Chapter Fifty-Seven
D ECEMBER 18, 1931
L ONDON, E NGLAND
Crimson and gold tinsel twinkles in the candlelight, and an eight-foot-tall pine tree decorated with ornaments dominates one corner, radiating a woodsy aroma. A pianist sends Christmas tunes aloft in the room, and the scent of roast turkey and goose wafts through the air alongside the carols. A merry mood has overtaken the guests—whether fueled by drink, the holiday spirit, or both is anyone’s guess.
“The Savoy is the perfect spot for this event, isn’t it?” Emma gazes around the private room, quite pleased with her arrangements. Her habit of regularly taking suites at the hotel made this gathering of the Detection Club financially possible. I am immensely grateful for this moment of joy. This past year has taught me how fleeting they can be, how the darkness can rear up at any time.
“Nothing could be better,” I assure her, patting her lace-covered arm. Emma is bedecked in Victorian splendor, as is her wont. Also as usual, I am wearing my black evening gown and hoping everyone has forgotten that they’ve seen it before. Time to go shopping, I think and remind myself to ask Margery if she’ll join me. Perhaps she could help me modernize and brighten up my wardrobe, add a few articles of clothing as sunny as she is.
“Where are the others?” Emma asks, and I’ve been wondering the same thing myself. The formal portion of the club meeting ended a few minutes ago with Gilbert pontificating about the Christmas season and the opportunities afforded by holiday publication dates. A bold mix of business and pleasure, which was well received even by the most pious of the bunch. We all want to sell books, after all. But there is another very important reason for the Detection Club meeting this evening.
“Not trapped by any unsavory members, I hope,” I say.
“I thought we’d dealt with those sorts,” she retorts with a smile.
“Taught them a lesson about the benefits of having an ‘abundance’ of women in the Detection Club, haven’t we?”
“But men can be very good at wearing masks, as we’ve learned,” she says.
“And we can be very good at unmasking them,” I reply.
I feel a hand on my arm and spin around to see Ngaio and Margery grinning from ear to ear. “Please look at what we’ve done to Gilbert,” Ngaio whispers, and she and Margery break into laughter. Emma and I crane our necks to see a length of silver tinsel trailing from the back of Gilbert’s jacket like a tail.
We giggle at the sight of the pontificating giant, utterly unaware of how ridiculous he looks. “How the mighty are tumbling,” Emma says. Her unintentional tweak to the old phrase is actually more spot-on than the original—“How the mighty have fallen”—because Gilbert is still in the process of his descent.
As are we all, I suppose. Although I hope there’s still time and opportunity for us to rise.
“Even though I respect most of the men in this room, I think they all could benefit from even more of a tumble than the one we’ve delivered,” I say, thinking of a few in particular. “Men are so often put on a pedestal, and women are taught to prop them up there. But we only learn about our humanity and develop empathy from our mistakes—and we could do with more doses of humanity, here and elsewhere.”
As I take in Ngaio and Margery’s mischief, I hear Ngaio whisper to Emma, “Lovely lace gown.” I smile to myself. How far these two have come in their appreciation of each other. They did indeed need to descend into a bitter, honest argument to soar to a new level of friendship.
Just then, Gilbert shifts, and I see Agatha. Henry Christopher Bailey, of all people, has her hemmed into a corner of the room. He’ll bore her to tears with his exhaustive historical data; he’s always threatening to return to historical fiction, the genre in which he started.
“Oh, geez,” Ngaio says. “If there’s any man in this room in need of a tumble, it’s Henry.”
“Let’s go fetch her,” I say, and we cut across the room toward Agatha.
As we draw closer to her, however, I realize that she’s not wilting under Henry’s gaze and rhetoric. Her arms are crossed, and a bemused smile lights up her face. She has no need of our rescue. I suppose Ngaio and Emma aren’t the only ones who’ve come far; we all have. Look at Agatha. Margery is more confident in our presence and doesn’t feel the need for the facade of constant cheeriness. When is the last time I heard Emma boast about her aristocratic Hungarian upbringing? I’ve learned to ask my friends for help, and I can think about John without overwhelming shame, even though I haven’t summoned the courage to tell any of the Queens about him other than Agatha. Mac and I hosted John for a week this summer, and he’ll be spending the holidays with us this year. We’ve made progress in ourselves and our friendships.
But nowhere is progress more evident than in the male ranks of the Detection Club, I think.
“Ah, my dear Queens,” Agatha calls over to us, her voice joyous and teasing. “Henry here has been making the most interesting proposal.”
Oblivious to her joking tone, Henry smirks and says, “I thought you might find it intriguing. Let me gather the other fellows involved.”
He grabs a group of three other male writers—Cecil Street, Arthur Morrison, and Freeman Wills Crofts—and suddenly we are nine. Freeman cries out, “Just the club members we were talking about. Our ladies,” he says, as if he owns us.
“Is that so?” Emma asks, lifting one imperious eyebrow. It is a small action that never fails to unsettle. I’ve tried—unsuccessfully—to adopt it myself, but I simply don’t have her gravitas. Or her panache.
“Well… yes,” Freeman manages to spit out, but his moxie seems to wane. It isn’t often that he emerges from the world of railroads—the setting of his novels—and this little exchange must have taken all his courage.
Henry takes back the helm. “We’ve been thinking it might be a bit of fun to revive the murder game with the Detection Club members.”
“The murder game?” I ask. Then, with a wink at the Queens, I stir the pot and ask, “Isn’t that a little passé?”
Henry’s cheeks flame, but he persists. “Perhaps for the average citizen. But for this group of murder aficionados, it could be a compelling exercise,” he says, rubbing his hands together expectantly. “And a bit of sport.”
“Does the idea of competition scare you off?” Cecil asks, taunting us a little.
At this, we women burst out laughing. Cecil should know better.
“By no means, gents,” I say, gazing upon them with what I hope isn’t obvious pity.
Gesturing to the other Queens, Agatha informs these men, “It’s just, well, we do not play at solving murders. I think you know that.”
Just then, the sound of silver on crystal drifts through the room. Slowly chatter ceases, and Gilbert takes a place at the center. He clinks his spoon against his wineglass once more for good measure.
Ngaio groans. “No more lectures from Gilbert.”
Agatha squeezes her arm in solidarity.
“We have a very special accomplishment to toast tonight,” Gilbert booms. “You may have read about it in the headlines over the past few months, or you may have discussed it personally with our celebrants. In the event you have been living in hermetic isolation since the spring, you should know that five of our very own Detection Club members solved a real-life murder. A locked-room mystery at that!”
The room erupts in applause, and the men standing near the five of us give us congratulatory pats on the back. Gilbert claps his hands, and the thunderclap of his enormous paws reverberates throughout the room. Then silence reigns again.
“Dorothy Sayers, Agatha Christie, Baroness Emma Orczy, Margery Allingham, and Ngaio Marsh tracked down the killers who had eluded the French and English authorities for months. They amassed evidence in the disappearance and murder of a young English nurse, Miss May Daniels, that led to the punishment—biblical and judicial—of the perpetrators, none other than Sir Alfred Chapman and Mr. Jimmy Williams, the latter of whom was sentenced yesterday. Hear! Hear!” He lifts his glass to the room. “The Detection Club is fortunate to have you five among its members!”
Other men flock around us, eager to toast our accomplishment and hoping for borrowed glory. When they finally disperse, we turn toward one another, beaming.
“It seems as though we ensured fair play after all,” I say, my smile widening.
“For May and ourselves,” Agatha says in agreement.
In the privacy of our own circle, we touch the rims of our crystal wineglasses together. As one, we give the toast: “To the Queens of Crime!”