The Queens of Crime

Chapter Forty-One

A PRIL 14, 1931

B OULOGNE-SUR- M ER, F RANCE

We charge up the hill toward Old Town. Never mind that our step is literally lighter since we checked our bags at Left Luggage: we are still breathing heavily by the time we reach rue de Lille. The steep climb and the uneven stones take a toll. Emma obviously needs a rest, but sadly for her, I require her help with the next phase of our investigation.

Once we reach an intersection on rue de Lille, we Queens part ways. Agatha, Ngaio, and Margery make a right-hand turn toward a café, while Emma and I head toward Place Godefroy de Bouillon. There lie the town administration and justice buildings—the eighteenth-century redbrick h?tel de ville, topped by an ancient belfry, and the elegant white-stone nineteenth-century palais de justice, respectively—between which our target sits: le poste de police .

In contrast to the area around rue de Lille, there are no tourists here. Somber-looking men in fedoras or bowlers stride purposefully in and out of these government buildings, while equally serious women in skirt suits with cinched waists and a few feminine touches follow the route as well.

We, too, dressed the part. Cloche pulled low over my forehead and hair tucked inside. Patterned scarf wrapped around the shoulders of my coat, knotted at the front. And my reading glasses, the ones I rarely wear in front of others. Emma has shed her memorable pearls and furs for Agatha’s shapeless gray wool overcoat and an old-fashioned black lace head covering purchased from a local shop. Ngaio, an experienced theater professional in New Zealand, has dabbed bits of makeup on our cheeks and eyes along with taupe lipstick instead of our usual reds, which she maintains will subtly alter our appearances. None of us has to say aloud that no one is more forgettable than a middle-aged woman of average means, and we are relying on that as well.

While we doubt anyone will remember me or Emma from our last visit to Boulogne, we did have that brief altercation with the policeman in the Gare Maritime, so we must take every precaution. Because I must become May’s sister Mrs. Lloyd, and Emma must become May’s aunt. Then we must be forgotten.

Emma holds on to my arm with her hand, playing the part of Mrs. Lloyd’s aunt. We push open the front doors to the police station and approach the reception desk. Emma and I give each other a relieved glance when a young policeman in the characteristic blue-gray gendarme’s uniform with shiny silver buttons—a gendarme we’ve never seen before—glances up from a stack of papers he appears to be studying.

“Puis-je vous aider, mesdames?” he asks, and I notice how young he looks underneath his carefully tended mustache. The facial hair is an attempt, no doubt, to add years and authority to his otherwise boyish appearance.

“Nous sommes la famille de Mademoiselle May Daniels,” Emma replies. In French far more fluent than my own, she has let him know that we are May’s family. Our facility with the language is the reason we are undertaking this task. The other Queens’ French is spotty at best, and we could not be sure that the gendarmes on duty could speak English.

“Mes condoléances,” he stammers, visibly uncomfortable. He stands up and begins walking toward us with an outstretched hand. Then, thinking better of it, he backs away, excusing himself.

He heads into a back room closed off from view by a tightly shut door. Emma’s hand squeezes my arm tightly, and I know she’s worried about the same thing I am. That the gendarme from the Gare Maritime will step out from behind that door and see right through our disguises.

When the young policeman reemerges, he is not alone. A decorated silver-haired police officer has joined him. Emma and I breathe a collective sigh of relief. He is a stranger.

“Mesdames, je suis vraiment désolé pour votre perte.”

“Merci, Officier…” I ask for his name.

“Officier Durand. Et vous êtes…”

“Je suis Madame Lloyd, la s?ur de May Daniels. Et voici notre tante.” I gesture to Emma as I wrap up the introductions.

He nods, then asks, “Comment pouvons-nous être utiles?”

How can they be of assistance? Now that I’m no longer scared, I am angry. I want to scream that they could start by doing their jobs instead of wrapping up their investigation after the most cursory, incompetent, biased investigation on record. Obviously, I don’t say that. I say what I came here to say.

“We have come to gather my sister’s belongings and return them home,” I answer in French.

“Oh, I am afraid I will not be able to help you in that regard,” he replies—in a frustratingly French manner.

