Chapter Forty-Nine
A PRIL 16, 1931
L ONDON, E NGLAND
Now we wait. Has an hour ever seemed so long? The dining table seems empty without Margery. We linger over our coffees and cordials and order a round of desserts to put off the hovering waiter. Treacle sponges help pass fifteen or so delicious minutes, but our eyes stay locked on the entrance to the dining room the entire time.
Will Margery show soon? My foot has been tapping for the past ten minutes, so frenetically that Agatha had to ask me to stop. But it’s been nearly an hour, and based on the plan the Queens finally shared with me, Margery should come by any minute.
Much scheming transpired while I languished at home, scheming that I supposedly inspired. When the ladies couldn’t reach me, and they realized that presenting May’s letter to the authorities was futile, they asked themselves, What would Dorothy do? Apparently the way I’d handle this situation is not to wait around for the scales of justice to balance in May’s favor but rather to lay a trap. They are correct that Harriet Vane would take this tack, and I consider that the highest compliment the Queens could give me.
At this juncture, the Queens set to work. They sussed out Louis’s schedule by calling his office and feigning an important delivery necessitating a signature from Louis himself. An annual meeting of small insurance concerns was taking place in one of Simpson’s in the Strand’s large private dining rooms, and Louis would be in attendance. Emma reserved a table in the large dining area in the restaurant proper. From there, the next stage of the scheme could commence when the moment was right.
What is this next stage? This trap? It is Margery. We will use Louis’s predilection for attractive, vulnerable young women against him. When the insurance men retire to the bar after the meal and speeches—which, Emma was assured by the ma?tre d’, they do at this annual event—Margery will be waiting. A lovely, bright-eyed brunette in a vivid crimson dress is certain to capture his attention. Particularly since we live in a world where young women usually have chaperones of one variety or another, and Margery will be unescorted.
But this will be nothing but smoke and mirrors. We would never leave her unprotected in the Simpson’s in the Strand bar or anywhere else. We cannot be there ourselves, of course; Louis would recognize most of us. But Emma has placed a Pinkerton agent she often consults for research at the bar as well so Margery will be safe while she lures him into our trap.
The clock strikes ten, and Margery swishes by our table en route to the lavatory. “I have made contact.”
I’m so relieved I could embrace her, but not because she’s got Louis on the hook. Because I’ve been worried. My stomach flips at the thought of her alone with him, even in this very public establishment.
She’s meant to saunter by, but I grab her wrist. “Are you quite all right with this scheme? Had I been part of the planning, I would have never suggested it. I hate the thought of you putting yourself at risk.”
“Don’t fret, Dorothy. I’m enjoying ensnaring this odious man with the same exploitative behavior he used to ensnare May. And perhaps Leonora. It’s fitting retribution,” she assures me, then swishes off.
While Margery is in the ladies’ room, Agatha, the only one of us Louis hasn’t encountered, steps into the reception area. The women have arranged for her to reconnoiter with the Pinkerton agent while Margery is powdering her nose. On her return, she reports that Louis awaits Margery at the bar, and from there, they’ll retire as planned. The Pinkerton man eavesdropped on the whole exchange.
This is our signal. We gather our handbags and wraps and rise from the table where we’ve been fixtures for the past few hours. To the delight of our waiter, we leave Simpson’s in the Strand behind.
A quick walk around the bustling city block and we are at the entrance to the Savoy hotel. The glamorous hotel is every bit as esteemed as the oak-paneled, stained-glass Brown’s Hotel, where I had tea with Agatha, but the ambience is quite different. Its location near the flashy theater district conveys much about its personality. This is in contrast to Brown’s understated Mayfair location, where it practically blends in with nearby Victorian town houses.
I’m surprised the old-world Emma would choose this glitzy hotel for her London jaunts. It’s quite a contrast from the Kent countryside, where she has an estate called Snowfield. When I tell her so, she sniffs and says, “I wouldn’t normally think to stay here, but some of the actors contracted for my film introduced me to it, and I’ve become quite accustomed to its excesses. It’s certainly proving handy tonight.” I sometimes forget that Emma’s Scarlet Pimpernel will become a film starring silver-screen actors Leslie Howard and Merle Oberon. It’s heady stuff.
Expansive views of the River Thames from the elegantly appointed parlor greet us upon entry into Emma’s suite, but we do not have time to enjoy the vista. Ngaio, Agatha, and I tuck ourselves away in the guest bedroom on the right, and Emma joins us after situating the Pinkerton agent—whom she refers to as “the muscle”—in the guest bedroom on the left.
By the time we hear the front doorknob turn and the door creak open, my nerves are frazzled. Will this really work? Is Margery quite all right? It’s brinkmanship, but what other avenues are open to us?
Girlish giggles and the clink of ice on crystal drift from the parlor into the bedroom. The four of us sit immobile along the edges of the bed, which is draped with a silk coverlet. We are ready to spring into action the moment we hear the signal. Most of us, anyway; Emma doesn’t really spring, and I’m more of an ambler, if I’m being honest.
But when the vase Emma placed precariously at the edge of the sofa table crashes to the floor, we summon unexpected reserves and race into the parlor. This is the sound for which we’ve been waiting. The Pinkerton man is already on the scene, camera in hand. The flash momentarily blinds me—once, then twice—as the damaging pictures of the very married Louis Williams in a Savoy hotel room with an out-of-focus brunette are captured.
Why did we orchestrate this “evidence” of infidelity? When we realized that we had no leverage with which to advance May’s cause—that even the clear testimony May left behind would likely be disregarded—the Queens decided to create some.
“What the hell is going on here?” Louis cries out.
No one answers him. Instead we gaze at him with bemused expressions, waiting to hear what he’ll say next. How he might damn himself.
His eyes blazing with fury, he stares first at Margery, who simply shrugs. He then looks over at us, a flash of recognition passing over his features. “You three… I’ve seen you before. In my offices!”
He sounds well and genuinely surprised. This, in turn, surprises me—and, as I can see from her face, Agatha. If indeed this man is responsible not only for the murder of May Daniels and its cover-up but also for the attack on me in London, the surveillance of me at Ivy’s home, the stalking of us all the way to Boulogne, and the threatening note sent to my flat, why is he astonished at the sight of us? He should know precisely who we are and why we brought him here.
Margery rises from her place at his side and joins us in one of the five seats facing him on the sofa. Emma has arranged them just so, for maximum effect. But Louis is having none of it. He leaps from the sofa and rushes toward the door. Anticipating this attempt at escape, the Pinkerton agent is already there, blocking his exit.
Even though the situation is charged, I cannot help but wonder. How much must Emma be paying this Pinkerton man for his work and his discretion? It is marvelous to have wealthy friends.
It’s my turn to take the floor. “You will stay in this suite and answer to us. Or we will make sure your wife, your family, and everyone you know sees those pictures.”
“Who the hell are you women? Really?”
“Who we are doesn’t matter in the least,” I answer. “What matters is what we want from you.”
“What’s that?” His voice is loud, but I hear fear in his tone.
“We want you to pay for killing May Daniels.”