Chapter Forty-Seven
A PRIL 16, 1931
L ONDON, E NGLAND
Has a whole day really passed since I opened the threat? I honestly don’t know, but when I take a quick glimpse out the window, I can see that it’s twilight. I feel as though I’ve awakened from the most terrible haze, a drunken one at that. Certainly I have the headache to prove it.
My first reaction to the note was to down a stiff drink. Not very honorable, and not my usual response, but the shock and fear for John had been so debilitating that I couldn’t think without the numbing it would provide. The only alcohol in the flat was Mac’s single-malt whiskey from a Scottish distillery near his hometown. I usually avoid it at all costs, given its uniquely powerful effect on me. But in the absence of wine or a cordial or anything else, I downed a full glass of the liquid. And another.
The last thing I recall clearly is staring at the note, glass in hand, as I sat on the sofa in my darkening flat. Other than that, I have a blurry recollection of stumbling to the bathroom to use the toilet and then flopping down on my bed. But it had been daylight then, and now the light is dimming. It seems I’ve slept through an entire day—or spent it passed out, if I’m being honest.
I push myself to a sitting position. My temples are pounding, but I’m otherwise none the worse for wear. I am, however, still in my robe. An appalling state for a grown woman, I think. Thank goodness no one has been here to witness this dissolution. Understandable though it may be.
I grab a comfortable skirt and sweater set from my wardrobe and slip them on, along with stockings and the slipperlike shoes I prefer at home. Perhaps in my day clothes, pretending at normalcy, I might be able to think straight.
I ignore the dog’s breakfast I’ve made of the flat and head to the kitchen. Steaming cup of tea in hand—with four sugars, thank you very much—I settle at my desk. Inhaling deeply, I dare to study the note again. What would Harriet Vane make of it? Or Lord Peter Wimsey? They’d make a list of distinguishing elements, and so shall I.
The note is handwritten in blue ink. This is notable, because most people write in black ink. Blue is more expensive and harder to come by and thus tends to be used by affluent individuals. Because blue is also used for signatures on documents, individuals accustomed to endorsing contracts and the like would likely have it on hand.
The note is not typed. This is also interesting, because if it had been typed, there would be a record left in the ribbon. Perhaps it is handwritten for this reason. While typewriter usage is common in offices, it is less common for those corresponding from home.
The paper is thin and cheap, the sort a clerk or a schoolchild might use. Not the sort of stationery used by a professional or the people in my social circle. That said, this inexpensive, flimsy sort of paper is readily available.
The envelope does not bear a return address, but it does have a postmark. Belgravia is where extremely well-to-do Londoners reside. Notably, this is neither in the financial district nor in the vicinity of Parliament and other government buildings.
The envelope was postmarked April 14. This is the day after the Queens arrived at Ivy’s home in Oxfordshire, the same day we traveled to Boulogne. This suggests that either I was followed there or they were. The spying on Ivy and John—and me—transpired right around that time as well.
I write down a sixth point. This is not another fact about the threat itself or the envelope in which it arrived. But it lies at the core of all my fears.
Am I being threatened by the same person who threatened May? Are John and Ivy at risk of physical harm?
Does this list tell me anything I don’t already know? Not really. Other than I’m reaping what I sowed. What a fool I’d been to stop into Mathers Insurance. Stupidly, I somehow revealed my identity in that meeting, and Louis or one of his henchmen has been tailing me ever since—to my flat, to Ivy’s, to Boulogne. Putting me and John and the Queens and our investigation at risk.
I realize something else. A list like this might look promising on the pages of one of my mystery novels, but it doesn’t really reveal anything. Masquerading as a detective in fiction and actually pursuing flesh-and-blood criminals are two entirely different matters. Perhaps we’ve only told ourselves a story about our progress in May’s case. Maybe it is time to bring in the experts.
A knock sounds at the door, and I jump. I cannot answer it. What if it’s one of Louis’s goons—assuming he has goons, that is—come to finish the job he started a week earlier? I need to hide in case he forces the lock. But where? Under my bed? At the back of my wardrobe? These places sound so silly and obvious; my best chance may be to arm myself.
I’m creeping into the kitchen to grab a knife when I hear a soft female voice. “Dorothy? Are you there? It’s me—Agatha.”
Recognizing her voice, I unlock the door. My friend stands in the dim corridor, her blue eyes worried. “Are you all right?” she asks as I usher her in.
“Yes; don’t I look it?” I try for levity, even though I sense my little quip won’t land.
“Dorothy, one or another of us has been ringing you since this morning. Emma even sent over a messenger this afternoon, but no one answered your door. Where have you been?”
