Chapter Thirty-Three
A PRIL 8, 1931
L ONDON, E NGLAND
The wind feels wonderfully fresh on my face as I round the bend from the wide expanse of Theobalds Road toward Great James Street. The tears on my cheeks are dry now. I only wish the air would blow away the harsh reaction of Ngaio, Emma, and Margery when I told them about my visit to Louis Williams and about Agatha’s and my encounter with Sir Alfred Chapman.
The Ner-A-Car’s engine practically purrs as I decrease speed on these narrow lanes. Mac presented me with this low-slung feet-forward motorcycle for my birthday, proclaiming that I needed to unshackle myself from the train and the tram and the bus from time to time. An automobile is out of reach, but this vehicle is within our budget and has provided unprecedented freedom and joy.
But this evening, the Ner-A-Car only provides a modicum of its usual delight. The judgment of the three Queens weighs heavily upon me. Their words reverberate in my mind.
“You did what?” Ngaio had barked over tea. “Aren’t you the one who told us the Queens of Crime—like the Detection Club—is meant to be an egalitarian group with none of us acting unilaterally?”
“You should have discussed a visit to Mathers Insurance with us first,” Emma had snapped. Unfortunate, I thought, that my transgression should have provided this rare moment of agreement between them.
“I would have liked to have been consulted as well, Dorothy,” sweet Margery had added.
They have every right to be angry, I think. I should never have approached Louis Williams without the group’s consensus. He’s the main suspect, after all. It doesn’t matter that Agatha wasn’t miffed. It doesn’t matter that Easter weekend delayed my informing them by several days. It doesn’t matter that their concern that Louis might track me down—and through me, the other Queens—is largely unfounded. It doesn’t even matter that I learned valuable information about Louis’s tie to Sir Alfred and Cavalcade, which connects Louis more closely to May. What matters is that I broke their trust.
Even Agatha’s support rang hollow to Ngaio, Emma, and Margery. When they discovered we’d visited the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, to see Cavalcade without ringing them first, their rage only grew. Never mind that we hadn’t intentionally orchestrated the opportunity—it sprung from the party at Abney Hall—and that it yielded valuable insights into May and Celia’s visit there. When she found out, all Ngaio could do was sneer, “You two have been awfully busy. You are turning into quite the little detective duo.”
As I turn into an alleyway off my street, I try to console myself with the fact that our gathering had ended pleasantly. Ngaio, Emma, and Margery expressed their willingness to forgive and forget my misstep as well as a desire to move forward in acquiring the Leonora Denning investigation materials. Ultimately, they conceded that my efforts brought us one step closer to the truth. The only remaining anger is what I’ve turned on myself. This isn’t the first time my impulsiveness has nearly ruined a friendship. Or friendships, in this case.
As I park the Ner-A-Car, I allow the newfound aspects of the case to wash over me. Are they really worth the risk I took, endangering my friendship with the Queens? What, if anything, did I discover about the secret life of May Daniels that might help us find her killer?
We already knew that someone at Mathers Insurance bought the Madame Isobel dresses for May—likely Louis Williams—and that May went to the West End theater with a mysterious beau. Louis’s confirmation that family friend Sir Alfred Chapman regularly gave him theater tickets and that he was supposed to see Cavalcade in late summer is fairly solid new proof that Louis was May’s suitor. As is the discovery that, after the shows, the Cavalcade cast often goes to the Café de Paris, the same venue where Louis Williams had spent time with Leonora Denning on her last known evening. Can this really be a coincidence?
It may not be, but as Ngaio reminded me, it is not definitive proof, either. She’d said, “You might be on the right track that they were having an affair. But it’s not illegal to do so, and it doesn’t necessarily mean he’s involved in her death. And on the off chance he is and he figures out who you are, he’ll be covering his tracks now. Or worse.”
Have I ruined our chances at uncovering a solid link to Louis? Did Louis even have a hand in May’s vanishing? Or did May, scared by that newspaper article, orchestrate her own disappearance? No: I remind myself of the feeling deep in my bones that Louis played a role in her terrible end.
This thought overtakes me as I dismount and walk down the dark alleyway where I’ve parked. Have I been cavalier in assuming that Louis Williams would never learn my identity? I mean, Sir Alfred knows who I am, and since Agatha asked him about the Williamses, dots could be connected. But would that knowledge alert Louis to the fact that Mrs. Fleming is, in fact, Mrs. Sayers? Or does it matter? And if he did identify me, have I been slapdash in maintaining that he wouldn’t lash out? After all, it’s not as if I accused him of anything when I visited Mathers Insurance; I didn’t even mention May Daniels’s name. He doesn’t know we are looking into her death. Unless he and Sir Alfred talked and made the connection between Mrs. Fleming and Mrs. Sayers—and then made the further leap to our investigation. But how would they do that?
Now, with darkness complete and the street eerily quiet, however, I wonder. If Louis Williams harmed May Daniels, what would stop him from harming me? My heart hammers away, and I increase my pace, eager to reach the lamplight of Great James Street.
I breathe a sigh of relief when I set foot onto the brighter road. A smile curls on my lip as I spy my building two blocks off. I think about Mac waiting for me there, dinner cooking on the stove. I do hope he’s making one of my favorite recipes from his cookery book, Gourmet’s Book of Food and Drink.
As I begin down Great James Street, I realize I’ve left my handbag in the Ner-A-Car’s saddlebag. Silly, I think, to get so distracted by the ins and outs of May’s case. Pivoting back toward the alley, I bump directly into a man who’s walking right behind me. I stumble, instinctively reaching out to steady myself with his arm.
My hand on him, my balance stable, I glance at the man’s face, shadowy in the low illumination of the streetlamps. I’m about to thank him and move along, when I make out the narrowness of his eyes and the hard set of his jaw. And I back away.
This man doesn’t mean to help me. In fact, he means to do the exact opposite. I feel the force of his hand upon me, then everything goes black.