The Queens of Crime

Chapter Thirty-Four

A PRIL 10, 1931

O XFORDSHIRE, E NGLAND

“Are you quite all right, my love?” Mac whispers, and for a long moment, I think I am dreaming. I certainly feel blurry and bleary enough.

“Yes,” I say, or think I do.

“Do you feel up to getting out of the car? I can help you.”

I glance around and realize that I’ve fallen asleep in the back of an Alvis Silver Eagle. Mac borrowed this vehicle from a reporter friend to drive me to Ivy’s house. I’m not quite up to the hustle and bustle of train travel yet and definitely couldn’t handle the Ner-A-Car.

Mac takes my hand and supports my arm. Slowly I step out of the car into the brilliant light of day. Squinting and shading my eyes with my free hand, I wonder why it always seems brighter in the Oxfordshire countryside. Is it the absence of the light-blocking buildings so prevalent in London? The vivid verdancy of the rolling hills? Either way, I feel better simply being here. I always do.

The crunch of gravel and the patter of footsteps signal Ivy’s arrival at my side. “My poor cousin! Let me help you into Sidelings.”

With Mac on one arm and Ivy on the other, I am well supported. I really don’t need all this help, in truth. I’m a bit woozy from the knock on the head, and my ribs still ache from the fall, but I could manage the walk into Ivy’s home on my own. The nerves that have plagued me since the incident, however, are calmed by their presence. And for once, I allow myself to lean on others.

“The incident.” That’s the way Mac refers to it, and that’s how I think of it, too. Or try to, at least, because the euphemism softens the images flashing through my mind of the man’s eyes and the bright headlights of the oncoming automobile. But words wield power, and I know my fall to the hard Great James Street pavement—where an automobile narrowly missed hitting me—was no accidental incident. And so do the Queens.

They’d rung the flat when I failed to show up for our next meeting. Then, within the hour, they’d arrived en masse at the door, overwhelming Mac with flowers and cakes and questions. My husband, my dutiful caretaker, fluffed my pillows, smoothed my hair, and propped me up before admitting them to our bedroom.

I’d pushed myself up higher when they assembled around the bed, but the effort made my head spin, and I sunk back down. Taking in Ngaio’s fierce profile, Emma’s imperious one, and Margery’s eager stance, I saw that they were worried. To their credit, not a one of them said, “I told you so.” But it wasn’t until I felt Agatha’s hand on mine and looked into her soft blue sympathetic eyes that I started to cry. I knew I was to blame.

The Queens gathered around me. Had I ever felt so protected? Even during my coddled youth, as the ever-encouraged, always-indulged only child? The clank of porcelain on porcelain interrupted this poignant moment, and the women withdrew to reveal Mac standing at the door, tea service on a tray.

Before she stepped away altogether, I heard Agatha whisper in my ear, “We will right this wrong, Dorothy—for you and for May.”

“Dorothy?” Mac calls to me, and I return from hazy memories into the present. The time has passed with an inexplicable inconsistency—both fast and slow all at once. “Would you prefer to recline on the sofa or retire to one of the bedrooms?”

I gaze at my kindly cousin, her thoughtful, serious eyes meeting mine. Where would I be without her? Companion of my youth. Sibling of my heart. Savior of my adulthood. “Whatever is best for you, Ivy.”

“Wherever you would be most comfortable, dear cousin.” She motions around the front parlor and toward the staircase.

Ivy’s traditional Cotswold-stone cottage, the Sidelings, nestles in the Oxfordshire countryside as if part of the ancient woodland landscape surrounding it. The interior shares this organic quality, with leather-bound books left in stacks in the spots where they were read and comfy upholstered furniture scattered about—haphazardly acquired but matching nonetheless. It is the sort of home I’d hoped Mac and I would build in Essex. Now that I’m finished with advertising, perhaps we will have the time to do exactly that.

“I think I’d be less of a bother downstairs, don’t you?” I say.

Ivy nods, scrambles over to the dusty-pink embroidered sofa, and arranges several pillows against one arm. “Will this do?”

“Perfectly well. Please don’t trouble yourself any further on my account. I’ll be right as rain in a day or so—and you’ve got the children returning home shortly,” I say, although my temples do throb.

Mac chimes in. “She’s right, Ivy. The doctor says she just needs a bit more rest, and she should be back to her old antics in no time. Except for the knock on the head, she’d be fine to stay at our flat while I’m out on assignment, but the doctor does want Dorothy to be within earshot and eyeshot of someone until then.”

“I’m happy to be of service to dear Dorothy,” Ivy insists, although she’s provided more “service” for me than anyone should ever ask. The guilt I feel imposing again upon her benevolence—even for a few days—is immense.

Smiling up at Ivy from my spot on the sofa, I add, “I’ll be out of your hair in no time. Nothing that a few days in the country can’t fix, especially in such fine company. You are a balm for the spirit.”

Ivy sits next to me on a fussy dun-colored Victorian chair, undoubtedly given to her by wealthier neighbors updating their home in the latest style. Mac, I notice, has neither joined me on the sofa nor taken one of the seats next to Ivy. He’d promised to stay for dinner, so why does he look like he’s about to leave? I know a new matter calls, but this is awfully abrupt. Especially since the children are nearly home and I’d extracted a vow that he’d stay to see them.

A hubbub of little voices and scuffles drifts into the parlor from the back of the house. Excitement builds within me, despite my heaviness of body and spirit after the incident.

At the sound, I attempt to push myself to standing, but I feel Ivy’s hand on my arm. Holding me still. “Are they back from school?”

“They’ll be in momentarily. Don’t strain yourself.”

“You look settled, Dorothy, so I’ll be off,” Mac suddenly announces as he strides toward the front door.

How could he?

“Are you certain you can’t stay? I thought you’d agreed to join us for dinner,” I say, trying to keep from whining. But I am deeply disappointed. “Could you at least greet the children?”

At the mention of the word “children,” Mac’s expression suddenly changes. I know why, and I plead with him. “It will only take a minute or two.”

He shakes his head, and I beseech him, “Please—you promised.”

His fingers grip the doorknob, and he doesn’t even turn around to reply. Calling back over his shoulder, he says, “The news waits for no man.”

“I think it’s time and tide that wait for no man,” I call back, correcting his quotation. But he’s already slammed the door shut, and the car engine rumbles in short order.

I turn toward Ivy, tears in my eyes. But then I hear footsteps pad across the parlor, and there he is. My son.