two decades older than I am—I keep my panting quiet. I don’t want Ngaio to think I’m not up to the task of walking the two miles from the Tube station to the terraced house where May’s sister lives.
When I finally reach Ngaio’s side, there is no sympathetic pause before we head out onto the streets of Dollis Hill. What must she be like in the relative wilds of New Zealand? She only occasionally brings up her homeland, with a tinge of wistfulness in her voice, and I find myself imagining her there. She seems far too free and robust for staid London.
Arms swinging, steps long and brisk, Ngaio plunges into the northwestern London neighborhood near Gladstone Park, and I follow. At the turn of the century, Dollis Hill Estate was built on former farmland to provide terraced homes for solidly middle-class families. Since the Great War, the neighborhood has slid to the fringes of respectability, becoming more of a working-class community.
Weaving in and out of busy folks marching to work or the shops, we pass the Fernhead Laundry, Abbot’s Sundries, Dollis Hill Coal Company, and a host of other stores. When I spot the Patterson Tea Shop, I shoot Ngaio a pleading look, which she pointedly ignores. How I long for a steaming cup of tea and a scone at the moment. The male members of the Detection Club would certainly not deprive themselves for a second: in fact, I doubt they’d make themselves uncomfortable in any way, even when solving an actual murder. Assuming they’d dare to tackle one, that is.
By the time we reach the redbrick terraced homes of Dollis Hill Estate, I’m famished and tired. But given that the streets are organized alphabetically, beginning with Aberdeen Road, we have some distance before we reach Fleetwood Road, so I’d best summon some energy. It hadn’t been easy to arrange this meeting with May’s sisters, Mrs. Davis and Mrs. Lloyd, and I have no intention of wasting a single second.
The Queens and I had divvied up the next stage of our investigation based on skill set, access, and level of interest. Margery has a friend in nursing, so she is heading up the inquiry into May’s hospital colleagues and superiors. Emma has offered to contact Mr. Marks, the British expatriate retiree from Boulogne, because she has a self-professed “way with elderly gentlemen.” I did not want to relinquish interactions with either May’s family or her friend Celia, so Ngaio has volunteered to work with me in reaching out to May’s sisters, and Agatha has agreed to assist my efforts to talk with Celia.
We are on the hunt to understand May’s life so we can solve the mystery of her death. Only by going through the years and months and weeks and days that make up her life can we begin to compre hend what happened to May on October 16. Not that it will ever make sense, of course. Not that it will bring her back.
I spot the tidy row house on Fleetwood Road owned by May’s oldest sister, Mrs. Davis. Turning to Ngaio, I say, “Remember we agreed I’d take the lead with May’s sisters.”
“I do recall your saying you’d take the lead, but I do not recollect agreeing,” Ngaio replies tartly.
How exasperating, I think.
“I don’t want to be blunt, Ngaio, but you can be as sharp as a rosebush thorn, and this is a situation calling for the delicacy of a rose petal.”
She snorts in laughter. “How can I object when you put it that way? Especially when I’ve always preferred the thorn to the bloom.”
As we draw closer, I note that, while Mrs. Davis’s house shares the same brick facade, wide bay window, and ironwork gate as the other Dollis Hill Estate homes, it has a distinctive black-and-white Tudor peak, a clear effort to distinguish it. When a dark-haired woman in her late thirties answers our knock, she opens the door wearing a thick fur stole clearly designed for outdoor use. Is this Mrs. Davis putting on the same sort of airs as the row house? Stop judging, I think, chastising myself. Perhaps the poor woman uses the stole as armor or comfort in her grief for her sister.
“Good morning. I am Mrs. Fleming, and this is Miss Marsh. We are here for an appointment with Mrs. Davis and Mrs. Lloyd.” I use my married name on the off chance that she recognizes my usual one. In making the arrangements, I’d introduced myself and Ngaio as two writers penning a sympathetic essay on her sister for Woman’s Weekly magazine to counteract the negative publicity in the newspapers. And who knows? We may well undertake this task, so it’s not exactly a lie. I feel bad, but needs must.
“I’m Mrs. Davis.” Her tone is wary and her voice slow, lingering over the vowels, typical of the accent prevalent in northwest London.
“We are very grateful to you for taking the time,” I say without taking a step toward her. Nothing we do should intimidate or overwhelm her, lest she back away. “I know this isn’t easy for you.”
Mrs. Davis doesn’t move. Does she recall our exchange of letters? I certainly hope she isn’t having second thoughts.
“Do you not remember—” Ngaio blurts out, and before she can ruin it for us, I hold up a hand to her. Even with the agreement that I’ll do most of the talking, she can’t help herself.
