The Queens of Crime

Chapter Forty-Five

A PRIL 15, 1931

B OULOGNE-SUR- M ER, F RANCE

I cannot sleep. Tossing this way and that, I tell myself it’s because the covers are too meager or the bed too soft. But I know why rest won’t come. May haunts me, body and spirit.

“I must leave this evidence behind should anything happen to me.” Her words echo in my mind like a whisper in the central dome of St. Paul’s Cathedral. There, 250 steps up in the Whispering Gallery, the softest sound will bounce from one side of the gallery to the other, perfectly repeated.

The Queens must act. This is why we’ve come together, isn’t it? At first, we played at being detectives. Even when faced with an actual mystery, we only toyed with solving a heinous crime perpetrated upon an innocent young woman. I’m mortified to admit that it was a lark.

Yet it has become all too real and all too tragic. A girl caught in the cross fire. And her baby.

And we are the only ones—aside from her killer—who know the truth and certainly the only ones who will do right by May. But how can we be true detectives when we only write about detectives? This is the conundrum that has me thrashing about in my bed.

My hotel room has gradually shifted from pitch black to blue-gray as dawn approaches. The wardrobe and washbasin materialize as outlines against the brightening light. My traveling dress, coat, hat, and gloves are laid out on the desk next to my satchel and seem to have taken on human form.

But where shall I go? To an English police station with May’s letter in hand? To the French police? I distrust both, given their lackluster pursuit of May’s killer and their absolute refusal to coordinate efforts. What does that leave us with? Bypassing the police and attempting contact with a senior government official we trust? Must we resort to the press?

Mac could be helpful in this regard, but I don’t want to get him tangled up in this unless we’re sure it’s the best and only course. Wide awake and turning the possibilities around in my mind, I hear a tiny sound. I stay still and listen. Is it a mouse traipsing through this elegant building, picking up the odd croissant crumb or nibble of Camembert? I’m inclined to chalk the sounds up to ancient creaks, but then I hear the click of a lock. Followed by another. And I know it’s anything but an innocent animal.

It’s an intruder.

Reaching for the heavy pewter candlestick on my nightstand, I grip it at my side. I then lie perfectly still, as if in the deepest sleep, and watch the door open a sliver. The silhouette of a man stands out against the dim sconces lining the hallway, and I brace myself for his entry. All the while praying I’m having a terrible nightmare.

He steps inside.

Suddenly I realize that my awareness of the trespass provides an opportunity. As the door opens wider to allow his broad shoulders to enter, I scream at the top of my lungs, “Get out of my room!”

Rather than lunging toward me with a weapon—which was one possibility—the trespasser takes the other tack. He flees.

The Queens come racing in through the open door. Agatha in her voluminous flowery nightgown. Ngaio in the sort of striped silk pajamas that Mac adores. Margery in a flouncy, sleeveless violet confection. And Emma in a lace nightdress with a neck so high I feel like I’m choking just looking it. Even in their bedclothes, they are in character.

They settle around me on the bed. Concerned chatter overwhelms me until one question makes its way through: “What did he want?” The Queens had seen the interloper take flight, and his profile revealed him to be a man.

“If I had to guess?”

“Yes?” Agatha prods me along.

“May’s letter. What else could possibly be of interest in my hotel room? It’s not as if I have anything of value in here. If he wanted pearls or jewels, he’d head directly to room 201,” I say, referencing Emma’s room number.

“But how would he even know about the letter?” Emma asks, attempting to tuck her wayward locks back into their immobile updo, which is still largely intact. Does she sleep in that coiffure? Even in the midst of this crisis, I am amazed.

“I imagine we’ve been followed the entire time we’ve been in Boulogne. The intruder may have been in league with whoever hired my attacker in London. He may have been alerted to our presence as early as our coffee at H?tel Morveaux. Madame Brat may seem amenable to our quest, but Boulogne is a small, insular place. I bet she told someone who told the interested party where we were sniffing around.”

“Who is this interested party?” Margery asks.

Agatha replies in her measured way. “Louis certainly has the most to lose. And he’s practically named in the letter.”

“Shall we report this forced entry to the police?” Margery asks.

“Who’s to say that the police aren’t involved in the break-in?” Agatha asks, giving us something new to chew on. “There’s something very odd about their reluctance to investigate.”

“I doubt it. Failing to properly investigate May’s murder—even at the behest of some governmental authority—is one thing, but to actively trespass and burgle is quite another,” I say.

“Perhaps you’re right.” Agatha stretches and says, “It is nearly four o’clock in the morning, and I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’m wide awake. No chance I’ll be able to sleep. What say you all to breakfast and the early ferry?”

“Only if you all promise to spend our ferry ride back to England hashing out a plan,” I say. “I’m hoping one of you has a stroke of brilliance. I’m at loose ends.”

“Only if you promise to take precautions that we all agree upon. After reading May’s letter and being the victim of a break-in tonight, you can no longer maintain that your injuries were an accident,” Ngaio insists.

She’s right. I can no longer pretend that my near collision with an oncoming vehicle was a simple mishap. It was an attack. Who knows if there are more to come?

“I promise.”