The Queens of Crime

Chapter Forty-Three

A PRIL 14, 1931

B OULOGNE-SUR- M ER, F RANCE

Have the Queens ever moved so fast? They seem to lunge at once for the papers. Even Agatha makes a grab for them.

“Is that what May was writing in the park?” Margery asks as she reaches toward me. Had she guessed earlier as well?

I back away from her grasping hands. From all the women’s outstretched fingers and their overeager expressions. Staring them down, I ask, “What has gotten into you ladies?”

I am horrified and distressed. Just days ago, I was crying over the foolhardiness of my own impulsivity, and now I’m rewarded with group impetuousness.

The women look around, as if seeing one another for the first time. As if shocked by their own actions. Agatha—no surprise—is the first to apologize. The others follow in quick succession, and even Emma’s eyes are downcast in embarrassment.

“I know we are all eager to read May’s words, but a train station is hardly the appropriate place for a close examination, particularly here in Boulogne. Let’s retire to our hotel and review the documents there in privacy.”

How very unlike their own fictional detectives, I think. I needn’t say the words aloud. They know.

No one replies. Sheepish expressions and sealed lips abound. The women gather their luggage from the manned Left Luggage desk, and we head outside to the newly dark and sleepy Boulogne streets. Two waterfront cafés are still bright with lamps and patrons, but the harbor area is otherwise empty. Only the clang of halyards can be heard, and the bobbing of docked ships can be seen alongside a trickle of travelers leaving the station.

Mercifully, the cab stand still has a taxi waiting, despite the hour, and we head toward it. No eager questions emanate from Margery, no good-natured barbs are slung between Ngaio and Emma, and no baleful glances come from Agatha.

The long black Renault approaches, and the driver calls out through the half-open window, “Vous tous?”

“Oui, all of us, please. Will we fit?” I answer in French, scanning the benches in the back and the lone seat in the front, next to the driver.

“Quatre derrière, un devant,” he replies with a puff of the cigarette dangling from his lips. In case we are dim, he holds up four fingers and points to the back, then holds up one finger and indicates the front.

I know where I need to sit. On my own, in the front. The back has too many overeager hands in close proximity.

“Rue de Bernet, numéro un.” Emma, who made our reservations, calls out the hotel address from the back, while I climb in the front. I settle in next to the cigarette smoke and the taciturn driver, and that suits me just fine after the scene at the station.

The cab ride back up the hill to Boulogne’s Old Town remains hushed. But it isn’t the stillness of exhaustion; it is the quiet of contrition. The silence, however, shatters like glass when we pull alongside a vast stone building that appears to be part of a castle, step out of the cab with our bags, and slam the doors shut behind us. Glancing around, I see that the only sign of modern-day habitation are the two lacquered cerulean-blue doors cut into the side of the structure, which is built of rough-hewn tawny stones with irregular shapes that reveal their age.

Emma pushes open a blue door as if she owns the establishment. We grab our handbags, satchels, and suitcases and follow her inside. A dapper gentleman in a narrow-cut navy-blue suit stands behind a desk but steps out to greet Emma when she introduces herself. It seems she made quite the impression when the women last stayed at this hotel.

Out of our earshot, Emma and the man I presume is a manager step into a sumptuous room with walls painted a creamy yellow accented by baroque gilt molding and an outsize crystal chandelier suspended from a frescoed ceiling. Given the tables scattered around the room, each topped with a crisp white linen tablecloth and gleaming silver and china, I’m guessing it’s the hotel restaurant. I feel woefully underdressed and messy after the day we’ve had, and I do hope we’ll have a chance to wash up.

“Come along, ladies.” Emma gestures for us to join her. “The restaurant is closed for the night—it’s Monday, after all—but Monsieur Aubert has agreed to open it for us so we can have the privacy we need.”

“Splendid,” Margery exclaims.

“Yes, brilliant, Emma,” I reply when the others seem speechless. “Shall we take a few minutes to freshen up?”

“Time is of the essence, is it not?” she asks, a rhetorical question if I’ve ever heard one. “Monsieur Aubert will make sure that our bags reach our designated rooms while we dine and review the letter.”

Emma, who would normally be the first among us to insist we dress for dinner, will brook no objection, it seems. Her eagerness to hear May’s last words outweighs all else, even her sense of decorum. So, like ducklings, we trail her and Monsieur Aubert to a table near the hearth, where a towheaded young maid attempts to light a fire.

Menus arrive, orders are placed, and drinks find their way into our hands. A few bolstering sips later—which go directly to my head, because I’m famished—I begin. “Are we all calm and ready to hear from May?”

Everyone nods, their embarrassed expressions returning. But I’m not seeking more apologies, only the somber demeanor May deserves. No more grabbing, as if her testament is a prize for finishing first rather than a legacy to preserve and protect.

Gingerly removing the document from my handbag, I bring out my reading glasses as well. As I survey the first sentence, I think how childish and shaky her handwriting seems. Or could it be that, when she wrote this, she was riddled with fear?