The Queens of Crime

Chapter Fifty-Four

A PRIL 18, 1931

L ONDON, E NGLAND

The other Queens and I ride the elevator up in silence. It is empty save for the five of us, as is most of the office building. We purposely chose a time after normal working hours for this solemn task.

Are they anxious? Heaven knows I am; thank goodness I wore dark colors to hide my nervous perspiration. This may not be the first time we’ve acted the part of detectives, but it’s certainly our first time performing at the crucial denouement. Much more is at stake than the fate of a fictional character in the elaborate scheme we have in mind today.

The elevator doors part, and we step as one into the foyer of Mathers Insurance. We nod at the Pinkerton man, who is seated in the lobby, keeping watch. The same bored blond clerk sits at the reception desk as before, presumably here after hours to admit us.

Emma says “Excuse me” several times before the woman deigns to respond. This time, I get a closer look at her reading material: it is The Stage, a weekly publication covering theater goings-on. Queued up next in her pile is The Era, another theater paper. Interesting, I think as my mind whirls.

“Yes?” she asks, as if we are interrupting her. But then her eyes narrow as if she might just actually recollect a few of us. Or perhaps this is another part of her standard inhospitable greeting.

“We are here for an appointment with Mr. Williams.” Emma speaks for us, as we’d decided. She’s very difficult to refuse. “Junior,” she adds when I nudge her.

The clerk glances over at an open calendar on her desk. “He’s already in a meeting upstairs with some gentlemen, but I don’t see any ladies’ names on the list of attendees.”

“If you would ask Mr. Williams, I’m sure he will instruct you to escort us in,” Emma insists. Her voice is low and her tone polite, but her eyes flash sternly.

“No name on the list, no entrance. Thus no need to ask Mr. Williams anything. It’s as simple as that.” The clerk’s voice is every bit as hard and unyielding as Emma’s. The only softness in her tone is the slightest Irish lilt, one she’s worked to hide.

It seems Emma has met her match in this unflinching, ennui-dripping clerk.

At this, Louis walks into the room, a wan smile on his lips. No trace of the overly confident young man whom we encountered at the Savoy and whom Margery fended off. He’d been a reluctant participant in our plan today, but eventually he acquiesced. Otherwise, as we made plain, May’s letter would be submitted to every newspaper in town, accompanied by a little note naming the “beau” as Louis Williams. The letter might not be enough for a conviction, but it should suffice to cause marital strife. His demeanor and pallid complexion suggest a surrender to our purpose, which helps alleviate some of my fear that he’s arranged a trap for us. Are the others similarly appeased? Opinions had varied on whether this office is indeed the most auspicious place for our gathering of suspects. It’s hostile territory, after all.

“It’s quite all right, Miss Bennett. The ladies were last-minute invitees to the meeting. You won’t find their names on the list,” he explains.

“If you say so, Mr. Williams,” she answers. Her words are perfectly proper, but her tone reveals something less respectful. Is this one of the women with whom Louis dallied? Perhaps the one May witnessed him with? And now Miss Bennett harbors a grudge? She doesn’t seem the sort of vulnerable woman to be charmed by him, but perhaps I’ve misjudged them both.

Without another word, Louis leads us toward the staircase. When we reach the landing, I spot a cavernous space to the left. There, two dozen or so simple empty cherrywood desks are arranged in rows, presumably the place where clerks work by the light of banker’s lamps. The greenish pools of light on the desk surfaces give the space an eerie glow.

But we don’t head in that direction. Instead we stop before a set of wide mahogany doors inset with windows. The rich, detailed wood is quite the contrast to the cheaper cherry furniture in the distance. As Louis ushers us in, Agatha and I stand at the back of our group, and she whispers, “Showtime.” I inhale deeply, noticing that she does as well.

The room is hazy with cigar smoke. At a vast oval mahogany table sit two men, puffing away. As we file in, they stare. They are familiar to some of us. The silver-haired man in the crisp navy windowpane-plaid suit and horn-rimmed glasses is Louis’s father, Jimmy. And the unprepossessing man with the graying blond hair and slate-colored tweed suit is, of course, Sir Alfred Chapman.

None of us is what we seem, I remind myself.

Before Louis can introduce us, Jimmy jumps up and says, “These are the women with disconcerting information about some criminal activities? They don’t exactly look the part. In fact, they look very like some prospective Mathers Insurance clients I’ve met.” This he murmurs with a raised eyebrow.