I sink into the sofa and invite her to do the same. Do I see the hem of a silk dress peeking out from her typically bland overcoat? Did she stop at my flat en route to an elegant dinner? It’s unlike the reclusive author, but perhaps her husband returned early from Syria.
“Here. In my cups, I’m ashamed to admit,” I say.
Agatha sighs in relief. “Thank God that’s the extent of it; the anxiety of the investigation has affected us all. You had us so very worried, though. We thought, well—”
I interject. “I can imagine what you thought, and I’m sorry. That was never my intention.”
She stands, glancing down at my slippers. “Now that I know you’re alive, get on an evening dress and appropriate shoes. We are meeting the other Queens of Crime at Simpson’s in the Strand in thirty minutes.”
How can I possibly join them? Dining at Simpson’s in the Strand after receiving that note is tantamount to firing a warning shot at the enemy. A signal that I am proceeding with the investigation. That I am not shaken by his threats. That he can reveal the existence of my illegitimate child to the entire world for all I care.
I’m not willing to do that.
How can I explain this to Agatha without revealing my secret?
“Come along. Chop-chop,” Agatha says, but I do not move. “What’s wrong, Dorothy? I’ve never known you to be at a loss for words.”
“I… I do not think I can participate in the investigation any longer.”
“I beg your pardon?” Agatha looks confused.
“I received a threat in the mail… if I continue searching for May’s killer,” I say, careful not to explain the exact nature of the threat.
Agatha’s face hardens. “How dare he! Oh, Dorothy, why didn’t you tell us immediately? We could have already settled you somewhere safe. Out of harm’s way. Then the four of us can track down the murderer on our own, lock him behind bars, and set you free.”
Would that work? If the Queens squirreled me away in one of their homes or flats and proceeded, would that satisfy Louis or whoever is threatening me? Or would he presume that I’m still helping out behind the scenes and unleash my secret to the world? I can guess the answer.
Poor sweet John. He doesn’t deserve to be used as a pawn in this terrible game. But neither did May’s baby.
“Let’s discuss this over dinner,” Agatha says with a squeeze of my arm and a warm smile. “You’re not alone, Dorothy. You have us now.”
Her tenderness and kindness break me. The facade of strength and independence I’ve had to cultivate over the years, sometimes long and lonely ones, crumbles in the face of this friendship. And I start crying. I’ve shed more tears in front of the Queens in these past few days than I have in a decade.
She pats me on the back. “This isn’t just about the threatening letter, is it?”
I shake my head but don’t look up at her.
“I didn’t think so. Since you hardly blinked when a car sideswiped you under suspicious circumstances, I guessed a threatening note wouldn’t rattle you.”
Can I trust her with my secret? How else can I explain my decision? I’m torn between Agatha’s affection and the long-held instinct to protect my child at all costs by keeping him hidden. Letting intuition be my guide, I stand, walk to my desk, and retrieve the note. Without a word, I give it to her. Then I sit back down next to her, my head in my hands. I cannot watch her read the note; the shame is too strong.
After several interminable moments, she wraps her fingers around mine. “Is it John? Your son, I mean?” she asks with a sweet smile. There is no shock and no judgment. No clutching at pearls.
I stare at her. “How did you know?”
“The way you looked at him. The way you talk about him. It’s a mother’s love for her son, plain to see for anyone who’s looking. And now I’m looking.”
I have locked down tight the very fact of John’s existence for nearly eight years. Eight years when thoughts of him constantly crept into my mind and I had to push them away to proceed with my life as a childless woman writer. Eight years of carrying around the weight of my shame while pretending to have confidence, a can-do attitude, and, occasionally, strong moral fiber. Agatha’s tenderhearted acceptance of my child—of the fact I have a child—is so unexpected that cries give way to sobs.
Embracing me, Agatha whispers, “There, there, my dear friend. Your secret will remain safe with me should you want that. But I suspect the other Queens would receive your news with the same unequivocal acceptance as I have.”
“Do you really?” I ask.
“I do. In fact, I wonder if some have even suspected it,” she says. “But the choice is yours. To tell or not to tell. To proceed or not to proceed. This is your life and that of your son’s, and nothing is more important.”
“What would you do?”
Agatha sighs. “Oh, Dorothy, it is a decision only you can make. But as someone who has had her own secrets and deepest shame exposed on the front page of newspapers around the world, I know it’s possible to face anything and fashion a happy life afterward. We can and will do anything for our children,” she says. Then a half smirk appears on her face, and she nudges me. “Who knows? The scandal might even make you a bigger star.”