“Whyever not? Since my family and I cannot afford to proceed with a civil matter, we understood that May’s case is essentially closed. Therefore you should have no further need of her personal items,” I say, keeping my voice as calm and steady as I can. The pressure of Emma’s hand on my arm reminds me of the role we must play here.

“Well, you see, the investigation has not been officially closed, even though it does seem clear from the syringe found at the scene that the drug trade is responsible for her death and that, as such, no more examination into the circumstances is required. Now, had the British government cooperated in extraditing Miss Celia McCarthy to Boulogne for testimony—and had that testimony contradicted our evidence on the role of drugs—then perhaps more digging would be warranted on our part. And the case would remain open.”

Murder is what happened to May, I want to shout. How could the police accept the flimsy narrative provided by the red-herring syringe? Are they that lazy or stupid? Or is there another reason they aren’t pursuing this case fully? Does the British reluctance to cooperate have much to do with it? Is someone behind all this recalcitrance?

Emma intuits my irritation and takes the reins. “But you are no longer actively pursuing it?” she asks.

“That is correct, but…” He trails off.

“But what?” Her tone is imperious.

“But we cannot release your niece’s items until all the requisite paperwork has been approved declaring the case closed,” he explains.

The younger policeman cannot resist adding, “Plus the court must give its stamp of approval.”

“Very true.” The elder officer looks over at the younger with a grateful expression. He doesn’t want to be at the mercy of May’s family by himself.

I think back on John’s sad little face, and I set free the tears that constantly threaten to surface. “Then may we at least see my sister’s things?” I sob.

“Just to look at them?” Officier Durand ventures, sensing a possible solution. It’s the result we sought all along; the poor sod has no way of knowing.

“If we cannot take them home, we would at least like to see them.” My voice wavers. “We have traveled all this way.”

The two policemen glance at each other, then Officier Durand says, “We can arrange that. If you can show us your identification, of course.”

The Queens had anticipated this, and I hope my solution suffices. Reaching into the depths of my handbag, I place one of the calling cards I took from the sisters’ Dollis Hill home. “My card,” I announce, channeling Emma’s imperiousness as I slide Mrs. Lloyd’s card across the desk.

Judging by his expression, I can see that the younger gendarme wants to ask for more official documentation, but Officier Durand doesn’t want to risk further outbursts or tears. He nods, and the two men lead us down a meandering set of hallways. We stop at a door labeled SALLE DES PREUVES.

Here it is, I think: we made it. The evidence room.

Inside are walls of boxes stacked high, each bearing a number. The younger policeman begins scanning them, while Officier Durand clears a simple wooden table at the room’s center. Sliding out a wooden crate from a precariously tall pile, the gendarme places it on the table.

Officier Durand gestures for us to open the box, then the two men stand on either side of the table. It seems the gendarmes will be watching us. This makes our task more difficult but not impossible.

Emma lifts the lid, and I peer inside. Carefully folded, as if May had just removed them for the day, are her black coat, mauve hat, dark-charcoal tweed skirt, violet sweater, black stockings, and oxfords. How smart she must have looked in this ensemble, I think, and I don’t have to conjure up memories of John’s face in order to cry. Tears run down Emma’s cheeks as well.

As Emma and I take out the articles of clothing and fan them out across the table, I note smears of dirt and a few dry leaf shards attached to the fabric here and there. Not surprising, I think, after a violent assault, possible hemorrhaging, and potentially months of exposure to the elements. Only the dark color of the coat, stockings, and skirt spares us further visual evidence of the harm done to poor May.

“These are all the items found on her person?” My voice is shaky; I cannot quite bring myself to say “body.”

“Yes. I understand that all her other belongings—the personal effects she kept at the hospital and the few objects she’d left in Brighton—have been returned to your family. While we would have welcomed the opportunity to examine those things along with this evidence, the English authorities were of the view that English evidence should remain on English soil.”

I nod, and then spy May’s handbag at the bottom of the box. Instead of pulling it out, however, I place my hands deep within the box. It’s the most privacy I’ll be afforded in these circumstances.

Feeling around, I unlatch the handbag and plunge my hands inside. With my fingertips, I make out a brush, a lipstick, some coins, and a small zippered pouch that contains papers—May’s identification, I presume. Then I feel it, hidden in the lining of her handbag. A key.