There’s that working-class Welsh accent again, I think. Unlike Miss Bennett’s accent, it is not carefully hidden. This inflection, I suspect, gets trotted out when he thinks it will move the needle. What is it about us that this man believes will be affected by a working-class Welsh lilt? Does he imagine we’ll be more sympathetic? Clearly he recognizes some of us from our reconnaissance visits here, but otherwise how did Louis describe us? When we persuaded him to help us today—blackmailed him into doing so, more like—we had, in the end, shared our names with him. In giving him very specific instructions on how he should set forth the reason for our meeting, we ordered him to keep our identities vague.

The ever-imposing Emma steps forward. Undeterred, she says, “We are every bit the part. Do not underestimate us.”

“Can you believe this?” Jimmy scoffs, turning to his son and Sir Alfred and then back to us. “I applaud your audacity. I almost can’t wait to hear what flimsy magician’s tricks you think you’ve got up your sleeve.”

“Please, Father,” Louis implores.

“Take a seat, ladies. Never let it be said that we denied chairs to elderly women,” Jimmy says, making a show of offering us the empty seats across from him. He then glances at Margery and adds, “Yourself excepted, darling.”

“I’ll remain here,” I reply, keeping my voice level and strong. I refuse to be shaken. Standing tall, I pull May’s letter out of my handbag and say, “These are the final words of Miss May Daniels, written in the hours before her disappearance and death, on October 16.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I spot Sir Alfred shooting a glance at Jimmy, who bellows, “Who is May Daniels?”

I ignore this question and begin. No additional context. And no explanation of the letter’s previous whereabouts. I want May to speak for herself before the men who did wrong by her.

As I read May’s words aloud, I periodically glance at the men’s faces. I don’t know what I expected, but they are strangely quiet. Had I envisioned fist-thumping denials that give way to a confession? Perhaps I hoped for tears of remorse? If this were one of my novels, I’d probably have them do all three in quick succession.

“What nonsense.” Jimmy finally speaks, forcing a laugh. It sounds hollow and false. “How dare you march into my place of work and accuse us of having something to do with the death of this girl— some nobody nurse—when her letter never even mentions any of us. I could sue you for slander.”

“Oh, Mr. Williams, did you think the letter was all we had?” It’s my turn to laugh. “I just wanted to return Miss Daniels’s voice to her one last time, since you all rendered her voiceless.”

Jimmy glances over at Louis, making a show of shaking his head. “How could you let these madwomen in here, son? What delusional mutterings.”

I do not dignify his response with a reply. Instead, I say, “In June of 1930, Louis Williams entered into a relationship with a young nurse, May Daniels. So that she’d be smartly dressed for their evenings out to dinner and the theater—tickets courtesy of you, Sir Alfred—Mr. Williams the younger purchased two gowns for Miss Daniels at the designer shop Madame Isobel. We have the receipts. This relationship continued throughout the summer, as Miss Daniels’s friend Celia McCarthy can attest. There is no denying that Louis Williams is the ‘beau’ referenced in Miss Daniels’s letter.”

“That part is true, Father,” Louis says, his eyes downcast.

Jimmy, pointedly, does not look at his son. I see no sign of surprise on his face.

“Mr. Williams the younger was, in fact, one of the last people to see Miss Daniels alive,” I say. “They had a dinner date at Rules restaurant the night before she left for Boulogne—October 14. The Rules staff will support this.”

The room is silent. None of the men makes eye contact with me or with one another. “It’s an awfully suspicious confluence of events, particularly in light of May’s letter. How did she put it? ‘In the late summer, my innocence was taken from me in an act that brought me great shame. A surprise assault. Against my will… “Get rid of it.” That was the first thing he said. The second thing? “I can find someone to take care of it.”… In Boulogne… a strange man approached me. He sidled up to me on the bench and told me that “arrangements” had been made for me with a local doctor. All I had to do was follow him.… I wondered about the stranger. Had he been sent to get rid of me as well as the baby?’”

I pause for a reaction but receive none. Where are Jimmy’s protestations now?

I continue. “It makes for a compelling case against the young Mr. Williams, especially because large quantities of blood were found beneath May Daniels’s body. Consistent with an abortion or miscarriage. And of course, Mr. Williams’s questioning by the police in the case of another missing girl—the violinist Leonora Denning, who also vanished in October after performing in Cavalcade —doesn’t weigh in his favor.”

“My God,” Jimmy Williams utters, staring down at the table. All bravado and condescension are gone; only concern and surprise remain.

