The Queens of Crime

Chapter Forty-Six

A PRIL 15, 1931

L ONDON, E NGLAND

My London flat appears exactly as I left it more than a week ago. Dishes stacked in the sink and bed unmade, because Mac hasn’t been back to tend to the cleaning. A half-filled teacup perched on my nightstand, precisely as Mac had abandoned it right before we left for Ivy’s. A trail of detritus around the flat, remnants of his time caring for me before he took me to Ivy’s and then retreated to Essex to work on his new assignment.

Yet I am changed. The fear of the attack. The injuries to my head and ribs. The time with John. The rallying of the Queens. The thrilling hunt for clues in Boulogne. The devastating glimpse into May’s final hours in the pages of her letter. And the intruder in my hotel room.

Whether I’m altered for better or worse remains to be seen. So much is in flux that I cannot tell. The only thing I’m absolutely certain about is my desire for a soak in the tub. How grimy I feel after the days of travel and the sleepless night.

Heading toward the bathroom, I spot the stack of mail I’d tossed on the entryway console. The letters taunt me. In between the bills and the regular correspondence undoubtedly lies a nagging note from my editor. The delivery of Have His Carcase is now well past the extended due date upon which my editor and I had agreed. How will I ever return to the fictional sleuthing of Harriet and Peter? Should I layer in a locked-room element to keep my own interest piqued? I groan aloud at the thought of returning to the book, but we need the acceptance payment I’ll receive when I turn it in—Mac, Ivy, John, and I, that is. I don’t have the luxury of further delay.

Stop, I tell myself. All will feel lighter and achievable after a hot, bubbly bath. A simple act but a necessary one.

Dropping my soiled travel clothes on the bathroom floor and sinking into the steaming water, I close my eyes. Images from the ferry ride home float through my mind. Margery’s earnest expression and Agatha’s thoughtful one. Ngaio and Emma’s good-natured swipes and less amiable exchanges when they differed wildly as to next steps. Snippets of plans made and unmade. Decisions settled upon, then discarded.

What had we actually planned? Not a race to the police station upon arrival. When Emma declared the idea foolish, Ngaio ignored her, but when Agatha pointed out the potential for corruption in the police force and the possible exertion of power by Jimmy Williams, she listened. We finally agreed to reach out to the authorities, but only after exploring any and all ties we might have with the police or government and then making the approach through trusted, known players.

Can I bring any influential connections to the table? It’s hardly as if my upbringing as the daughter of a country vicar yields a multitude of lofty affiliations. That said, some of my Oxford classmates came from more exalted backgrounds, although most of my friends are teachers. Teaching and marriage seem to be the only two avenues open to educated women; I am an anomaly.

A name scratches at my memory. What about Charis Frankenburg, a fellow Somerville College chum who’d been a member of the Mutual Admiration Society, the group I’d formed for girls with literary ambitions? Known by her maiden name, Charis Barnett, she never did pursue writing, but had worked as a midwife and parenting educator before being named a justice of the peace in Manchester, a unique distinction for a woman. Might she have someone trust worthy and helpful in the judiciary we could speak to, even though her purview is juvenile cases? Her role might be too tangential, but I’ll contact her.

Stepping out of the bath, I catch a glimpse of my torso in the mirror. Bluish-purple marks wrap around my ribs, reminders of the pain that’s fading and the incident I’m trying desperately to forget. The attack, as I’d promised Ngaio I would call it.

I wrap my robe around myself tightly, step out into the chilly flat, and check that I’d locked the front door. To my relief, I’d latched it tight.

Satisfied, I turn back toward my bedroom to dress. As I do, the stack of mail in the entryway catches my eye again. No time like the present, I think, using a favorite phrase of my mother’s. Funny how she’s always with me, just beneath the surface. I wonder if I’ll ever have that sort of relationship with John. So much depends on Mac.

Warm and relaxed from my bath, I think I can face my editor’s harangue. Sorting the letters, I make a stack of bills, a pile of letters from friends and family, and just as I’m considering opening the missive from my publisher, Victor Gollancz, Ltd., I spot something odd. An envelope without a return address.

Strolling to my desk in the corner of the parlor, I reach for my brass letter opener. My father had given me a lovely brass-and-leather desk set when I’d headed off to Oxford, and I’ve treasured it ever since. A smile curls on my lips at the thought of my Tootles, as I liked to call him. How I miss him.

I slice open the strange note, and out flutters a small square of thin paper. Not the heavy, embossed stationery my friends tend to use, I think. I pick it up from the floor, straining to read the choppy, handwritten words without my reading glasses in the fading daylight. After fetching them from my handbag and switching on the desk lamp, I hold the note under the light.

The sheet contains only two lines of text: “We know about your son. Stop your questions about May Daniels or everyone else will know about him as well.”