The Queens of Crime

Chapter Twenty-Seven

M ARCH 30, 1931

L ONDON, E NGLAND

I pace my flat. My dog-eared college dictionary catches my eye on the jam-packed bookshelves, and I reach for it. Flipping through the pages, I don’t stop until I find that word: “Hoax: a deception, sometimes done in humor and often involving a falsehood or fiction.” How on earth could the police label that confession a hoax without any sort of investigation? Not to mention there is absolutely nothing humorous about either the confession or May’s murder. My rage flares. It’s no wonder I can’t work.

Returning the tome to pride of place on my bookshelf, I realize that I’d do practically anything other than write at the moment. How hard it is to concentrate on the fictional murder at the heart of my novel when we have a very real one to solve. The Queens will gather tomorrow to split up the next tasks—interviewing employees at the theater where Cavalcade is being performed to determine whom May met with backstage, tracking down everyone mentioned in that Daily Herald article to see if any of them has a connection to May, attempting to get the official records on the missing London girl to see if there’s any tie to May, interviewing shopgirls at Madame Isobel’s, combing through copies of the Boulogne witness statements to see if anyone else saw May talk with a man. But tomorrow seems forever away.

I’m considering reorganizing a bookshelf when I hear a knock on the door. Who on earth could that be? Mac had stayed at the flat the last two evenings, but he’s left for our home in Essex to finish his profile on Tarrington now that the solicitor is in custody awaiting trial. And anyway, he’s got a key. Anyone else—school chums, cousins, professional friends—would arrange at meeting in advance. My schedule is too unpredictable to chance a visit.

Unlatching the door, I peer through the crack to see Margery. What a surprise, I think. Of all the Queens, she’s the last I’d expect to pop round.

I swing the door open wide and usher her inside. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I was in the neighborhood, so I thought I’d stop in to see if you’d like to stroll by Madame Isobel’s. A bit of legwork before the meeting tomorrow.”

“My, oh, my, would that be a welcome break from Harriet Vane and Peter Wimsey!” I exclaim with an excited clap.

She chuckles. “Struggling to write as well? I can’t face another page.”

“I was just about to reconfigure my bookshelves rather than tackle more snappy dialogue between Harriet and Peter.”

“I was contemplating repainting a bedroom.”

When our laughter subsides, I ask, “Were you really in the neighborhood?”

“Of course not. But your flat is only a fifteen-minute walk from Madame Isobel’s shop, on Regent Street, so I took a chance you’d be home.”

“Brilliant.” I’m already reaching for my coat and handbag. “Let’s go.”

A rare crispness permeates the air rather than the dampness and drizzle typical of spring. Margery has a lightness in her step and a mood that is infectious, and the stroll to Regent Street is unexpectedly quick. Margery is the Queen I know the least, and her witticisms and enthusiasm make her delightful company.

Why do I drift toward the other Queens rather than Margery? Am I a bit wary, thanks to the rumors that her aristocratic detective, Albert Campion, was created as a parody of my Wimsey? Or is it because she seems the sort of eager, stylish young woman who might have rejected me at university? Do I gravitate toward the older, sager Queens because of what they may teach me?

As I listen to Margery prattle on, I realize her chatter is anything but prattle. She is telling me the story of her life as we walk, as naturally as if we were having a chin-wag about the weather. Born to writer parents—her father was the editor of the New London Journal and the Christian Globe, and her mother wrote stories for women’s magazines—she came by her talents early and honestly. Her husband, a designer and an artist, seems that rare sort of man who supports his wife’s career. Like Mac. He even creates the covers for her novels, and they’ve been so successful that he’ll be designing them for other mystery novelists. I find her sharp, engaging, and pleasant beneath her ardent exterior.

We slow our pace when we reach the shops lining Regent Street. Madame Isobel’s establishment is located at number 223—that much I’d already researched. We now play at window-shopping. A millinery displaying a navy-blue Basque beret, which we deem attractive and practical. A pair of irresistible black-and-white spectator heels at a shoe store. Very audibly, we ooh and aah and fantasize about which we’d purchase first.

When we reach the front window at Madame Isobel’s, I don’t have to pretend at awe. The expansive window displays only one singular item. There, against the backdrop of a gray quilted screen, is a floor-length vermilion gown that’s a river of undulating silk. I literally cannot take my eyes off it. It’s the sort of garment I’d never be able to afford or pull off but about which I dream.