“There is one problem with this story, Father,” Louis says, meeting Jimmy’s eyes.

“Just one? The story seems positively riddled with them. Beginning with these women.” He points to us, summoning a flash of anger and righteousness again. But it peters out quickly, and he deflates like an old balloon.

“I never had relations with May Daniels.”

Jimmy sputters, “What?”

“Never. So while I wooed her and lied to her and certainly tried to sleep with her, I had no luck consummating the affair. In fact, the relationship had been on the wane long before she left for Boulogne. I was not the father of May’s child, and I had nothing to do with her death.” His eyes are plaintive and pleading.

I exchange glances with the other women. Our job is to gauge these men’s reactions. My instinct tells me that neither Louis nor his father is lying. But what do the other Queens intuit?

“If Louis isn’t responsible for May’s baby or her death, then I think we know who is. Don’t we?” I say, ensuring that, while my words may be quizzical, my tone is not. I want the men to believe we already know the answer and have proof.

“Obviously it wasn’t me. I would hardly send someone to harm this girl and blame it on my son,” Jimmy Williams scoffs.

A shadow crosses over Sir Alfred’s face, and suddenly, the innocuous older gentleman appears less insipid and more nefarious. It is as if an invisible mask has lifted.

His lip curls as he says to Jimmy and Louis, “Why are we even entertaining these crones, gentlemen? Who would ever believe five women writers of mystery fiction? These women lie for a living.”

So he does know who we all are. Of course he knows my identity; I left one of my novels in his care, after all. But Agatha introduced herself as Mrs. Mallowan, although I suppose Sir Alfred could have done some digging into Agatha’s identity through his partner, Basil Dean, who knows Agatha’s sister. The others should be entirely unknown to him, assuming Louis kept to our bargain.

“Evidence turns our so-called fiction into fact, Sir Alfred,” I proclaim.

His disturbingly pale eyes shift to me, and when they meet mine, there is venom in them. “By ‘evidence,’ do you mean your precious letter, Dorothy?” By calling me by my given name, he insults me and hopes to diminish me. “The one you worked so hard to locate? The one that will never be admissible in a court of law in England or France? What possible difference could a letter from a silly young woman mean to us ? A young woman who, according to the newspapers, had loose morals and was addicted to morphine?” Shaking his head dramatically, he twists toward Louis. “What terrible taste in women you have, Louis—a slut and a morphine addict? And you expect us to believe you never had sex with her? Please. It seems to me that you had every motive for murder.”

Jimmy yells, “How dare you speak to my son that way?”

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Louis fumes at Sir Alfred. “You were the one who raped May. I unwittingly sent her into your hateful arms when I asked her to stop by your office after she saw Cavalcade .”

“You mean you didn’t send her to me as a gift?” Sir Alfred gives Louis a sickening smile and lets out a horrible laugh. How could I have ever perceived this monster as a harmless gentleman? “I assumed it was tit for tat—repayment for the chorus line of actresses I routinely place in your path. Not to mention a violinist.” His eyebrow lifts knowingly. “If only the violinist had been as docile as your nurse.”

What does he mean by that? Suddenly I think I know, and I am disgusted by the possibilities racing through my mind.

Louis lunges at Sir Alfred, punching the older man squarely in the mouth and jaw and knocking Jimmy sideways in the process. Sir Alfred falls back, clutching at his face. Louis goes after him again, yelling, “May was good and kind. How dare you?!” His fist is raised for another punch, but his father manages to hold him back.

I watch the scene. Sir Alfred has essentially confessed to raping May—and, as the “father” referred to in her letter, insisting on an abortion—but we need to take this one step further. And perhaps more. We are nearly there.

Dabbing at his bloody lip with a handkerchief, he gestures to us with his other hand. “I can’t believe you are giving credence to the unsupported vitriol these women are spewing, Louis. And you as well, Jimmy. That girl doesn’t matter unless you make her matter. Same with these women.”

I glance at Margery. “Would you mind asking the receptionist to bring in a cloth for Sir Alfred’s lip?”

Margery gives me a confused look, and Ngaio opens her mouth, undoubtedly to admonish me for helping this dastardly fellow. But Agatha silences her by placing a hand on her arm. This next part of the plan I’ve only confided to Agatha just minutes ago.

A moment later, the meeting-room doors swing open, and Miss Bennett follows Margery inside, several cloths in her hand. “Alfred,” she exclaims at the sight of the man’s bloody face, then covers her mouth. “I mean, Sir Alfred, are you quite all right?”

