Chapter Twenty-Four
M ARCH 28, 1931
L ONDON, E NGLAND
The hour is late by the time I return to London and reach my Georgian-style building on Great James Street. The staircase and corridor leading to my flat are so dark that I fumble in my handbag for my keys. What on earth has happened to the lighting from the brass chandelier over the steps? I must stop by the superintendent’s flat in the morning to report the outage; this simply isn’t safe. When I finally manage to jiggle the keys into the lock and step into my flat, relief washes over me. This three-room space is my refuge.
I’d been living in this light-filled white-paneled flat for five years when Mac and I married. Given that my job in advertising required that I remain in London during the week, Mac and I decided to keep the flat but acquired a little country house in Witham, Essex. We retire there on weekends, although Mac sometimes decamps there on weekdays when he’s writing a book or a longer newspaper piece. Now that I’ve given up my advertising career to write novels exclusively, I may do the same.
As I cross the parlor to turn on a lamp, a gravelly voice emerges from the darkness. “Dorothy?”
I scream. Turning toward the sound, I reach behind me for the letter opener on my desk, which is against the wall near the lamp. A man sprawls out across the sofa, and his silhouette is familiar.
“Mac?” I ask, my arm relaxing at my side—although I don’t release my grip on the sharp brass instrument. “Is that you?”
“Who else would it be, my love?”
“You scared me half to death; I hadn’t expected you back until tomorrow,” I reply, my heart still racing.
Returning the letter opener to its place on my desk, I switch on the light. Mac suddenly realizes what I’d been doing and says with a laugh, “Had you been about to stab me?”
“Not this time,” I reply with a laugh of my own.
Mac pats the empty spot on the sofa next to him, and I plop down. He snakes his arm around my shoulders. Part of me wants to crawl into bed with him and surrender to exhaustion, and another part is desperate for any updates on May’s case he might still be privy to. The latter wins out.
“Is the Tarrington coverage going well?” I ask.
“Indeed. The slippery eel has finally been caught in the net. That’s what brought me back to London early. Tarrington is in custody and will be sailing into the London harbor tomorrow morning. My editor sent me ahead to cover his arrival from this side of the English Channel.”
I clap excitedly. “Just deserts! I can’t wait to see your piece in the paper. Tarrington’s comeuppance will make for fine reading.”
“At first I’d been disappointed when my editor pulled me off the Daniels matter. No longer. This Tarrington arrest will be front-page news for weeks, if not months.”
“Speaking of the Daniels investigation, any news on May? Even though I was only on the case for a couple of days, the poor girl’s death tugs at my heartstrings.”
Mac kisses my cheek. “I’ve become inured to crime, having covered it for decades. But you, you’ve always been a softie.”
I laugh. No one’s ever called me a softie, I think. Brash, yes. Tenacious, of course. Bright, often. Overwhelming, sometimes. But the sorts of words typically used to describe women—the ones suggesting that we’re delicate, feminine, shy, and hesitant? Never. Only Mac sees my tender underbelly, and well he should. He knows all my secrets. Even the one I am determined to keep hidden from all others forever.
“This softie would love to hear that May’s killer has been found,” I say, prompting him along.
“And even this hardened reporter would love to hear that sort of news.” He yawns and mutters, “Sadly, the only scuttlebutt among pressmen is that the French authorities might close up the case on the strength of that syringe. Unless the victim’s family can afford to start their own civil proceeding to keep the investigation alive, or unless Miss McCarthy surfaces on French soil, it seems the gendarmes are chalking the whole unfortunate incident up to drugs, overdose, or a deal gone wrong.”
I feel sick hearing this verdict spoken aloud, even though, of course, I had expected it. Do I dare allow myself to cling to the hope that the Queens can change the final outcome? Hope has so often disappointed me.
“That’s a cop-out, and it doesn’t make a lick of sense in any event.” I am riled up now. “Why would a nurse travel all the way to France to procure morphine when it must be readily available all over her hospital? She probably administered it countless times a day and would have been able to give herself some if she was so inclined. Even if she had taken the morphine from the hospital to sell, wouldn’t there be more evidence than a sole syringe?”
“Hadn’t thought about it that way.” His tone is low and serious. Not his usual.
I hate to lump Mac in with the myopic group of reporters I encountered in Boulogne. My husband has proved to be a delightful surprise in most respects. How many men would champion their wives’ success in business and books? But even the best of us can fall into tired, lazy ways of thinking and pigeonhole people in the process. One must continually remind oneself that people are not precisely as they seem.
“Let’s hope for new evidence,” I say and pull him tight.
Mac echoes my call. “Let’s.”
If I’m being honest, I am relieved he’s not covering May Daniels anymore, even if it makes my access to information more difficult. His coverage—capitalizing on the discovery of the needle near the body—had been terribly upsetting. I’d felt riven with disloyalty to the Queens. On the one hand, I’ve been urging them to investigate May’s death, while on the other hand, my own husband had been penning articles that practically ensured the police would stop hunting for her killer. And truth be told, I don’t like thinking about my husband in a negative light. I work hard to push away disappointed thoughts about Mac on other matters.
“Mac, I think you’ve got the better end of the bargain. The Tarrington case is about to explode, while the Daniels case is on the wane.” I push myself to standing. “But if you hear any tidbits about the matter of poor Miss Daniels—either way—I’d be curious. Never like a loose end, as you know.”
Stretching out my hand to my husband, I focus on the here and now. “Shall we to bed?”
His face brightens, and a mischievous smile forms underneath his bushy mustache. “We shall. We have another delicious project to work on, if I’m not mistaken.”