The Queens of Crime

Chapter Thirty-Six

A PRIL 13, 1931

O XFORDSHIRE, E NGLAND

The children squeal in frustration when I tell them we’ll have to stop The Three Musketeers for the time being. I laugh with delight at their reaction to this favorite book of mine and make a promise. “We shall continue the book at bedtime: How does that sound?”

Ivy, whom I’d just introduced to my friends, informs the children, “In the meantime, we shall have our dinner and baths. And maybe—just maybe—a pudding.” Her singsong tone placates them, as does the prospect of sweets.

“We don’t wish to disrupt your routines,” Emma protests. “It’s no bother to come back tomorrow morning. We are staying at the village inn tonight and could pop by then.”

I stifle a chuckle thinking about Emma staying in the cramped, basic rooms at the Killingworth Castle, a misleading name for the cozy Tudoresque pub with its wide stone hearths. Ngaio and Margery—even Agatha—I can imagine in the drafty guest rooms. But not Emma. Who will turn down her bed at night? And who will draw her scalding evening bath? That she’d even consider a stay at the Killingworth Castle—that they’d all travel here—moves me.

“Please,” Ivy holds up folded hands. “We are glad to have you. The children and I will continue with our usual schedule and leave you grown-ups to yours. If that suits?”

“Ivy, I don’t want to drive you from your own parlor,” I say.

“Dear cousin, you are hardly driving me anywhere. I will happily retreat with the children and leave you ladies to your own devices.”

“We brought dinner,” says Margery. “Won’t you join us?”

Ivy waves her off. “I will politely demur. Come, children. Off we go!”

Unprompted, John leans toward me and busses my cheek. Quite without thinking, I place my fingers over the top of the wet spot, as if pressing his kiss into my skin. Capturing him for a brief second. Only then do I turn toward the Queens and realize how odd my actions might appear. Do they look at me strangely? Or am I overly suspicious? This is the first time anyone other than Mac or Ivy has seen me with my son.

“What a pleasant surprise,” I say quickly, an attempt to divert focus. “You didn’t have to travel all this way to check in on me. You already visited me at our London flat. Those two days were a bit foggy from the thunk on my head, so apologies if I wasn’t myself.”

Agatha scolds me in as harsh a tone as I’ve ever heard from her. “Please, Dorothy, don’t you dare apologize for the injuries you received in an assault.” This is the sort of protective diatribe I’d expect from Ngaio, not her.

“Do we really know it was an assault? My memory of the incident”—I use Mac’s word—“is patchy. It could have been an accident. An unfortunate stumble on my part. I am known for my clumsiness.” As I say the words aloud, I realize how flimsy they sound.

Ngaio, who is arranging four savory pies on the table while Margery gathers plates and cutlery from the kitchen, pipes in. “An accident? Please, Dorothy. You were shoved in front of a car!”

Margery shushes Ngaio. “Just how do you think you’re making Dorothy feel? We agreed not to make her feel responsible for what happened, because she’s not. We are dealing with a cutthroat criminal here who has nefarious intent.”

Ngaio’s eyebrows rise in surprise that the youngest of us admonishes her. But she doesn’t resist the censure. The criticism holds water, after all.

Agatha smooths over the tension by asking me about my recovery as we nibble on the delectable shepherd’s, steak-and-kidney, game, and cheese-and-onion pies. I describe my progress and sidestep any attempts to delve into the accident itself.

Pies finished, plates cleared, Agatha announces, “We also come bearing gifts.”

Although I say, “The pies were gift enough,” I rub my hands expectantly. Ivy’s fare is solid and nutritious for the growing children, but a bit bland and boring. I know that Agatha enjoys a good sponge as much as I do, so I’m hopeful that perhaps a Battenberg cake might lurk in the other containers I spotted.

Ngaio stands and places those selfsame boxes on the table between us. Upon closer examination, the boxes don’t look anything like bakery packaging. They resemble the sort of paper storage that might be used in a law or government office. I can’t help but feel the tinge of disappointment that no sweets are forthcoming.

“Now, these files have been hard-won,” Emma begins, spreading her cape around her. My, oh, my, I think. Our baroness is undeniably chuffed about something. What have the Queens been up to while I’ve been holed up in the Oxfordshire countryside? “I had to call in a favor to procure them,” she continues, determined that I know exactly who is responsible for these prized items.

“For which we are forever grateful,” Ngaio says, her exasperation plain to see. Clearly, Emma has been lording this victory over the others.

“I did tell you I had a way with elderly men,” Emma says with a small private smile.

I’m certain she hasn’t done anything lascivious to procure these, although she does have a gleam in her eye. She is positively devoted to her husband, Montagu, and I look forward to meeting the esteemed gentleman upon his return to London. As I do Agatha’s erudite husband, Max, when he comes back from the archaeological dig in Syria and Margery’s gregarious husband, Philip, when his friends depart from their extended visit. I do wonder about Ngaio’s situation; she is remarkably closemouthed, but it isn’t the way of the Queens to pry into personal goings-on. And for that, I am grateful.

“What’s inside?” I ask, standing over the boxes. My hands are poised to lift the first lid when I think the better of it. I should ask for permission, not forgiveness—that’s a lesson I learned from my hasty actions with Louis Williams. So I plunge my hands in the pockets of my skirt and sit back down.

“The official investigation into Leonora Denning,” Emma announces.

I leap back up. “The files even Mac couldn’t get?” My husband had tried every contact, but the records on Miss Denning remained resolutely out of reach.

“The very same,” Ngaio answers.

“How can I thank you enough?” I reach for her hand and Emma’s, squeezing both tightly. “I don’t deserve all the effort you all took lugging these boxes out here. After what I did.”

Agatha rises to stand next to me. “Poppycock. We all make mistakes, and we all have secrets. We wouldn’t be much in the way of Queens—and friends—if we didn’t acknowledge and move past them. Anyway, we didn’t take the train all the way to Oxfordshire and traipse across a wide village green to wallow. We came here to examine the files with you. Are you up to the task?”