The Queens of Crime

Chapter Fifty-One

A PRIL 16, 1931

L ONDON, E NGLAND

“We are fools to let him leave!” Ngaio shouts as soon the hotel-room door shuts. “After all the evidence we have! After what he just told us. And why would we believe him, anyway?”

I turn away from the door, where I’ve been staring at Louis’s back as he leaves the suite. Can we believe his ramblings? Are they the lies of a desperate man?

“We hardly have the authority to make him stay. It’s not as if we are actual police detectives,” I remind her. “Not to mention, I’m inclined to give some credence to what Louis told us. After all, the information he shared is damning to him as well, although admittedly not as damning as a murder charge.”

“Ngaio, it’s not as if he’s been let loose on the world. My Pinkerton associates will be keeping an eye on him,” Emma adds. “And we got what we needed tonight.”

“Yes—we have the insurance policies, as it were, of the letter and the photographs,” Margery says, citing her very recent accomplishment.

“For which we are eternally grateful,” I say. “That was no easy feat. I was worried about you.”

“Honestly”—Margery leans toward me conspiratorially—“I enjoyed toying with Louis, even though, of course, I found him reprehensible. I’m very happy that it might help and—”

Ngaio erupts, her volume overpowering Margery’s words. “So let me get this straight, Emma. We have the testimony of May Daniels, explicitly stating that Louis Williams fathered her child, asked her to abort it, and orchestrated an illicit approach to do exactly that in Boulogne. I think we can surmise that this same man absconded with her in the Gare Centrale in the minutes after she locked away her letter, then killed her. And we just let the culprit walk out of here? Even though we have blackmail material at hand? We should have tied him to a chair and let him suffer for days in his own filth until he confessed. In writing.” She is practically screaming.

I see her point, and I feel her point. I long to exact vengeance here and now, and most signs point to Louis’s guilt. But for once, my gut tells me to hold back; we are playing the long game here. We cannot give in to impulsive surges of emotion. No matter how justified they are. Instead, we’ve got to channel that energy into our next move.

Besides, can we truly conclude that May named Louis as the father?

I’m about to risk Ngaio’s wrath and say some version of this when Emma calmly replies, “First of all, May is very careful in the language of her letter. She refers to the person we think of as Louis only as her ‘beau,’ and she uses the word ‘father’ of her child, but she never states who that is. A careful review of the letter could yield an interpretation referencing two different unnamed men.”

“Come on,” Ngaio barks at her. “That is semantics.”

“Is it?” Emma asks. “Or did we read into the letter what we wanted to find there?”

I glance up from the letter. “Listen carefully to this line. ‘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.’”

Emma continues. “Even if May had been explicit, we’ve already been told by several sources that her letter won’t be perceived as credible—thanks to the press’s portrayal of her. And we could get arrested for illegally detaining Louis. Wouldn’t that be a fine end to whatever help we can give May?”

Ngaio’s voice gets even louder. “It doesn’t matter that the police won’t use the letter to arrest Louis. We could bring our own pressure to bear—on Louis or, if we believe him, the one he says may have killed her—by giving the letter to the press. Not doing so is a cowardly pandering to societal expectations!” She huffs. “As always.”

The words exchanged between Ngaio and Emma have sharp spikes instead of the friendly gibes I’ve finally gotten used to. The begrudging admiration each woman has for the other—in which they appreciate, if not agree with, the other’s approach to surmounting the barriers around them—dissolves. They now use their differences against each other, as I worried they one day might.

“Cowardly?” Emma is now raising her voice. She takes several steps toward Ngaio, and even though she’s shorter than the five-foot-ten Ngaio by several inches, somehow she towers.

When Ngaio doesn’t react, Emma continues, “Pandering? As always? How dare you? You were raised at a time when some women had the right to vote and had the ability, albeit limited, to carve out independent lives, even if that garnered them the ‘surplus’ label. I had no such choices; my era was incalculably harder for women and the choices far narrower. In fact, your path has been paved by women like me. I accomplished unprecedented success without the benefit of money—never mind the title—and without a lick of cowardice or pandering. Don’t you dare mistake me for a coward because I wear skirts instead of pants and insist on common courtesies.”

Ngaio doesn’t speak. Emma doesn’t speak. The two women stand, shoulders squared, staring at each other.

I march across the room, stopping when I’m equidistant between them. “Never mind all that, you two. We come to the same place by differing means, but we must remember that we stand together. Certainly we all wish we’d proved the identity of May’s killer tonight and that we’d ambushed him once and for all. Not only is Louis Williams reprehensible enough to have done it, he’s also a bird in hand. But after listening to him and reading the letter repeatedly, I am not convinced he’s guilty of killing her. Treating her shabbily, yes. Tricking her into illicit behavior, absolutely. Yet we will have to decide together whether he’s telling the truth about another person being responsible for May’s murder.”

Agatha takes this as her cue. “Only together can we assess Louis’s statements. I would propose we tackle this the same way we map out the resolutions to our mysteries. We may not be real detectives, but no one can match us for solving puzzles.”

Even though Agatha and I hadn’t planned this, we seem to be of like mind. She gestures toward me to continue. “Let’s start from the beginning.”

Ngaio groans good-naturedly. “Not your timeline again.”

Margery and Agatha chuckle, and even Emma joins in. Ngaio and Emma haven’t apologized to each other, but the laughter seems a sign of thawing. So I take no umbrage at the mocking of my beloved timeline.

“No timeline, although I do reserve the right to bring it out in the future,” I announce with a smile. “By ‘start from the beginning,’ I mean something different. I’d like us to consider how we solve our mysteries— as writers .”

“Don’t we have more urgent matters to attend to than nattering on about our writing processes?” Ngaio challenges me in that same supercilious tone she’d used with Emma. Hasn’t she learned that she doesn’t have to be so combative or demeaning with us? That it can lead to tension that needn’t exist?

I ignore her. We can withstand no more distractions at this juncture.

“We have gotten quite far pretending to be detectives. Astonishingly far, in fact. But I think we will get no further without accessing our true talents. And tomorrow morning, at my flat, we will convene to resolve this plot as neatly as we resolve our own mysteries.”