The Queens of Crime

Chapter Thirty-One

A PRIL 2, 1931

L ONDON, E NGLAND

Has there been a single moment of silence on the train back to London? I don’t mean the roar of the train, the bellowing of the whistle, the many stops, or the conductor’s announcements. I mean our chatter. Agatha and I have not ceased speculating since the moment we settled into our seats this morning.

“We must put some order to the evidence about May’s private life that we’ve been gathering like a pair of magpies,” I announce. “What is it your detective Hercule Poirot says when the investigation is going full throttle and the facts are pouring in?”

“We must use our ‘little gray cells.’”

“That’s it! Amid the gray cells, perhaps we can sprinkle in what Wimsey’s mother calls women’s special intelligence—‘mother-wit.’”

“Oh, I like that,” Agatha says with a giggle. “I do feel like a real-life Poirot today. Usually my existence more closely resembles Miss Marple’s.”

“And I feel like a real-life Harriet Vane,” I reply. Pulling out my trusty journal, I begin a list. “First, May definitely had a beau over the summer and fall of 1930. A secret one.”

“One who’s well off enough to purchase two gowns from Madame Isobel’s and take her on dates to West End theaters,” Agatha adds. “Most likely Louis Williams, as deduced from the Madame Isobel receipts and the hidden newspaper article. We don’t know whether she was aware that he’s married with children. Although the kindly girl described by her sisters isn’t the sort to have an affair. She actually seems more like the sort of girl who is preyed upon.”

“Second, in August, she had plans to see Cavalcade with this suitor. When he could not make the show, she used the tickets with her friend Celia,” I say, making a note of this.

She nods and continues. “Third, on October 2, May reads a Daily Herald article about a missing girl whose final night was spent in the company of West End theater folks at Café de Paris—and none other than Louis Williams.”

“And this article has such an impact on May that she carefully clips it and squirrels it away,” I say.

“Fourth, less than two weeks later, on October 14, she spends an unaccounted-for night in London on her way to meet Celia in Brighton,” Agatha says while I write.

“She may have been in the company of Louis,” I add. “We have no other inkling of where she might have been.”

“Fifth, the girls took a day trip from Brighton to Boulogne on October 16, during which time May disappears. Months later, when her body is discovered, large quantities of blood are found underneath, as if she’d miscarried or had a procedure of some sort. There is also ample evidence that she was suffering from chronic nausea.” I record this final point as Agatha finishes.

“And this suggests that the mystery beau had gotten her pregnant,” I say in summary.

“Possibly. If May was indeed with Louis the night before she headed to Brighton and informed him of the pregnancy then, he may have pushed an abortion on her. Maybe he’s the one who organized the trip to Boulogne, possibly even at the last minute,” Agatha says.

I allow myself to envision all these disparate pieces coming together. But there is one element that simply doesn’t fit. “This theory would explain the hemorrhaging—but not May’s carefully plotted disappearance from the train station.”

She sighs. “I know. And we really have nothing in the way of solid proof. I’m hoping the visit to the Theatre Royal tonight will provide some tangible link between May and Louis. Perhaps someone at the theater will remember May and whom she met backstage—something that would definitively tie her to Louis. What we currently have is supposition.”

I shut the journal and change the subject. “Did Madge make the theater connections she hoped for? We certainly did.”

“Basil Dean told her that he wanted to read her play, if you can believe it.”

“I can. Your sister can deploy her charms when she wishes.”

“Tonight, at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, so will we.”

We grow quiet, turning these elements around in our minds while the train’s chug slows. I turn to my friend and ask, “Agatha, you know when you near the end of a novel and most of the threads are knitting together nicely, but there are those one or two rogue filaments that resist you until the bitter end?”

“Of course. I’m facing that quandary at the moment with Peril at End House.”

“Somehow you always manage to make those threads part of a seamless whole, right?”

“Yes,” she answers, and we smile at each other. We’ve both experienced that golden moment when all the elements of the story—character, setting, themes, and plot—coalesce into a shining, unbroken whole. Capturing that elusive moment is why we write.

“We will do that again here. Not for ourselves and not for our stories. We will do it for May.”

