The Queens of Crime

Chapter Fifty-Two

A PRIL 16, 1931

L ONDON, E NGLAND

The Queens escort me to the front door of my flat and wait in the hallway until I give them the all clear. But I do not hear the clack of their retreating high heels until my lock gives a metallic clang. I breathe a sigh of relief at the caretaking of my friends. After the assault on the street, the invasion of my Boulogne hotel room, and the threatening note—although only Agatha knows about that—I can no longer pretend that I’m safe. And yet I’ve decided to plow forward, regardless of the damage that could be done to my reputation and John’s. I cannot let fear deter me from the righteous path.

Agatha helped me see my strength and purpose. Has it only been seven hours ago that she arrived at my flat in her evening dress? Oh, dear, I think, staring around at the trail of clothes, the plate of half-eaten biscuits, the scattered-about glasses of watered-down whiskey and cups of tea. My stomach churns at the sight of it. What a shambles she observed, I think. Although I suppose she’s seen my biggest mess of all and remains my friend. It is a wonder.

Before I even remove my evening dress, I begin cleaning. The Queens will be arriving back here at nine o’clock sharp, and I don’t want them thinking me slovenly. Dirty clothes in the hamper, plates and glasses soaking in the sink, tabletops and counters wiped clean, I am just about to start sweeping when I hear a noise. It sounds remarkably like the clink of my front-door lock.

For what feels like the millionth time, I’m considering my options. It is then I hear Mac’s Scottish brogue. “Hello, wife!! Are you about?”

How relieved and delighted I am to see him. I race toward him, wrapping my arms around him before he even has a chance to take off his hat and coat. “I’m chuffed, Dorothy. From the state of our goodbyes at Ivy’s, I hadn’t expected this warm a welcome.” He smiles, his eyes crinkling happily.

“I missed you. The days at Ivy’s were long,” I murmur, “as has every day been since I saw you last, in truth.”

“The healing took a dark turn? Ivy’s reports weren’t that gloomy, and I heard you had visitors,” he says, and his expression shows real concern. I hadn’t realized that he and Ivy had been in contact; I’m touched.

Pulling away ever so slightly, Mac slides his arms out of his coat and hangs it up. As he removes his hat, running a hand through his hair, I reply. “Healing meant I couldn’t write, and I know you understand how frustrating that can be,” I say, and he nods sympathetically. I dip a toe in turbulent waters and add, “Although having John around was certainly restorative.”

“I bet it was. He’s a good lad,” he says amiably enough. Then with an expectant half smile, he suggests, “Perhaps we could have him for a week over the summer holidays.”

“Oh, Mac!” I throw my arms around him again. “Really? That would mean the world to me.”

“Really,” he says in that brogue I adore. He leans down for a deep kiss that takes my breath away.

As I lead him toward the sofa, he asks, “How about your friends? Ivy mentioned your gang came calling. The Queens?”

“Yes, my new Queens of Crime group made the trip, which was quite lovely of them. Although there was an element of work to it.…” I trail off. Is this the moment to bring up our investigation of the May Daniels case?

He takes the bait. “Work? Are you collaborating on a book? That could be good fun.” Mac’s eyes sparkle at the mention of this group undertaking.

“We may in the future. But we’ve actually been working on the May Daniels case.”

“May Daniels?” he asks, his brow furrowed in confusion.

“The very same. When I told the Queens about our assignment, they were intrigued. May’s disappearance in the Gare Centrale washroom is the perfect locked-room mystery,” I say, giving Mac a quick once-over to see how all this registers.

“I hadn’t thought of it that way, but you’re right.”

Promising, I think, then continue. “They wanted to try their hand at solving it. And so we’ve been tackling it on and off ever since. They even dragged me to Boulogne a few days ago.”

“That must have been a sight to see—the five of you overtaking France,” he says with a chuckle. “I almost pity the citizens of Boulogne. They probably had no idea what hit them. You and your brilliant cohort—no less than Agatha Christie. That terrifying duo of Baroness Orczy and the Aussie whose name I can never pronounce. The only one who might not have had the French quaking in their boots is that Margery person. What is her surname?”

“Allingham.”

“Right, right.”

I laugh at the picture he’s conjured. “Your description of the five of us in France is spot-on.”

“Did you ladies find anything?” he asks. We sit closer on the sofa, side by side, thighs touching.

“We unearthed several interesting tidbits. Although I’m not sure any of them will be admissible or lead to an arrest. One trail of clues did lead to a connection between May Daniels and some successful men in the theater and insurance businesses. But we aren’t quite sure how solid the evidence is or how provable their role.”

“Who are the men?”

“Jimmy and Louis Williams, a father and son who run the insurance concern called Mathers. And Sir Alfred Chapman, who is the co–managing director of the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, along with several other West End theaters.”

Mac sits up a little straighter and meets my eyes. His lighthearted mood has turned serious. “Be careful, Dorothy. On paper, the Williamses seem like your usual status-conscious businessmen, but Jimmy made his climb to respectability via all sorts of shady dealings—gambling, horses, you name it. I know for certain he’s still up to his eyeballs in loan sharking. He’s propped up his son in business and in marriage; he made a match for Louis with the daughter of a broke baronet who could give him a tangential tie to the aristocratic class. Jimmy is ruthless and hell-bound to keep his family in this new, respectable wealthy class.”

This is a perspective we haven’t heard. What more does Mac know? “What about Sir Alfred Chapman?”

“Oh, he’s the worst sort of man. Got himself knighted for his wartime services overseeing rationing, but the word on the street is that he was the kingpin of the Great War black market in food, stealing from the mouths of babes and women. He’s since remade himself as a preeminent showman, but I’d hate to see what he gets up to behind the scenes.”

I’m shocked. “That mild-mannered gentleman?”

“His bland, unassuming facade is often described as his greatest weapon.” Mac pauses. “Why do you believe he’s mild-mannered, Dorothy? Please tell me you haven’t had any dealings with him.”

I’ve dug myself a hole here. Nowhere to go but the truth. “Agatha and I met him at the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, after a show. As far as he knows, we are just two boring matrons who met Basil Dean at a party.”

I do not mention that I left behind an autographed copy of The Five Red Herrings . And that Sir Alfred certainly knows who I am. It simply won’t do to have Mac worrying; we are too far gone in this investigation to back away now.

“It best stay that way, my love,” he says as he wraps himself around me. “Promise me you won’t get too close to them. They are nasty pieces of work.” He is in earnest.

I bestow a coy, wide smile on him. He would never, ever underestimate me, but at this hour of night, as we sit snugly together on the couch, he might just be susceptible to my wiles. “Mac, my dear, we are just a group of female mystery writers gathering at the University Women’s Club and in restaurants to noodle on this puzzle over tea. What possible interest could they have in us? And what threat could we pose to men such as those?”