Category:

I chortle as my eyes skim the list. "I wish I had only one favorite. If I'm being perfectly honest, I haven't encountered a single tea sandwich, scone, pudding, or sponge that I couldn't befriend."

At the thought, I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the wall opposite. A little rounder than I'd been in my twenties, but still the same sparkling eyes and winsome smile, or so I've been told by a select few. Not to mention that in my thirties, I've learned how to dress so that I accentuate rather than hide my curves. On balance, still attractive, I suppose. Even though I've never been the belle of anyone's ball—except Mac's, perhaps.

She chuckles, which I consider an unequivocal victory from this reticent creature. "Shall we order the full tea? If it was good enough for Queen Victoria, I daresay it's more than good enough for us." I'm referencing our stalwart matriarch from times gone by who—rumor has it—adored teatime at Brown's Hotel.

"Let's," she says, leaning forward with a conspiratorial gleam in her eye.

I signal our waitress, and with the order placed, I turn toward my guest. Ice between us now broken, I bestow upon her my most generous smile. No more tiptoeing or holding back for her benefit. The undertaking I'm about to present will require a certain amount of moxie, and the waters must be tested. So I plunge in, bracing myself. 

"Mrs. Christie, I want to thank you for agreeing to join me today. I know you are generally disinclined to be out and about," I say, obliquely referring to her reclusiveness.

"I was delighted to receive your invitation to tea, Miss Sayers. I always enjoy a good chin-wag with you when we have the odd dinner or drinks around town with fellow writers. Although I don't think we've met just the two of us since before the, the—" She pauses, then seems to think better of finishing that sentence. "Well, it was a pleasure hearing from you, and please do call me Agatha."

"Only if you'll call me Dorothy."

"You have a deal, Dorothy," she replies, her face open, the hint of a warm smile on her lips.

"Speaking of invitations, I was tickled when you agreed to accept my other one as well. To join me in becoming a member of the Detection Club, soon to be the preeminent organization of mystery writers." I get to the matter at hand, and I'm formal about it. I am a founder, after all.

The slight curl of her mouth and receptive expression vanish in a blink, replaced by an inscrutable blankness. Is Agatha backing away from her decision to accept? Confound it, I think. Have I startled the skittish cat back into her corner? If only I had mustered a modicum of patience, perhaps I could have made my petition at a more auspicious moment. Maybe after wading through a sea of innocuous small talk. But restraint and polite conversation have never been in my nature.

"I must have had an uncommonly bold moment when I said yes," Agatha finally replies, one side of her mouth lifting again in, dare I say it, a smile. Hope returns to me; she hasn't replaced her yes with a no. "I haven't been in the company of an entire club of people since the—the incident."

So here we have it, I think. She's actually going to refer to it.

"Wasn't it Emily Dickinson who said that fortune befriends the bold? Anyway, who among us has not had an incident, Agatha?" I say, my cheeks growing hot thinking of my own. "And the so-called faultless lives of others are actually at fault for much. But I'm only planning on having about twenty other writers in the club, most of whom you know fairly well and who respect you too much to refer to said 'incident.'"

"That gives one some relief," she says with a slow broadening of her half smile until it becomes full.

"Hold tight to that boldness, because I will have greater need of you as I prepare to launch the Detection Club."

CHAPTER TWO 

February 1, 1931 

London, England

Just then, two silver tea stands arrive at our table. Heaping piles of finger sandwiches—smoked salmon and butter, prawns with paprika, sliced cucumber and cream cheese, Parma ham, and egg mayonnaise with watercress—are arranged on one of the three-tiered stands, while another proffers glistening Bakewell tarts, Victoria sponge with lemon curd, miniature Battenberg cakes, shortbread, and, of course, scones with pots of strawberry jam and clotted cream. I am grateful for the timely diversion as I wait to see what Agatha will say next. She seems game for the Detection Club, but will my extra appeal make her waver?