The train grinds to a slow halt as it pulls into Euston station. Agatha and I exchange brief farewells as we disembark. She heads toward the Tube taking her to her Campden Street flat, in Kensington, and I veer toward my own Tube line. I’m about to board my train when I have a sudden urge to look Louis Williams in the face. Even a brief glimpse into his eyes, just to see the sort of man he is, would suffice. Glancing around, I realize that it wouldn’t take me terribly long to get to Leadenhall Street. And I make a snap decision to stop in Louis Williams’s office.

During the short ride to the financial heart of London, my mind whirs. I ponder the role that Louis Williams may have played in the life of young May Daniels. He may have had no relationship with her at all; we might be grasping at straws in the absence of substantial evidence. Yet I sense May’s vulnerability, and I know how easily that can be exploited by an unscrupulous man. It happened to me, after all. I need to know if May was in the sway of Louis Williams.

When the elevator doors open onto the Mathers Insurance office, I step into its striking reception area. Dramatic silver-trimmed light fixtures dot the rich lacquered tan walls. Barrel-back chairs upholstered in a geometric chocolate-and-ruby-red pattern are scattered around the lobby. At the center is a wide mahogany desk inlaid with linear metallic designs and topped with gleaming cream marble. Rising above it all is a curved staircase leading to a second-floor landing and a wall listing the company’s principals in gleaming bronze letters.

The glamorous space overwhelms, and I don’t notice the secretary seated at the reception desk at first. But then again, she doesn’t exactly greet me. The young woman with blond movie-star curls and cherry-red lipstick hasn’t glanced up from her reading material once.

I clear my throat several times, but no reaction is forthcoming. “Excuse me, but I would like to see Mr. Williams.”

“Mr. Williams senior or Mr. Williams junior?”

“Mr. Williams junior, please.”

“Do you have an appointment?” She still hasn’t looked up.

“No, but I found myself in the vicinity and thought I should stop in. You see, he comes very highly recommended by several friends who are considering moving their extensive insurance business to him.”

That makes the woman sit up and take notice of me. “I’ll check to see if he’s available. You do know that we primarily handle commercial insurance?”

“I do.”

“Whom shall I say is calling?”

“Mrs. Fleming.”

She pushes her chair back and with quick, efficient steps strides into an adjacent room. I hear a low rumble of voices, after which she pops back out. “Mr. Williams junior will see you now.”

“Might I leave my bag at your desk?” I ask, lifting up the small battered-leather satchel I use for overnight trips.

She doesn’t appear pleased at the request, but she nods. Pointing to a space on the floor, she says, “You can place it there. Please follow me.”

As we approach the door, a silver-haired man wearing dark round glasses and a charcoal pin-striped suit exits the office. When he passes me, he smiles in my direction, nods, and greets me with “Welcome to Mathers Insurance.” To my surprise, his accent carries the vestiges of a working-class Welsh background. This incongruousness makes me wonder—could this be the Jimmy Williams? “Successful insurance titan” and head of Mathers Insurance, infamous low-born bastard who’d made a meteoric rise?

“Thank you, sir,” I reply.

He extends his hand, and as we shake, he says, “I’m James Williams, founder of Mathers Insurance.” He tilts his head toward his son’s office. “I’ll leave you in Louis’s capable hands.”

I’d put limited forethought into this interview, but my lack of preparedness doesn’t hit me until I walk into Louis Williams’s elegantly appointed office. My stomach flips as a fair-haired, handsome young man with symmetrical features and a thick mustache stands up to greet me. For one of the very few times in my life, I am tongue-tied.

“Welcome, Mrs. Fleming. What can I do for you? It isn’t often that we get clients strolling in off the street, although I confess that two women did exactly that just the other day. So perhaps it’s a trend.” His smile never wavers as he gestures for me to take a seat opposite him.

How alluring he must be to a young woman, I think. Attractive, smooth, welcoming, probably very complimentary. A relatively sheltered girl like May Daniels would be easily charmed. But perhaps not so easily discarded.

“I have a rather large commercial and residential property in Essex left to me by a great-aunt, and I want to explore what sorts of policies might be available to insure it. I don’t think my aunt even considered insurance,” I lie.

“We handle very sophisticated types of insurance here, so a home policy is the easiest thing in the world. Let me show you several possibilities.” Beaming, he gathers up materials for us to review, then spreads them out before me.

