The Queens of Crime

Chapter Forty-Four

A PRIL 14, 1931

B OULOGNE-SUR- M ER, F RANCE

To whom it may concern,

My name is May Daniels, and I am from Dollis Hill Estate in London. For the past year and a half, I’ve been working as a nurse in training at Chiswick and Ealing Isolation Hospital, also in London. I am here in Boulogne-sur-Mer, France, on a day trip with my friend and fellow nurse Celia McCarthy.

I am not certain who will receive this letter from the Gare Centrale Left Luggage or when, but I hope the circumstances are less dire than I fear.

Margery gasps, and I glance up. Tears have begun to stream down our youngest Queen’s face. “She knew what was coming.”

“So it seems,” Agatha says, placing her hand over Margery’s.

For the past six months, I have been seeing my first serious beau. We spent time together at the theater and restaurants, but I did not share details about our relationship with anyone because he asked me not to. I naively accepted his explanation that he was embarking on a new career in insurance and wanted to be settled in it before he met my family and friends. Or before I met his.

In the late summer, my innocence was taken from me in an act that brought me great shame. A surprise assault. Against my will.

Upset and stunned, I buried the incident away and still continued to see my beau as we had before, even though my feelings had started to change. I began to have suspicions that he might already be married or have been married at some point. After a lunch date I arranged, I secretly followed him to his place of work, and at the end of that day, I saw him in the company of another woman who I assume is his wife. Enraged and hurt, I refused to take his calls or see him in the weeks that followed. In my mind, the relationship had ended.

But by October, it became clear that I was pregnant—

The tears start to come. We had suspected May was pregnant, but to see it confirmed and to read about her despair brings back my own.

Agatha leans toward me and whispers, “Would you like me to finish?”

I nod, and a torrent of suppressed tears takes hold. I cry for May and myself and all the young women in such straits. Agatha takes the paper from me and picks up where I left off. Her voice is steady and calm, quite unlike what I’d expect from one so familiar with the trauma of deception.

—and I confronted the father. I wasn’t certain what I wanted to do about the baby quite yet, but I knew that if I decided to keep it, I would need financial help. Pregnant women aren’t allowed to keep working in any job even if they are married, and if they are single, well, they are practically run out of the workplace. My sisters are my only family, and while I can count on them for love and support, they have no funds to spare.

“Get rid of it.” That was the first thing he said. The second thing? “I can find someone to take care of it.” The baby didn’t deserve this heartlessness, and neither did I. This confrontation led to harsh words on both sides as well as threats. I was devastated and beside myself with worry.

Soon afterward, I came across a small newspaper article about a young violinist who had gone missing, and I saw familiar names mentioned as being under suspicion. And I became terrified for my own well-being. What had I done?

A few days before my friend Celia McCarthy and I were meant to depart for Brighton and then Boulogne, I received a letter from my former beau. He apologized for his behavior and invited me to dinner at Rules restaurant, in Maiden Lane. Although I had no desire to rekindle a relationship with him, I agreed to meet him the night before Celia and I were to rendezvous in Brighton. I guess I was more scared of retribution if I did not join him at Rules than if I did.

“You can envision how terrible that moment would have been for her,” Emma murmurs.

“What a bastard!” Ngaio cries out.

That word again, I think. It sears every time.

“Language, Ngaio,” Emma says automatically. But when she glances around the restaurant to see the reaction to Ngaio’s language and recalls that we are alone in here, she says, “Although I quite agree he is awful. Far worse than a bastard—he’s the devil.”

Agatha continues.

When I met him as we’d arranged—wearing a too-casual dress because I could no longer squeeze into one of the expensive frocks he’d bought me—I was practically paralyzed with fear. I was only able to calm my nerves with a few cocktails. After we ordered, we made small talk about my upcoming trip, and he started to ask probing questions about our itinerary. I cannot say precisely what about his inquiries unnerved me, but I excused myself and retired to the lavatory, praying that my course of action would become clear.

When I stepped out of the lavatory, his back was to me, and I had a unobstructed pathway to the front door. Creeping past our table, I hastened to the hostess stand, retrieved my travel bag, and left the restaurant. With nowhere else to go, I splurged on a cab and spent the night at the station. My train to Brighton left first thing.

I tried to hide my apprehension and constant nausea from poor Celia during our trip. This was difficult, because I was fixated on what I should do next. More and more, I felt I wanted to keep the baby. But how would I support us?

When we landed here in Boulogne, I did my level best to enjoy the day with Celia. But when I begged off a visit to a dress shop on rue de Lille and rested in a little park—praying for my nausea to pass—a strange man approached me. He sidled up to me on the bench and told me that “arrangements” had been made for me with a local doctor. All I had to do was follow him.

Rage rendered me momentarily immobile. How dare he? A gentleman sitting nearby on another bench rose and approached us, asking me in fluent English if I was quite all right. When I informed him that no, I wasn’t, the stranger took off.

Shaken, I refused the kindly man’s offer of tea and wrote down this account. As I did, the events took on a new shape, and I wondered about the stranger. Had he been sent to get rid of me as well as the baby?

I must take precautions. I don’t know what will happen from this point forward, but I must leave this evidence behind should anything happen to me. I will hide this letter in the Left Luggage lockers in the Gare Centrale , but I will inform Celia of its existence. She can retrieve it if the situation warrants.

Celia, if you are reading this, I am sorry to get you wrapped up in this mess. You’ve been a good and loyal friend, and I apologize. I’ve kept the letter as nameless as possible to keep you safe; I’m hoping that, if you share this with the authorities, they might be able to fill in the blanks. If someone else has retrieved this document, well, then, I am sorry for very different reasons.