The Queens of Crime

Chapter Thirty

A PRIL 1, 1931

M ANCHESTER, E NGLAND

I’ve never been known for my fashion sense. As the only child of a vicar and his wife, I was meant to be appropriately dressed for our proper status in Bluntisham. But while we inhabited a lovely rectory with extensive gardens, we lived at the financial mercy of the Church of England, and Father’s stipend was never enough for the sorts of frocks expected of me. Castoffs became the norm—beautifully altered by my mother—during childhood, boarding school, and Oxford. My sole evening dress was at the tailor when Agatha and I set out for Abney Hall, and, in an echo of my youth, tonight’s gown is borrowed. It is a castoff from Madge, worn when she was “a bit bigger,” as she put it. The vivid purple silk gown—not my color, but beggars can’t be choosers—sports the drop-waist style popular in the last decade instead of the more flattering, nipped-at-the-waist design favored today. I’m fairly certain I resemble an aubergine, and I cannot help but think this is intentional on Madge’s part.

Trying to push this thought from my mind, I step into the Abney Hall parlor at the appointed hour for drinks before dinner. I make a beeline for the exquisitely, if somberly, dressed Agatha, who’s having an animated discussion with her sister. Weaving through the dozen or so guests outfitted in the latest couture gowns and bespoke evening wear, I hear her say “Enough!” in a furious tone just as I reach her side.

I freeze, but before I can retreat, Madge marches off to the opposite side of the room. Agatha faces me with a weak smile. “Are you quite all right?” I ask.

“Just the usual sisterly spats,” she answers, but it’s plainly much more.

“Are you quite certain?” I ask. I don’t want to pry, but I hope she knows she can trust me.

“Madge isn’t terribly fond of Max,” she answers, referring to her husband of a year. “She’s suspicious of his motives because he’s fourteen years younger than I am, even though I hardly think it’s fair to call him a gold digger. I have no gold.”

“Perhaps she’s just being overprotective. She is an older sister, after all, and I understand that’s their purview. Not that I know from firsthand experience.”

“Perhaps. She does enjoy smothering me,” she replies, smiling. “Madge is a complicated woman.”

Complicated indeed. Madge is also a terribly jealous woman. Though she may love and protect her sister, those emotions are intermingled with envy. It is plain to see.

“It seems as though she also enjoys tangling you in her web—if the web contains your theater accomplishments and if it benefits her,” I blurt out, then immediately regret it. My hand flies over my mouth. What am I thinking? Madge is Agatha’s sister, and I am at Abney Hall at her invitation. “I’m so very sorry.”

Agatha giggles. “Whatever for? It’s the truth, and I find it refreshing to hear someone speak plainly about Madge.”

“Well, it shouldn’t be me. She’s been nothing but kind to me. For the most part.” I call attention to my dress.

“You have nothing to be worried about, Dorothy,” Agatha says with a squeeze of my hand.

Time to change the subject, I think. Taking in the room, I ask, “Whom should we talk to first?”

That there are two factions of guests at this soiree—theater folks and the Watts family’s usual crowd—is obvious from attire and demeanor. Agatha subtly points out a number of theater types—actors, actresses, directors, and producers whom I recognize from the newspapers—and waves at a few. One name catches my attention.

“Can you repeat that last one?”

“Basil Dean. He’s a director and producer.”

“Why does his name sound familiar?”

“He’s directed quite a few No?l Coward plays. Perhaps you read about him in the paper.”

“Perhaps,” I say, but I don’t think that’s it.

Agatha slides her arm through mine and conducts me across the drawing room. We aim for a gentleman in evening dress with a peacock-feather tie and a perfectly shaped waxed mustache. He stands in the corner chatting up a bottle blonde. “Let’s try Mr. Dean first,” she says in a whisper.

Jim, who appears as though he’s been squeezed into his evening suit with a shoehorn, cuts us off mid-approach. “You two seem terribly intent. May I assist? Someone inadvertently providing impetus for a character?” He seems delighted with this idea.

“We are homing in on Basil Dean,” I answer conspiratorially.

“I can see why. But proceed with care,” Jim says. “I overheard one guest describe him as a piece of work.”

“I think his productions are the most stunning on the West End. Isn’t he Madge’s dream producer?” Agatha asks.

