The Queens of Crime

Chapter Twenty-Nine

A PRIL 1, 1931

M ANCHESTER, E NGLAND

Agatha had forewarned me about Abney Hall. I’d heard about the vastness of the entry. She’d informed me about its many-peaked Victorian roof and the ornateness of its interior decor. Her descriptions of the gardens prepared me to observe their elegance from every window. But as I stand within these walls, I am, in fact, unprepared. Because no one warned me that stepping into Abney Hall is tantamount to entering the pages of Agatha’s books.

I see bits and pieces of her fictional country homes all around me. A hint of Styles, as described in The Mysterious Affair at Styles, in an Abney Hall fireplace. An echo of Chimneys, as detailed in The Secret of Chimneys, in Abney Hall’s elaborate wood-paneled walls. When a servant appears to take our coats wearing a uniform straight out of the pages of Styles, the line between fiction and reality blurs.

“It’s unnerving, isn’t it?” A raspy voice calls over to me, and I follow the sound with my eyes. An attractive woman in her fifties, outfitted in a burgundy silk dress and ropes of pearls, leans against a doorframe, languidly smoking a cigarette.

Is the woman speaking to Agatha or me? Agatha doesn’t reply, so I settle on an innocuous response. “Abney Hall is spectacular.”

“I can hardly accept that as a compliment, because I’ve had absolutely nothing to do with creating it. It was the brainchild of my husband’s grandfather, who had it designed and decorated in the latest Victorian fashion, and I don’t believe it’s been altered since,” the woman says with a cheerless smile. “But where are my manners? Lovely to see you, Agatha darling.” She leans forward for a buss on the cheek. Then with an outstretched hand, she says, “I am Agatha’s sister, Margaret Watts, although everyone calls me Madge. You must be Mrs. Sayers. Or is it Mrs. Fleming? Or Miss Fleming? Or Miss Sayers?”

We shake hands, and I say, “I’ll answer to any, but I’d prefer it if you call me Dorothy. I’ve heard so many lovely things about you from your sister.”

“Lovely things?” Madge jeers. “I’d be shocked. We sisters are known for our competitiveness. And Agatha hates it when I mother her.”

Indeed, Agatha has made this precise observation before. When she first described a lonely childhood—the youngest sibling by nearly a decade, with only books for company—I felt a kinship with her. But she then related a childhood tale in which Madge challenged her to write a story in the vein of Gaston Leroux’s 1908 classic locked-room detective novel, The Mystery of the Yellow Room, and goaded her into action by pronouncing that, in fact, Agatha was incapable of writing it. I knew then that our upbringing had very different influences; my parents and cousin Ivy had nothing but encouragement and support for me. Although Agatha softened this judgment by admitting that her sister had been the first person to help with her “troubles,” I sense only tension between the sisters now.

Madge gestures around the drawing room and asks, “Do you find the resemblance between Abney Hall and the settings of Agatha’s novels as uncanny as I do?”

I laugh. “It is rather striking—and quite the compliment. I believe imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.”

“That’s one way to look at it, I suppose,” she replies, exhaling smoke. Pivoting away from us, she begins walking into an adjoining room. She calls out over her shoulder, “I thought we could take tea in the Terrace Room.”

We follow Madge into an arcade lined with heavy brocade wall coverings, which may have once been vivid crimson but have faded to washed-out pink. The intricately carved dark wooden chairs are draped in a similar bleached-out fabric, and I wonder just how long these pieces have been here. Illumination is not exactly abundant in this room, so the erosion of color must have taken time.

As we settle into the rigid, uncomfortable chairs, I say a silent prayer that this outing proves fruitful. We’ve managed to unearth only some basic information about the Williamses. Ngaio and Emma kept their appointment to meet with Louis Williams but came away empty-handed save for a report on his handsomeness, the photograph of a wife and children on his desk, and a few quotes for insurance they don’t need. They did happen to lay eyes on Louis’s father, Jimmy, who’d popped into Louis’s office during their meeting. But the encounter was fleeting.

While we have strong suspicions about the relationship between May and Louis, we need tangible evidence to link it to her murder. Because it is possible that May had a relationship with the married Louis Williams but that it had nothing to do with her death. In other words, we are on a wild goose chase. As for the official investigation into Leonora Denning, Mac is trying to procure it for me; I explained it away as research. In the meantime, we’ve got to flesh out the details of May’s theater visit.

A maid materializes with a silver tea service. The sisters, strikingly alike in appearance and mannerisms, sit back and wait to have their tea poured for them. Agatha inhabits a very different world from mine. My inclination would have been to pour the tea myself.

“It’s so nice to finally meet you, Dorothy,” Madge says. “I’ve heard quite a bit about you from Agatha, and of course I adore your Lord Peter Wimsey novels. And I am enjoying the addition of Harriet Vane; she’s terribly modern.”

She shoots Agatha a look as she talks about my books. Is Madge’s compliment about my characters a way to criticize Agatha about her own? Sibling rivalry oozes from them, and it almost makes me relieved I never had siblings. My cousin Ivy has exceeded every wish I could ever have for a sister; I could have hoped for nothing more.