As we discuss a mind-numbing array of insurance options for country estates, I study the man. Handsome: yes. Exquisitely turned out in a custom navy wool suit and Jaeger-LeCoultre Grande Reverso watch: yes. Dressing beyond his means: quite possibly. Married: yes, as evidenced by a silver-framed portrait on his desk showing him with a blond wife and two young children. An unsettling quality about his person: absolutely. Although I may be predisposed to feel that about him.

“Do any of these policies sound fitting to you?”

“Oh, dear me, I simply don’t know,” I say, acting flustered. “Perhaps I should review them with my husband. I’m certain you understand. Does your wife review all sorts of decisions with you?” I gesture to the photograph of the happy family.

“She does indeed, Mrs. Fleming. Even rings me before she heads to the butcher shop on some occasions.” He chuckles at this portrayal of a dim, dependent wife, and I like him even less. “Although you did mention that the property was left to you by your great-aunt, if I’m not mistaken?”

“You are correct, Mr. Williams.”

“Well, Mrs. Fleming, I’m not one to undermine the authority of your husband, but it seems to me that the decision is yours to make. No time like the present.” His grin gets even wider, and he scoots a little closer. He thinks he’s hooked me. To some women, he might be irresistible, and all this attention is undoubtedly part of his sales pitch. But to me, his is a crocodile smile. It unleashes a torrent of memories and rage as I think about him seducing May with it.

Working hard to keep the anger from my voice, I say, “I appreciate your vote of confidence, but I may be cut from your wife’s cloth. Might I consult with my husband tonight? We have an evening of theater planned, and a good show always puts him in the right mood for a conversation,” I say, planting my seed. Now to see if I can get it to bear the desired fruit.

Louis Williams’s face falls. He’d been hoping to ensnare me in a policy in the here and now, without the “oversight” of my husband. Goodness knows to what I’d be agreeing if I truly was in the market for an insurance policy. He quickly reassembles his facade of congeniality and says, “Of course.”

“We are seeing Cavalcade. Are you familiar with it?”

“I was meant to see it in late summer, but my plans were derailed. And sad to say, I haven’t gotten around to seeing it since.”

I feel goose bumps on my arms. Did Louis just admit that he was scheduled to see Cavalcade in August, the same time May went to the performance? I cannot wait to tell the Queens that we have another piece of evidence supporting the theory that he’s the secret beau.

“I’m sorry to hear that. The theater and the show are unknown to me, so I was hoping for a primer,” I say, allowing disappointment to overtake my posture and expression instead of the excitement I actually feel. In this moment, Louis Williams wants to please me, so perhaps that desire will unseal his lips. After all, I’m simply a harmless matron.

“I’m quite familiar with the theater; I’ve seen several shows there. It’s quite breathtaking since its remodel in 1922.”

“Ah, a theater aficionado!” I exclaim. “I am in luck.”

He chuckles. “Less an aficionado than one fortunate to have a family friend in the theater. Tickets always seem to come my way.”

I clap my hands. “How terribly exciting! Is your family friend an actor? I confess to being quite the fan of Basil Rathbone. His Shakespearean performances are masterly.”

“Nothing so glamorous. Sir Alfred Chapman is a producer and runs several West End theaters.”

Here we have the name again. First mentioned by Basil Dean and now by Louis Williams, our primary suspect. Might Sir Alfred lead us to the evidence we need about May and Louis? I certainly cannot make my inquiries of Louis outright, lest I tip my hand. Agatha and I will find out tonight.

I am quiet, and Louis seems uncomfortable with the stillness. Fixing his clear blue eyes on me, he offers that overconfident smile again. “That said, the family connection to Sir Alfred has yielded invitations to a few glitzy theater premieres. Walking the red carpet with a beautiful woman on my arm is an otherworldly experience.”

I notice that he doesn’t reference his wife in his statement. Perhaps he’s had any number of attractive young women on his arm. May was likely just one of many. Staring at this man, I feel my eyes narrow and my jaw harden. I know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Louis Williams corrupted poor May Daniels and had some sort of hand in her death. Exactly how I do not yet know. We need proof. Detective work can be excruciating.

I practically quiver with anger, and it takes all my strength to hold back from launching myself at him. If I stay in this office a moment longer, that impulse will be difficult to control. I push myself to standing so abruptly that the chair nearly topples over. Louis also rises, an expression of surprise on his face.

“I’ll do my research, Mr. Williams, so when I see you next, I’ll have information enough to render a verdict.”