“He’s very talented, but apparently he instills fear in his actors and actresses. And quite possibly his writers. Why don’t you let me do the introductions? Smooth the way and all that?”

“He’s a good egg, that Jim,” I say to Agatha as Jim leads us to Mr. Dean.

Agatha smiles. “He is. And his namesake son is cut from the same cloth. I wish he wasn’t away this weekend. I’d love to introduce you.”

The bottle blonde drifts away as Jim approaches. “Mr. Dean, I’d like to introduce you to my sister-in-law Mrs. Mallowan and her friend Miss Sayers, who are visiting us from London. Mr. Dean is a producer of West End shows, and Miss Sayers is a writer of mysteries.”

Not surprising, I think, that he’s highlighting me rather than Agatha, whom he calls by her married name only. Even though she might be a bit better known, she’d loathe the attention and questions. And Madge would be furious that the limelight was drawn from her to Agatha on her night .

Mr. Dean clears his throat. “I am a director as well.”

Jim hastens to address this oversight, then excuses himself.

“I’m a fan of your Lord Peter Wimsey,” he says with a large gulp of his drink and a wipe of his brow. Is the room warm? Mr. Dean’s cheeks are flushed. Perhaps the bottle blonde had roused his senses.

I thank him for his kind words, and we chat about my Wimsey books for several long minutes. Agatha is standing by, silently allowing me to handle this exchange while she studies this man.

“What show are you currently working on?” I ask, knowing that a man of his self-regard would enjoy talking about himself. Perhaps if he drones on for a bit, I’ll place him.

“I tend to spin a lot of plates at once. For example, I have several of No?l Coward’s plays in various stages of development, both in New York and London. I am also the joint managing director of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, which takes much of my time.”

That’s it, I think. That’s how I know his name. When I was researching the theater where May saw Cavalcade —Theatre Royal, Drury Lane—I saw his name listed as joint managing director.

I glance at Agatha. She has made the connection as well.

But Mr. Dean isn’t finished singing his own praise. He continues, “And I’ve just become chairman of Associated Talking Pictures.”

“My goodness, how do you do it? You wear so many hats,” I say, and he nods proudly. I continue, “Am I right in thinking that you currently have a No?l Coward show on the Drury Lane stage? Cavalcade ?”

“We do indeed.” Mr. Dean is pleased with the recognition. “It’s a marvelous musical. The story follows a well-to-do British family during three crucial decades of modern life. Terrific score, shot through with popular songs from each era.”

“Sounds brilliant, Mr. Dean,” I say. Glancing at Agatha, I add, “We will have to go see it.”

“I could arrange tickets for you quite easily,” he offers.

“We wouldn’t want to be an imposition,” I insist, although I’m delighted. The Queens had discussed visiting the theater, but I never dreamed we’d do so at the behest of the joint managing director. All that access might come in handy.

“Nonsense—it would be my pleasure. Perhaps you could leave a signed copy of a Wimsey novel for me,” he suggests.

“I’d be delighted. Are you typically backstage at the theater? I could drop it off personally after we see the play.” I hope I sound casual.

“Not usually. My co–managing director and I divide time at the theater. I spend my hours there during the day, when I can easily pop over to the film studios as well. Sir Alfred has a habit of spending his evenings at Drury Lane,” he explains.

“Sir Alfred?”

“Apologies. Sir Alfred Chapman is my co–managing director.”

A voice, dripping with displeasure, drifts over Mr. Dean’s shoulders into our conversation. “Whom do we have here?”

Elegant in a column of beaded navy silk, Madge inserts herself into our little circle. I suppose it’s her prerogative; Abney Hall is her home, and this is her party.

For the first time since we were introduced to Mr. Dean, Agatha speaks. “Madge, this is Mr. Basil Dean, head of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, as well as Associated Talking Pictures. Not to mention a director and producer, particularly of plays by No?l Coward. Mr. Dean, this is my sister, Mrs. James Watts, your hostess. And a writer of plays herself.”

“A pleasure,” Mr. Dean says, kissing Madge’s outstretched hand.

“I’ve been wanting to meet you, Mr. Dean. Your reputation precedes you.” Madge turns to Agatha and me. “Don’t let us keep you.”