“If this is no longer convenient, we can reschedule or even cancel,” I offer, stepping away from the door. The decision to proceed must be squarely in her hands.
Mrs. Davis is moved to action. “Please come in.”
Opening the door wider, she moves aside to allow us in. The foyer is small and cramped, and we follow our hostess into the adjoining parlor. There, on a nubby camel sofa, another women awaits us, also with dark hair and dark eyes, and Mrs. Davis wordlessly settles by her side.
“I am Mrs. Lloyd. I’m the middle sister,” she says, introducing herself, and gestures for us to sit in the claret-colored chairs facing the sofa. Then she realizes what she’s said and corrects herself. “Or I was.”
“We appreciate your trust and time at this terrible juncture,” I say, noticing the chill in the room. Glancing to my left, I see that the fireplace is dark; no fire in the hearth. Mrs. Davis’s stole makes sense now, and I scold myself once again for passing judgment upon her. I’m every bit as bad as the reporters and police who jumped to conclusions about May.
Mrs. Lloyd, the more animated of the two sisters, pours us tea from a china pot and inquires about our travel and the weather. I take the opportunity to study the room. Photographs line the surfaces, and on the table abutting the sofa, I see a family portrait of three girls with a couple. From the resemblance, I’m guessing it’s a younger Mrs. Davis and Mrs. Lloyd with May and their parents.
“Is that your family?” I point to the framed image.
Mrs. Lloyd reaches for it, staring at it as if she hasn’t looked at it for some time. “Yes, that’s our parents and the three of us sisters. You’ll see lots of pictures of us around the house, because this was my parents’ home. My sister took it over when my parents died, and I rent a house just down the block.” She then hands it to us.
“Might we look at the photos?”
“Of course,” Mrs. Lloyd answers after looking at her sister for a nod of permission. Rising, she guides Ngaio and me around the room, where we see a host of images of the sisters, including May, at various ages. With her bobbed brunette hair, bright, joyous smile, and dark, sparkling eyes, May is an effervescent version of her sisters, with more delicate features.
“She’s lovely,” I say.
When we settle back into our seats, I launch into the pitch we crafted. “The unfortunate coverage of your poor sister has been disturbing to us both. We would like to write an article showing her in a more flattering light.”
Mrs. Davis dabs at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. The woman is clearly bereft over her younger sister; only Mrs. Lloyd has the wherewithal to converse with us. She says, “Our poor May has been lambasted in the press. The fact that she was a sweet, good girl who loved helping others deserves to be known.”
“It certainly does,” Ngaio says, keeping it surprisingly short.
“Are you willing to tell us a bit about your sister? Her qualities? What she enjoyed about being a nurse? The activities with which she occupied her free time? That sort of thing?” I ask.
The sisters confer quietly, after which Mrs. Davis exclaims, “We don’t want our baby sister to be exploited. So far, everyone involved in May’s case—every official, every reporter, even every neighbor—has done nothing but cast aspersions upon her good name. If that’s your game, you can leave now.”
“That is the opposite of our game, Mrs. Davis. Miss Marsh and I have been sickened by the coverage of Miss Daniels, and we want to set the record straight. Maybe then her killer can be found. All this unsubstantiated gossip detracts from the real, important task of figuring out her case,” I say. Although Ngaio and I have fudged our identities somewhat—about which I do feel guilty—everything I just said is true.
Mrs. Davis continues, “Do you know that the French authorities have had the audacity to inform us that, if we disagree with their assessment that the murder was drug-related, we may have to institute a civil proceeding in France and force Celia to testify? They want us—the grieving family—to come up with money we don’t have to force another girl to testify when they could easily make it happen themselves.”
Yesterday, the press reported definitively that the gendarmes may close the case. Without Celia’s testimony or some “utterly dispositive” clue, they’ll presume May’s death stemmed from a drug deal gone wrong or an overdose of some sort. Never mind that the autopsy report was released and that the French pathologist found a fracture near the base of the larynx consistent with suffocation. Strangulation is the official cause of death.
“That is precisely what we hope to change by our work,” I say to reassure them, and this is the truth.
Mrs. Lloyd and Mrs. Davis turn to each other again, exchanging inscrutable glances. Even though they agreed to this meeting, they now appear hesitant and unconvinced, and I don’t blame them. Every scrap of information they’ve offered has been contorted and manipulated until an unrecognizable portrait of their sister appeared. And it is that depiction that the authorities have used to explain away their inability or lack of interest in hunting down her murderer thus far. That and the unwillingness of Celia to submit to questioning in France.
It is time for my final plea. “Imagine if we could turn the narrative on its head and elicit public sympathy for your sister. The authorities would be forced to devote their resources to Miss Daniels.”