As she hastens toward him, I glance over at Agatha, who nods and says, “Sir Alfred, after what you just said, are you still maintaining that you did not assault Miss Daniels? That you were not the father of her child?”

“I was just joking before. Why in the name of God would I concern myself with some lowly nurse—a floozy at that? When I’ve got an interchangeable lineup of dazzling dancing girls at my beck and call at my theater? I’m not an idiot, like Louis over there.”

Miss Bennett freezes in her ministrations. Louis’s body tenses, as if he’s about to pounce again. So does Jimmy’s. He doesn’t like anyone denigrating his son.

Sir Alfred keeps talking. “And anyway, wasn’t there a confession?”

I shiver at his mention of the confession, then freeze. How did he know about it? Discovery of the note hadn’t made the news. The immediate dismissal by the police eviscerated all its legitimacy, and the reporters never put wind in its sails.

Then I realize: Sir Alfred must have orchestrated the “confession” himself. And I have another epiphany. He arranged the letter Leonora Denning supposedly wrote to her parents, too, explaining away her disappearance. This terrible man is also responsible for whatever wrong was done to poor Miss Denning and the attempt to cover it up.

Should I call him out? Or continue down this line of questioning? Not only Louis but also Miss Bennett are listening intently, and the time is ripe to finish what we started.

“So, Sir Alfred, you didn’t send someone to keep an eye on Louis Williams here at Mathers Insurance? Someone he wouldn’t suspect but who would be able to keep track of his relationship with Miss Daniels? Perhaps at the behest of his father, who wasn’t keen on the pair? He couldn’t have his married son entangled with a—how did you put it?—‘nobody nurse.’”

Sir Alfred stares at me, his eyes poisonous, as does Jimmy. Louis stares at Sir Alfred and then his father, awareness descending upon him slowly.

When I speak again, the eyes of all three men are fixed upon me. The eyes of Miss Bennett, however, do not move from Sir Alfred. “Someone like Miss Millicent Bennett here? A former performer in your West End shows who’s grown perhaps a little long in the tooth? Someone who would do this favor for a price? A role in a show? An ongoing relationship with you?”

It is now Miss Bennett’s turn to stare at me.

I face her. “The information he wanted at first didn’t seem like much, did it? Just listening in on a few telephone conversations, opening a few letters, rifling through some drawers. Miss Daniels’s address. The sorts of contact they’d had. The where and the when of their dates.” I ignore Miss Bennett’s narrowing eyes and continue with my gamble. “But then Miss Daniels went missing. You begged Sir Alfred to release you from this assignment. He asked you to stay a little longer—telling you that your long-awaited stage role wasn’t quite ready—and you did, even though you became increasingly uncomfortable when May Daniels’s body was found. But still, you kept working for him. When I left my travel satchel at your desk more than a week ago, you were able to procure my full name, weren’t you? That’s how Sir Alfred was able to send someone to attack me after I stopped in here.”

Jimmy pivots toward Sir Alfred. “You did all this? Raped that poor girl at the theater? Then killed her later? Stalked and attacked this woman?” He points to me.

Sir Alfred doesn’t reply at first. He hasn’t stopped glaring at me. Finally he turns toward Jimmy. “Don’t act as though you are innocent, Jimmy. Who asked me to keep an eye on your feckless son in the first place? Who suggested I handle the situation when I told you she was pregnant? Who referred me to Charlie Fletcher, that thug who collects your loan-sharking debts from deadbeats who won’t pay?”

“I didn’t know it was you who got her pregnant!” Jimmy screams. “You told me it was my son. And I thought you’d use Charlie Fletcher to arrange an abortion—not kill her! But you used me and my desire to protect my son to cover up your own reprehensible actions.”

“Just so you understand: if I am accused of May Daniels’s murder, you will go down with me, Jimmy. Don’t forget, Charlie Fletcher is your man. And you are the one who encouraged me to use him to ‘take care of her.’ So in essence, you commanded Charlie to go to Boulogne and extricate the nurse from the train station—in her ridiculous disguise—and make sure she went quietly by threatening to harm the friend otherwise. He then ‘took care of her’; that the pregnancy ended was just an unexpected bonus from his strenuous efforts up by Napoleon’s column. I will make the police see that all this is down to you. I don’t think you want to gamble your life away—and that of your son—for an unimportant girl, Jimmy.”

Louis stares at his father, and no one moves. Not Jimmy, not Sir Alfred. Not Miss Bennett or the Queens. Everything hinges on this moment.