Chapter Forty-Eight
A PRIL 16, 1931
L ONDON, E NGLAND
We pass under the chessboard-patterned archway and into history. An establishment that began in the early nineteenth century as a chess club—hence the pattern—Simpson’s in the Strand has transformed itself into an institution frequented by the monied, titled, and politically minded. Such is its fame that it’s featured in several of Arthur Conan Doyle’s Sherlock Holmes novels. It seems a fitting place for May Daniels’s final act to unfold.
What I hope is her final act , I should say. Because I am risking everything. But how could I say no? May deserves justice, and so does her poor child. I would want someone to do the same for me and John should the situation be reversed.
Agatha and I are ushered into a vast dining room under a high ceiling festooned with intricate crown molding and chandeliers simply dripping with crystals. The walls are paneled in gleaming wood carved as intricately as the ceiling. Somehow Simpson’s in the Strand manages to feel both intimate and lavish, and it most certainly lives up to its reputation.
I’ve never been to Simpson’s. Too costly. Too formal for Mac’s liking or that of my business and writer friends. Too insular. Even now, I wonder if I’m appropriately dressed in my tired black gown just back from the cleaners, and I feel the eyes of every guest upon me. Is the taint of my secret evident for all to see? Now that one more person knows about John, I feel exposed. I hear whispers.
From across the room, I see diamonds flash and sparkle in the low light, and I realize that the source is Emma’s hand rising in greeting. There the Queens sit at a table for five tucked away in a corner. Emma, in her diamonds and pearls and furs and layers of lace, looking every inch the dowager baroness. Ngaio has put aside her pantsuits and pantslike skirts for once and wears a striking column of silver sequins with three-quarter-length sleeves. Agatha and I probably underwhelm; she chose a beige silk pleated gown with a muted Liberty coat on top, while I wear my usual black dress overlayed with a forgiving pleated cape. Her jet-black hair freshly bobbed, Margery alone seems to have fully embraced our glamorous location and decided upon a crimson bias-cut gown that hugs her curves.
With a drag of her cigarette, Ngaio says, “Topping to see you. Finally decided to surface, did you?”
Is she glowering at me? Instinctively, I step back, then I feel Agatha’s hand on my shoulder and hear her whisper. “She’s only joking. Don’t let her ruffle your feathers.”
“No scolding, Ngaio,” Emma says, herself scolding in the process. “We agreed.”
Crystal glasses of drinks in every hue from gold to crimson litter the table, and I wonder how long the women have been waiting. As I settle into my appointed seat, I fall on my sword. “I want to apologize to you all. Agatha told me how worried you have been, and if I had known, I wouldn’t have succumbed to sleep and drink.”
“It’s forgotten,” Margery says, her tone light. “We are happy to have you with us, safe and sound.”
“And in such a glorious eatery,” I add with a smile. “Are we celebrating? We haven’t quite solved the case yet. I don’t think Sherlock and Watson came to Simpson’s until after they’d captured their murderer.” I try at lightheartedness by referencing Arthur Conan Doyle’s story “The Adventure of the Dying Detective.”
“Have you not told her?” Emma turns to Agatha.
“One step at a time,” Agatha replies. “First I had to extricate her from her flat.”
Ngaio hisses, “You are kidding. First she practically disappears, and now here she is, utterly unprepared.”
What is going on? Unprepared for what? My standing in the group isn’t exactly rock solid at the moment, and I don’t think I can ask. I feel as though I’ve intruded on a private conversation.
“She’ll be prepared when it’s necessary,” Agatha hisses back.
In an attempt to change the mood, I say, “I hope I haven’t kept you all from ordering.”
Emma says, “I’ve ordered for the table. Tonight is my treat.”
“How lovely of you, Emma,” I say, thinking that’s one worry sorted.
“Our food must arrive and be cleared at specific times. Preordering was the only way to ensure that,” she answers matter-of-factly, as if I should understand.
Like magic, two waiters appear tableside. One bears an enormous knife and pushes a trolley carrying a huge roast. He begins carving. The other pushes a trolley of his own and doles out crispy roasted potatoes, sweet carrots, and Yorkshire pudding. This is the traditional meal for which Simpson’s in the Strand is famous, and somehow, despite all the worry and secrecy and tension, it feels like a holiday. Especially since I’m starving.
The women eat with alacrity and minimal conversation. Surprised at their speed and the hushed mood, I follow suit. Clearly they are racing through this delectable meal for a reason, and the only one that comes to mind is the case. We are here in Simpson’s in the Strand not to enjoy the food or the atmosphere but to track someone or something down.
In record time, the ladies are finished and the meal cleared. Everyone has ordered coffee or cordials, and suddenly, everything and everyone slows down. Ngaio lights a cigarette; Emma alternately sips a coffee and a tawny port. Agatha gives Margery a once- over, after which she adjusts the strap of her gown and reapplies her lipstick.
“Enough with the cloak-and-dagger,” I say.
Before I can finish, Ngaio retorts, “Isn’t cloak-and-dagger sort of our thing?”
Ngaio has me flustered. “You know what I mean. What is going on right now ?” I ask.
Emma glances around to make certain no one can overhear and leans toward me. “Over the past day, we reached out to various contacts, people in positions of authority who might give May’s letter a fair read. As we’d agreed on the ferry. It became clear that no one would take the letter seriously. Least of all the police.”
“Especially since May has been discredited in the press,” Ngaio adds. “It plays right into the hands of whoever is pushing to close the case.”
“My brother-in-law connected me to a friend from his club, some muckety-muck in government. He told me that no police chief or court of law in the country would give credence to the letter of a loose young woman who’s a known drug addict,” Agatha says.
“My God, what the press has done to May,” I say, feeling sick at the hand Mac may have played in it. “She has already been tried and convicted in the court of public opinion for crimes she never committed, and she lost all credibility in the process.”
“She wouldn’t be the first one,” Agatha says with a tone of resignation. Is she thinking of the press bombardment she faced during her disappearance? Or is she considering the flurry of articles that might come out about me and John should the threat come to fruition?
“So we went through all that skullduggery in Boulogne for nothing?” I say, finding it difficult to keep my voice low and steady. I am furious. “May’s letter is worth nothing?”
Emma replies, “I understand your frustration and anger. We fumed all day—”
Ngaio interrupts. “Until Agatha came up with a plan. One torn from the pages of your own playbook, Dorothy.” For the first time tonight, she beams at me.
“What’s that?” I turn to Agatha.
She, too, is smiling. “We are going to ensnare Louis Williams in a trap of his own making.”