Chapter Fifty-Six
A PRIL 18, 1931
L ONDON, E NGLAND
Vengeance may have been exacted, but justice isn’t fully served.
The Queens and I descend the staircase in a line, with me in the lead. Emma gestures to the Pinkerton man to remain in place but hold off on any action. He situates himself at the entrance to the elevator bank, presumably to block anyone from fleeing the scene. We motion for Miss Bennett to stay in the meeting room at the top of the landing.
When I reach the base of the stairs, Louis is arguing with his father. It’s as if Sir Alfred’s body isn’t lying before them in an ever-growing sea of blood. Perhaps all Louis can see is his father’s sins against May.
Jimmy whips around toward us and hisses, “Look at what you witches have stirred up. Sir Alfred is dead, and that Bennett woman has got to pay.”
“Pay for what? All I saw was Sir Alfred taking an accidental tumble down an ill-placed set of stairs at Mathers Insurance,” I declare, meeting Jimmy’s stare.
“Please. Everyone here saw Millicent Bennet push him,” Jimmy maintains. He looks to his son for support, but Louis turns away.
“I didn’t,” I reply.
“Neither did I,” concurs Agatha.
Emma sniffs. “I saw Sir Alfred stagger and fall. I believe he may have overindulged. It seemed the uncoordinated action of an intoxicated individual.”
“I quite agree,” Margery adds in an uncharacteristically small voice. The sight of a corpse—even if it is Sir Alfred’s—is distressing for us all, no matter how bullish we are acting.
Ngaio crosses her arms and stares at the Williamses. “Clumsy the way Sir Alfred careened down those steps. You gents did your best to stop his fall, but he had all that forward momentum.”
“It’ll be our words against yours,” Jimmy insists, “and I doubt anyone will heed a gaggle of women over two men.”
“Oh, really? It doesn’t much look like your son will be aligned with your ‘word.’” Ngaio lets out one of her snorts, which makes Jimmy recoil. Astonishing how breaching the code of female propriety can still rankle in such dire straits.
I follow on. “Have you thought through what will happen if you accuse Miss Bennett? The police will wonder why she killed him—the motive, if you will. I imagine their investigation will uncover the fact that Sir Alfred placed her at Mathers Insurance to keep an eye on Louis Williams. Why did he need this sort of minding, they might ask? Well, if they dig the tiniest bit, the authorities will learn that Miss Bennett was meant to uncover information about his relationship with the murdered May Daniels. Why was Sir Alfred so interested in the interactions between Louis Williams and May Daniels, the authorities might further inquire? Surely her last words will be given their just due—with your son front and center. He’ll either be convicted in court or by public opinion.”
Jimmy is frozen in place, like a character in a terrifying tableau vivant. Finally, he croaks, “What do you want?”
“I want you to see what we have seen: the unfortunate, but accidental, calamity that befell Sir Alfred Chapman today.” I nod toward the body. “And we want you to acknowledge that the terrible events that befell May Daniels stemmed, in part, from the acts perpetrated by you. We want you to atone.”
“How on earth do you want me to do that? I cannot exactly bring Miss Daniels back,” Jimmy cries out. Having climbed so high, he seems to believe he cannot be toppled from his pedestal. Certainly not by a bunch of women.
He is nowhere near remorseful, I think. The other women and I exchange glances, and I can see we are of like mind about this lack of contrition. Only Louis appears penitent. The horrific hubris of Jimmy, Sir Alfred, and countless others like them, treating women as though they are disposable. They need to learn a lesson.
“You can turn yourself in to the police for the role you played in facilitating the murder of May Daniels,” I say. “And confess that Sir Alfred Chapman arranged her death.”
“What?” Jimmy laughs in disbelief. “Why on earth would I do that? I’m willing to tell the authorities that Sir Alfred had an accident, but beyond that, no.”
“Well, then, we will come forward with all the materials linking your son to May Daniels. And we will omit the connection between her and Sir Alfred, making it appear as though Louis Williams is entirely responsible for her murder.”
Louis swivels toward me, his eyes wide. Why are you serving me up when I’ve done everything you asked? I can almost hear him think.
I hold up my hand and meet his gaze, pleading for his patience. Then I say to Jimmy, “You have a choice. You can save yourself or your son.”
Jimmy’s expression changes. Gone is the brashness and arrogance. Desperation and contrition have replaced them. His remorse stems not from the wrong done to May—which I would have preferred—but from his fierce love for Louis. But this I do understand. What we, including I, will do for the love of our children is boundless.
I glance over at Emma, who remains by the Pinkerton agent’s side. She holds up two fingers to us, signaling the police’s arrival in two minutes. I motion to Ngaio to fetch Miss Bennett from the meeting room and usher her out of Mathers Insurance before the authorities arrive. Our bargain for Miss Bennett’s fate seems to be finalized, at the very least.
“The clock is ticking, Mr. Williams,” I say.
Jimmy turns toward his son and clasps his hands in his own. “I only ever wanted the best for you, son.”
“I know, Father. I’m sorry for taking all this”—Louis’s eyes well with tears as he gestures around the office—“and all you’ve sacrificed for granted.”
“Enough of the sentiments,” I announce. “What say you, Mr. Williams? Do you agree to our terms?”
He nods.
“I need to hear you articulate them.”
“I will tell the authorities that Sir Alfred accidentally tumbled down the stairs. But before he did, he confessed to arranging the murder of May Daniels when she became pregnant after he raped her. I will make a statement to the police that I helped him secure a goon to do the job in France.” Jimmy is expressionless and his voice heavily accented, as if he’s closed off any tender part of himself and replaced it with the slum-born thug of his earlier years.
He needs to lay out the full crime here and now. For us. And for May.
“How exactly did Miss May Daniels die?” I ask him.
His eyes impassive, Jimmy says, “My man Charlie Fletcher was hired to follow her to Boulogne from Brighton. He shadowed her throughout the day and found an opportunity to whisk her away quietly in the train station when she stepped away from her friend. He took her to a remote area outside the town proper and strangled her, during which she must have miscarried, which explains the amount of blood.”
“You will confess this to the police.” It is not a question.
“Yes,” he replies.
“Then it’s agreed. We will stay silent about your son’s relationship with Miss Daniels. But please know that we have May’s letter in a safe place. We also have compromising photographs, and we will not hesitate to release them to the press if you waver in your statements. Do you understand?”
“I understand.”
Agatha studies Jimmy, her face puckering as she does. “It’s a devil’s bargain, but then what other kind can be struck when one is negotiating with demons?”
I glance at the other Queens and, with a wordless tilt of my head, ask about their readiness to agree to this resolution. They nod. Ngaio leads Miss Bennett down the back stairway to the building’s service entrance, and Agatha, Emma, Margery, and I encircle Jimmy, Louis, and the body of Sir Alfred. When the set of gleaming steel elevator doors slides open with the ping of a bell, the Pinkerton agent escorts the uniformed officers toward us. We are ready.
As the police approach, I whisper one last warning to Jimmy. “Never forget that we women aren’t what you call us—witches or crones or madwomen or surplus or nobodies. We are all Queens.”