Only when Margery asks, “Shall we?” do I pull myself away.

Stepping inside the elegant salon, a cocoon of silver silk and linen, we survey a row of glittering crystal-laden court presentation gowns. We stop to examine an unusual dress with a black-and-tartan skirt. Then, as we’d planned, we linger at the day dresses.

Margery examines a shimmery pink confection, crying out, “Scrummy!”

As we’d expected, a salesgirl with a updo and an attitude approaches us. Scanning us up and down, she finally asks, “May I help you?”

Are we not up to snuff? Although I’m hardly dressed in my finest, my suit is of a well-cut pale-camel cotton, and Margery wears a fashionable dress decorated with sprigs of wildflowers. Ignoring her demeanor, I say, “That would be lovely, Miss…”

“Miss Maybanks.”

“Thank you, Miss Maybanks. My darling niece Maggie here spotted the most sumptuous dress on her friend, who informed her that it was an Isobel design. I promised her one as a birthday present.”

“But we don’t see the dress here,” Margery announces.

“Ah,” she replies, her smile brighter and more welcoming now that she perceives we are shoppers with a purpose. “The dress could be from last season, which means it wouldn’t be on the floor. Doesn’t mean it’s inaccessible, though. Can you describe it for me?”

Margery describes the emerald dress as if she’d seen it herself, to which Miss Maybanks replies, “It might work better if you give me your friend’s name. We keep records of all the purchases.”

Margery shoots me a look. We had hoped for this.

“Her name is Miss May Daniels, but I believe the dress was a gift, so you might not have her name on file.”

“Actually, if the dress was sent to her at any location, we would have a file on it.”

“Would that be likely?”

“Oh, yes. Most of our pieces are altered to fit our clients like a glove and then sent to them directly,” Miss Maybanks answers, turning her attention to a filing cabinet behind the imposing marble-topped desk at the center of the space.

Margery and I circle around the salon, deciding on a green dress that we’ll use as a distraction. The salesgirl calls over to us: “We are in luck! I have a file on Miss Daniels. Would her address have been at the Chiswick and Ealing Isolation Hospital residences?” Miss Maybanks sounds perplexed. I doubt any of her other clients are nurses. And I suppose they don’t often send evening dresses to hospital patients.

“That’s it! Do you have a picture of the dress?” Margery asks with a giggle. “I just want to be certain. Who knows how many Madame Isobel dresses she has?”

“Just a sketch,” she says, motioning for her to approach. Margery looks over Miss Maybanks’s shoulder at the drawing. And, I’m assuming, the file from whence it came.

Margery nods at me; it’s our predetermined signal. “It does look quite like my friend’s dress. May I take a closer look?”

The salesgirl nods, and that’s my cue to ask, “Miss Maybanks, might I have you peek at a gown on display? It’s the exact shade of green that Maggie was hoping for.”

Miss Maybanks steps away from the desk, providing Margery with an opportunity to scan the file as she pretends to analyze the design. We are desperate to find out who purchased May’s dress. It could be her mysterious suitor, the one she visited on the unaccounted-for night of October 14. The one who gave her the tickets to Cavalcade . The one who may have killed her.

I engage Miss Maybanks for several long minutes in a debate over shades of green, hoping to give Margery ample time to snoop. By the time the salesgirl returns to her desk, Margery has put down the sketch. She announces, “Now that I’ve gotten a good look, I don’t think it’s the gown for me.”

“Oh, Maggie, are you sure?” I feign disappointment. “I had been hoping to gift you a special frock for your birthday.”

“Quite sure, Aunt. I am sorry we’ve wasted your time, Miss Maybanks.”

The salesgirl barely chokes out a civil reply. “Not at all.”

Exiting the shop, we stroll arm in arm down Regent Street. We take care to peer into other store windows as if we’re still hunting down the perfect dress. Just in case the salesgirl should be watching, which I highly doubt.

“So?” I finally ask, waiting as long as I can stand.

Margery turns to me with a smile. “So I didn’t get the name of the purchaser, but I did get his—or her, I suppose—address.”

“What is it?”

“It’s 107 Leadenhall Street,” she replies, referring to a location in the heart of London’s financial district.

“That’s a business area of town,” I say.

”Yes, it is.” Margery’s smile does not fade. “Did you get the name of a business?”

“Yes. Mathers Insurance.”