Chapter Twenty
M ARCH 27, 1931
L ONDON, E NGLAND
My final argument is the one that turns the tide, and the sisters open up. Ngaio and I sit back and listen; too rare for both of us, I think. Hands folded in laps, we take an occasional sip of tea or nibble of pastries and absorb all the sisters want to share. Neither of us even takes notes. We want nothing to interrupt the flow of thoughts and information from the two sisters, who have much to say but to date have only been spoken at, not with.
We learn quite a bit about May. The youngest of three sisters—and nearly a decade younger than Mrs. Lloyd—she’d been the much-beloved “pet” of her siblings as well as of her mother and father. When both parents died in swift succession during May’s thirteenth year, the newly married sisters took turns caring for her. It hadn’t been hard, according to Mrs. Lloyd, because May had been “generally happy and cheerful,” a description to which Mrs. Davis added “calm and even-tempered.”
The sisters tear up describing their sister, and, I confess, Ngaio and I do as well. The May I imagined walking the streets of Boulogne on her final day materializes more clearly. And my determination to get justice for her grows while the goal of securing acceptance from the Detection Club members becomes secondary.
“Can you tell us a bit about her decision to become a nurse?” I ask, trying to turn the conversation to May’s adult years.
“We hadn’t really wanted her to become one,” Mrs. Davis says, her voice hardening.
“No,” Mrs. Lloyd adds, concurring. “She did need to work once she finished school, of course. Our parents hadn’t left behind enough funds to support May beyond that, and there was no suitor in the wings. But we hadn’t encouraged her longing to become a nurse. We weren’t even sure how she got that bee in her bonnet, were we?”
“No—we don’t know anyone who’s a nurse,” Mrs. Davis replies. “We pushed her toward a position as a clerk or secretary instead. It’s a bit more respectable and would have the added benefit of introducing her to eligible young men. You know unmarried men are in short supply since the Great War—”
Mrs. Lloyd interjects. “When the neighbors got wind of May’s choice of profession, they had some less-than-savory comments for the two of us. How could we let our baby sister work in such a ‘dirty and gory’ profession? Couldn’t we find something more befitting a nice young woman like May? Did we want her to end up like some surplus women?”
I’m not surprised by the neighborhood gossip. Even though the nursing profession has changed dramatically from its early days—when it was considered unseemly, nasty work for only the lowest class of women—the stigma does cling.
“We begged her to reconsider, but she’d already started her training at the hospital, and the arrangement requires you to give two years of free nursing services in exchange for the classes and instruction. The hospital gave her room and board, of course, but almost no salary for those two years. She couldn’t really leave,” Mrs. Davis adds.
“Not that she wanted to; May loved nursing. She didn’t even care that people were calling her names,” Mrs. Lloyd says, as if an unpleasant taste lingers in her mouth.
“Why would she be called ‘surplus’ for working in nursing? It’s not as if she’s taking a job from a man,” Ngaio asks after an unprecedented period of silence. “Nursing is a career men don’t want. And she was young.”
I flinch at the past tense.
“She might still have chosen to marry one day,” Ngaio replies.
“That may well be true, but the busybodies will talk,” Mrs. Davis says. “And we had to be careful.”
I nod along in understanding if not perfect agreement. These sisters cling to the edge of middle class, as did May. They don’t have the cushion of money or education to prevent them from tumbling into the lower ranks if they take one step in the wrong direction. Every movement must be measured with care, and so to have their baby sister labeled “surplus” or work in an objectionable field must have been alarming.
Might I have been a “surplus” woman if I’d been a little further down the strata of social classes? If I didn’t have an Oxford education or a respectable minister for a father? If I hadn’t eventually married Mac at the ripe old age of thirty-two? After all, my financial situation is not so different from May’s or her sisters’. What about Ngaio and Margery, had the latter not married? Would they fall into the category as well? Emma and Agatha both hail from higher social classes and wouldn’t have these worries.
“May never cared about any of that. She laughed when we told her what people were saying,” Mrs. Lloyd says with a sigh. “She loved helping people of all ages, from all backgrounds.”
“She sounds like a selfless young woman,” I say.
“She was,” Mrs. Lloyd says, and Mrs. Davis tears up again. “What else do you want to know?”
Ngaio launches in before we can consult. “What was her schedule like? What did she do with her free time? What was her social circle like?”
I want to groan, but it seems Ngaio’s directness has its benefits. Mrs. Davis offers rapid-fire answers. “Well, let’s see. She worked long days back-to-back in the hospital, followed by time off ranging from several hours to several days. Many of the girls lived in housing provided by the hospital, which afforded camaraderie if not luxury. On her time off, she would often visit me here or my sister at her home. Or she might stay with another nurse at her family’s home or take a brief holiday, as she did with Miss McCarthy. She had some Dollis Hill friends with whom she remained in touch, but her circle consisted mainly of fellow nurses and us. Not that she had much time to socialize, mind you.”
I jump in, concerned with how Ngaio might handle this next sensitive bit. “I hesitate to ask this question, but given the unpleasant bout of reporting, I feel I must. We want to set the record straight. Did Miss Daniels have a beau? Someone she regularly stepped out with?”
Mrs. Davis’s head starts shaking before Mrs. Lloyd can even speak. “No. She never spoke of a young man or mentioned one in a letter. Quite honestly, she had very little time away from the hospital, and usually she spent that time with us. If she had an admirer, we would have met him—or, at the very least, heard some gossip about him. We were close.”
I change the subject, sensing the sisters’ irritation. “I’d love to see a photograph of Miss Daniels in her nurse’s uniform. Do you have one?”
Mrs. Lloyd answers, “I believe we received a box of May’s things shipped from the hospital lodging when she disappeared last fall. I think it also contains the few items she’d temporarily left behind in Brighton when she traveled to Boulogne. It may have some photos. I haven’t had the strength to look at it in a while, but let me fetch it.”
“That would be much appreciated,” I say. “Before you do, though, I’d like to ask about her last visit. Miss Daniels spent time here before her trip to Brighton with Miss McCarthy, did she not?”
“She did,” Mrs. Davis answers. “She came here for two nights, and the three of us gathered for tea and suppers. Lovely time.” She reaches for her sister’s hand, squeezing it so tightly that white knuckles show.
“She was in good spirits when she left?” I ask.
“Oh, yes,” Mrs. Lloyd says, then adds, “She took the train into the city to stay with Miss McCarthy at her sister’s flat. I believe the two girls were to have a night at the theater before they traveled to Brighton.”
Alarm bells are ringing. I do not recall a single reference to a theater night in London before the nurses headed to Brighton—not in the police report, the interview notes, or the articles about May’s disappearance and death. This is a thread we must follow.