Chapter Twenty-Six
M ARCH 29, 1931
L ONDON, E NGLAND
We file into the police station, squeezing through the narrow front door of the Metropolitan Police precinct house. One by one, we arrange ourselves in a semicircle around the intake desk. A ginger-haired officer looks up at us; he doesn’t bother to hide his bemusement at the sight.
“May I help you ladies?” he asks with a smirk, as if he’s offering his elbow to a bunch of unsteady old women trying to cross the street. Assistance that, in truth, a few of us could use. “On the hunt for a lost cat?”
The Queens turn toward me, Ngaio’s pursed lips telegraphing her clear irritation at this condescension. How the policeman underestimates this group of women, I think. I clear my throat and say, “We understand you’ve received a confession in the case of Miss May Daniels.”
The policeman’s smirk remains plastered on his lips, but the light in his eyes dims. He is less tickled now and more leery. “Who told you that?” he asks.
Mac is responsible for the message at the University Women’s Club. Acknowledging my request for ongoing information about Miss Daniels, he sent it as a sort of love letter. And he wouldn’t have directed me to a police station to indulge my curiosity unless he felt fairly confident about his source.
Emma answers for me. “We know lots of things.” Her tone is imperious, and even her posture is that of a baroness.
“You may think you know about a confession, ma’am. But use your loaf. Even if you’re right, I wouldn’t tell you one way or the other, and I wouldn’t share any details. All that would be confidential.” The policeman’s accent may be Cockney, but his bearing is every bit as haughty as Emma’s. Emma, her eyes wide, looks positively flabbergasted. I suppose this is one of the few times she’s been thwarted.
In a small, unassuming voice, Agatha asks, “How can it be confidential if we already know about it?”
She’s unnerved the officer. He doesn’t know what to make of her. I can almost see the cogwheels of his mind turn, torn between the soft inquiry of her very good question and the possibility that she might be patronizing him .
The front door of the precinct house slams open. Two policemen storm in, pushing a couple of handcuffed men ahead of them. Grubby and sweating, the criminals are crowded into the entry space. Emma clutches her handbag, holding it tight next to her pearls—as if the manacled men could accost her—while Agatha and Margery retreat to the corner. Only Ngaio and I remain in position.
More people pour into the station. A family of four—impossibly young parents with a toddling young son and an infant who tug at my heartstrings. And a silver-haired man with a strikingly similar-looking younger fellow, both wearing aprons tucked under their coats. We are standing cheek by jowl, and the smell isn’t fresh.
The intake officer is done with us. “Ladies, we have criminals to book and citizens with real problems to address. If you’ve got no business with us other than this so-called confession, please take your leave.” He directs us to the exit.
We weave through the throng of people and police and wedge ourselves through the door single file. As we gather on the sidewalk outside, Ngaio says, “Well, that was a waste of our efforts. Your husband had no more information other than the station where the confession was delivered?”
“That’s it.”
She presses on. “Any more contacts from whom we can glean information?”
“Mac didn’t mention anything. And I can’t reach him because he’s in the throes of writing up a profile on the Tarrington case, desperate to meet a deadline.”
As we consider our next move, a voice calls out to us, “You ladies the ones asking the police about a confession?”
We turn to examine a young man with dark curls escaping from his cap. I recognize him more from his apron than from his facial features or hair. He’s the one who entered the police station after us with an older gentleman I assumed to be his father.
“We were,” I answer. “May I ask why you are curious?”
“Because I’m the one who found the confession.”
“You what?” Ngaio blurts out.
“Yeah,” he says, glancing at his father, who nods his permission. “My family has a fish-and-chips shop just round the corner, and when I was cleaning up for the night, I found it on the floor. I delivered it to the cops straightaway.”
“Would you be willing to tell us more about it?” Agatha asks.
“The police told us we weren’t supposed to. Ordered us to keep our traps shut about it, which we have until now. But me and my dad were curious, so we stopped by the precinct,” he answers, his eyes sliding toward his father again.
That is neither a yes nor a no, I think. It’s an invitation.
“We understand you are taking a risk. As are we. The confession you discovered is a key piece of evidence,” Emma says with calm assurance. “But we would compensate you for your risk.”
“How much?” he asks.
“Twenty pounds.”
I suppress a little gasp. Twenty pounds is a small fortune for some, particularly in these tough economic times. After all, I recently read that the average income is ￡150 a year.
“Forty.”
“Let’s settle on thirty pounds, shall we?”
He nods but doesn’t speak. It seems that the actual pound notes must be in his sweaty palm before he will unseal his lips. Emma hands them to him.
“The piece of paper was crumpled and torn in half. When I smoothed it and fit the two pieces together, the writing was clear as day.”
“What did it say?”
“I killed Nurse May Daniels.”
“Those exact words?” I ask, astonished. I’d expected something far less definitive.
“Those exact words.”
It’s Margery’s turn. “Anything else?”
“Yeah. I committed the words to my mind. ‘I certify that I killed Nurse May Daniels near the Napoleon column, Boulogne.’ There was a scribble underneath, which I took to be a signature.”
My heart is racing. Could this actually lead us to May’s killer? And what could this confession have to do with May’s secret relationship? Perhaps nothing.
Or could the note be a red herring or a dead end? Its appearance is awfully convenient.
“Was the signature legible?” I ask.
“You mean, could I read it?” he asks.
“Exactly.”
“No.”
“Do you know who left the piece of paper behind?”
“I believe I do. There was a foreign-looking gentleman at that table just before we closed up. He’d been writing away on a little pad with the stubby end of a pencil.”
“Can you describe him to us?”
“Dark hair, dark eyes—even his skin had that dark bronze shade. As if he’d been out in the sun. But it’s not as if I studied the fellow. I had other tables to tend.” He pauses, then adds, “There is one thing I noticed, though.”
“What’s that?” I ask.
“When he placed his order, he had a funny accent. Can’t say that I’m an expert about that, so no idea where he’s from.”
“Have the police told you anything else?”
“Like what?”
“Have they asked you to identify anyone they have in custody? Or asked you to work with an artist to create a sketch of the man?”
He scoffs, and his father joins in. “No. And I doubt they ever will.”
“Why is that?”
The young man answers. “Because when we checked just now, that officer told us they’ve decided the letter’s a hoax.”