Note- This is an alternative history tale featuring Christie as a thirty-year-old Flapper in the roaring twenties who becomes much sought after as a private investigator thanks to the success of her first, and only, novel. Embracing the free age, she is also a believer in free love for women. Kudos to Christie who is undoubtedly one of the most revered English crime authors of all time.
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Chapter Four.
The 43 Club.
London, 1923.
It was the dawn of a new era. The time of Flappers, cocktails, frivolity, and the Charleston.
In the 1920s, London's toes were tapping to the new sound of jazz. Everybody wanted to dance, nobody wanted to sleep, and nightclubs were mushrooming around the city's West End. Deep in the heart of Soho, at 43 Gerrard Street, was a small, intimate nightspot known simply as the '43'. Its proprietor, a neat little woman with charming manners, ran a string of other clubs besides. The Silver Slipper in Regent Street and the Manhattan in Denman Street, while her eldest daughter oversaw the Little Club in Golden Square as well as the Riviera in Maidenhead. Little wonder Kate 'Ma' Meyrick was known as the Queen of Nightclubs.
Statesmen and stage stars, peers and princes, millionaires and movie moguls, not to mention a fair share of rakes and rascals, all came to the '43' to soak up Soho's bohemian atmosphere, foxtrot with the club's pretty dance hostesses, hear Teddy Brown's band, and quaff champagne into the small hours. A change in the Licensing Act stated that drinks could be served until 12.30 a.m. if accompanied by food. Despite being a tiny wisp of a woman, Ma kept her eye on guests as they entered her 80-capacity venue to refuse entry to anyone whom she found suspicious.
It was this illegal late-night tippling that gained Mrs. Meyrick notoriety as well as fame. The Home Secretary William Joynson-Hicks was waging a moral crusade against nightclubs. Police raids aiming to catch those flouting licensing laws were not uncommon at the '43', and the resulting prosecutions necessitated the closure and reopening of clubs under new names. The '43' immediately attracted an array of celebrity customers from the artistic Café Royal crowd to European royalty. Prince Christopher of Greece, Joseph Conrad, Prince Carol of Romania, celebrated jockey Steve Donoghue, 'Loughie', Lord Loughborough, and the dukes of Manchester, Leeds, and Norfolk. Millionaire Jimmy White arrived one evening with six Daimlers in his wake, the cars disgorging twenty-five chorus girls and White supplying the club's patrons with champagne all evening to the tune of 400 pounds sterling. Once carrying a tray of cocktails back from the bar, Rudolph Valentino was mistaken for a waiter. Prince Nicholas of Romania and Tallulah Bankhead once danced with such enthusiasm they cracked a pane.
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Agatha Christie fit the stereotype of the 20s flapper to a T, chasing a lifestyle that would have been unthinkable just twenty years before. She drank alcohol, smoked cigarettes, and dabbled in bohemianism. She cut her hair short, wore dresses that showed off her fashionably slender figure, used daring slang, and dated multiple men whilst single. Standing at five feet seven inches tall, her long legs went all the way up to her bum where they got cheeky. She had superb 32D breasts, with wide hips separated by a thin waist. Her big eyes were hazel and her short-cut hair was a reddish-blonde. Because of her colouring, her skin was pale but unblemished.
For this special occasion, Agatha had gone for a real siren look. Her bold red dress captured the deco style superbly giving her a truly elegant look. The dress features a soft red tulle overlay with a delicate pattern of shimmering red sequins and scrawls of beads around the entire dress. There was a layer of red tassels around the hem which came down to knee height. Her long red gloves and headpiece were the perfect accessories to complement her daring look. Wrapped tightly around her head it had rhinestones set in a silver-toned feather motif with a large crystal centre embellished by tiny faux ivory pearls.
Dressed in a black tuxedo and bowtie, her escort was Major Timothy Trent, who had seen active service in the Great War with the East Surrey Regiment. Born in 1883, he was a widower and retired. And smitten something rotten with the amorous crime writer. On the day in question, he'd succeeded in bringing Agatha to a screaming climax in the big soft bed in her flat. Their lovemaking had been most energetic, and the virile chap had yet again shown the thirty-three-year-old redhead his prowess in bed.
"Sounds like quite the party," observed the Major as they walked along the pavement outside of the club.
The lively music could already be heard outside as they approached the front entrance. They had arrived at the club at a fashionable late hour, and once inside they surveyed the bustling scene. Jazz music blared out in the crowded room played by five besuited musicians on a low stage. Numerous guests milled around in pairs and groups under a huge twinkling chandelier that hung down in the middle of the room. Waiters busied themselves serving champagne as colourful streamers and party balloons flew about. Agatha looked around and noted several closed doors leading off from the main room, each seemingly guarded by some flunkies.
"What are you drinking?"
The Major was no stranger to wealth and grandeur. He had a fine house and belonged to a Gentleman's exclusive club.
"I'll have a horse's neck."
As the Major went to fetch drinks, Agatha felt a presence behind her and turned to face Ma Meyrick herself. She smiled and nodded to Agatha, a glass of champagne in one hand and a smoke in the other.
"Good evening, my dear. And welcome to the club."
Kate was a picture of pure elegance in a long black and gold dress that reached the floor. The gold sequins encased by silver beads shimmered under the chandelier above. She wore a black headband with an arrangement of black gems and beads that also included an attached large black feather.
"How do you do? So glad you were able to come."
"Yes, thank you. It's a super place."
"You're too kind. Agatha, I've heard so much about you. And I loved your book. The Mysterious Affair at Styles, featuring detective Hercule Poirot. Super fun. Are you writing another?"
"Still simmering. I dismissed the idea of continuing with Poirot as a character. I didn't see a market for a chocolate-fixated Belgian with a waxed moustache. Quite dull."
"Shame. Ah, here's the Major."
"Your club is magnificent. You really know how to throw a party."
"Thank you. What a couple you two make, I must say. And look. Here's Coco."
Agatha and her escort turned to see a black envelope heading their way.
"My dears. This is Coco Chanel, fresh from Gay Paree. This is Agatha Christie, my dear. Our famed crime author."
The superior-looking fashion designer inhaled a lungful of smoke and idly flicked ash from her thin cigarette holder. Apart from a single string of pearls, the slim brunette was dressed all in black. She looked snazzy and sophisticated and she knew it.
"Before me, no one would 'ave dared to dress in black. A black so deep, so noble that once seen, it stays in the memory forever."