I’m about to excuse myself—for the washroom, for a quick breath of air, for anything —when Agatha asks, “Is Jim here? We had expected him for tea as well.”

“Jim will be along for tea momentarily.”

As if on cue, a ruddy-cheeked gentleman with a wide, easy smile pops his head into the Terrace Room. “Agatha! I hope I haven’t kept you waiting! The textile business waits for no man.”

He bursts into the room, wraps his sister-in-law in a warm embrace, and the thick tension lifts immediately. This bear of a man sticks his hand out in my direction, and says, “Jim Watts; pleased to meet you. You must be Agatha’s writer friend, Mrs. Sayers.”

“I am indeed. But please do call me Dorothy.”

“Delighted to make your acquaintance, Dorothy.” Jim drops down into a chair with such force that it groans. “We are fortunate that you two artsy types will be on hand for the festivities tonight. Not up on the latest cultural developments myself.”

Madge adds, “Agatha doesn’t love to circulate, but perhaps she’ll be more convivial with you at her side, Dorothy.”

Make no mistake, Madge intends this to wound, and Agatha winces. My hackles rise at this unkindness. Isn’t Agatha helping Madge shop her play around this evening with her contacts? Why wouldn’t Madge be grateful? Does she resent her younger sister’s success that much?

Jim seems not to notice. In his blunderbuss fashion, he bellows, “Ah, you’ll be in your element tonight, Agatha. Thanks to your network, we will have a host of producers, directors, actors, and actresses here. Along with the usual crowd.”

I imagine the latter folks to be wealthy estate-owning neighbors and fellow upper-class businessmen and their wives. The Great War upended the staid social order of our country. Money and land had gone hand in hand with title and rank since time immemorial, but taxes and death and the economic depression have eroded the status quo. And now the dukes, marquesses, earls, viscounts, barons, and run-of-the-mill lords—and their wives—have lost many of their estates and much of their wealth, creating a vacuum into which the merely monied, including Jim and Madge and their peers, can climb. Will Louis and Jimmy Williams be part of this crowd? I wonder.

“I appreciate your allowing me to attend the party,” I say, grinning at Jim and Madge.

“Our pleasure,” Jim says with feeling. Madge, I notice, doesn’t echo his sentiments.

Then, feeling a little guilty in light of their generosity, I tell a bald-faced lie. “I’m wondering if acquaintances of mine will be in attendance. The Williams family of Mathers Insurance.”

Agatha shoots me a startled glance. This hadn’t been on our agenda. But then I’d never considered whether the Wattses’ path might cross that of the Williamses. Surely Agatha doesn’t begrudge me two birds with one stone and all that.

“Williams, Williams,” Jim mutters. “Ah, yes, I do know the name. Jimmy Williams isn’t exactly my circle, as you might imagine. Not that I judge the man for his background—it’s not his fault that he was born a bastard to an unconscionably young housemaid and had to be raised by his grandmother. Or that he had to start working on the railroads at twelve.”

I flinch at the word “bastard.” It is a word I loathe for many reasons. Does anyone notice the heat rising to my cheeks?

Jim pauses to finish his drink, then continues. “In truth, I admire the man. It’s not often you see a lowly bastard become such a success. He’s made quite the name for himself in insurance, and he’s grooming his son to take over his company. But I can’t say we run in the same social circles. Certainly they won’t be here this evening.”

Agatha has long been slated to assist her sister with this event, but she intentionally didn’t share our other purpose with the Wattses. We didn’t want them eyeing us warily, but neither Madge nor Jim is naive.

“Doing a bit of research while you’re here?” Jim asks me. “Agatha enjoys setting her mysteries in bits and pieces of Abney Hall.”

I answer as vaguely as possible. “Less research and more general inspiration.”

Jim slaps his thigh. “Well, I say! To think that we might serve as inspiration. That’s good fun.”

Madge seems not to mind and, in fact, laughs at the notion. “We are used to Agatha pilfering settings from Abney Hall, but this is new. Dorothy, do I understand correctly that you might steal storylines and character traits from the Abney Hall inhabitants and guests?”

This isn’t my objective at all. But it will serve better than the truth. “Only with your permission,” I reply with a smile and a wink.

The Wattses laugh, and I watch as Agatha’s expression closes, becoming inscrutable. It must be painful to see her sister behave in a lighthearted manner with everyone but her. Even though Madge’s behavior rings somewhat false.

Jim stands abruptly. “I’m away. Duty calls. But I’ll see you all this evening.” And with that, he takes his jubilant demeanor from the room with a wide stride.

As soon as Jim’s footsteps recede, Madge stands. Her face is a storm cloud. Agatha glances over at me, warning in her gaze.

“Never, ever take me for a fool,” she seethes, turning that sharp gaze on Agatha and then me. “I don’t know exactly what you two are up to, but consider yourself advised. Tonight is my night. And I do not want it ruined.”