The King's Justice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “I’m used to bodies, Collins,” Durgin muttered. “But I don’t like these skeletons.”

  “This’ll be good for you,” Collins said with a crooked smile. “New case, new challenge.”

  Durgin rubbed the stubble on his chin as he continued to stare down at the skeleton. “Our killer’s intelligent,” he mused. “He’s not at all squeamish or timid. He’s organized, makes long-term plans. Even has a flair for the dramatic, I’d say. He wants us to find these bones—wants us to identify the victims—otherwise, why leave the teeth?”

  Collins sniffed.

  “He’s been targeting young men…”

  “There’s one more item you should see.” Collins went to an enamel basin on the counter. He picked up forceps and then held up the specimen, a white feather. “Our killer’s signature.”

  The coroner handed it to Durgin, who examined it with his magnifying glass. “I found it in the suitcase. Remember these from the Great War? Ladies used to give them out to those not serving in the military. Symbol of cowardice.”

  “So, perhaps none of these young men were military. Conscientious objectors, perhaps?”

  “Are there any in this war? I can’t imagine a young man choosing to sit this one out.”

  “You and I both know there are all kinds of wars, set on any number of battlefields.”

  There was a long moment, but then Collins looked at his watch and clicked his tongue. “Surely you have better things to do than bother me in my Happy Place,” he said, voice thick. “Why don’t you find that pretty ginger lass who manages to put up with you and your nonsense? Take her out to the cinema or a whirl on the dance floor?”

  Durgin chuckled as he walked to the door. “I’m seeing her tomorrow night, actually—and I’ll tell her you send your love.”

  Chapter Five

  Tuesday, March 2, 1943

  Eight days until Nicholas Reitter’s execution

  The following morning’s headline of The Daily Enquirer screamed: NEW MURDERER IN LONDON: JIMMY GREENTEETH KILLS A FIFTH Another Human Skeleton Found in Suitcase. Will Upstart Killer Jimmy Greenteeth Outdo the Blackout Beast?

  Boris Jones, the reporter who’d covered the Blackout Beast for the paper, had written this article as well, dubbing the new killer “Jimmy Greenteeth”—after Jenny Greenteeth, a child-snatching water demon in English folklore. According to legend, Jenny was a river witch, described as a sickly creature with sharp horns, long green teeth, and spindly fingers, who pulled unsuspecting people into the water to drown them. Underneath the Jimmy Greenteeth piece was a smaller mention of Nicholas Reitter, the so-called Blackout Beast, and his upcoming execution.

  “Really? ‘Jimmy Greenteeth’?” In his office at MI-5 in Mayfair, Frain rose from his desk chair and passed the paper over his large mahogany desk to Durgin. Out the large windows, the low morning sky promised snow. He shrugged. “Still, it’s catchy, you have to admit.”

  Durgin rose to accept the paper. “I loathe these ‘clever’ nicknames the press comes up with. And this Boris Jones is one of the worst.” He grimaced as he skimmed the article.

  Frain steepled his fingers. “Must be a leak somewhere at the Met Police.”

  “Or the coroner’s office.” Durgin scanned photographs of Martha Biddle and her grandson, Lewis, quoted at length about how they found the suitcase of bones while mudlarking. An “unnamed source” verified the suitcase was the latest of five found. None of the bones had been identified. “This Mrs. Martha Biddle was undoubtedly paid handsomely.”

  “I don’t give a flying fig about Mrs. Martha Biddle,” Frain said, “but I do care about another sequential murderer in London.”

  “You and I both.” Durgin saw he was the subject of a sidebar, beneath a candid photo of him glowering, taken outside the courtroom at the sentencing of Nicholas Reitter. “Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin, who captured the Blackout Beast, is working on the case of Jimmy Greenteeth,” it read. “But by keeping the murders a secret, is he endangering the people of London?”

  “What do I need to know?” Frain demanded. He leaned back in his desk chair, looking to Durgin.

  The detective was lost in his thoughts. “It’s almost as if…”

  “What?”

  Durgin realized he was speaking aloud. “Almost as if this new killer is trying to outdo the Blackout Beast. As if it’s some sort of competition between them. As if they have a…relationship.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “It’s my gut—the bones in the suitcases began appearing in December, right after the sentencing of Nicholas Reitter—as if a reaction to it.” He paused.

  Frain made his way around the large desk and leaned against it. “I always take your ‘gut’ seriously. Go on.”

  “Well, the cases aren’t exactly parallel—in this instance, instead of bodies, we have bones. And instead of women being murdered, we have men. And—here’s something new—white feathers included with the bones.”

  “White feathers?” Frain was uncharacteristically surprised. “Haven’t heard of those since the last war. Do you think the victims are conscientious objectors?”

  “Could be.” Durgin closed his eyes. “But none have been reported missing. We have the teeth, so matching wouldn’t be an issue.” He put his hands to his temples. “What’s this Jimmy Greenteeth trying to tell us?”

  Frain considered. “We could go public—tell people about the white feathers, how we think the victims are young men who may be COs. Might save some lives.”

  “I think it would be a mistake.” Durgin chose his words carefully. “Greenteeth—whoever he is—might change his MO. Knowing the victims are most likely conscientious objectors gives us the only advantage we have in cracking this case.”

  “All right,” Frain said, shaking his head. “But I don’t like it. London’s nerves are already strained to the breaking point. You and your boys need to solve this. And quickly.” He crossed his arms.

  Durgin stood. “I know.”

  “Any chance you can get Maggie Hope to help you? She was invaluable to the Blackout Beast case.”

  “Maggie…” Durgin held up his hands. “Maggie’s done with everything to do with spying and the Met Police. And I don’t blame her. Whatever happened to her—and I know it’s classified, I’m not asking—really did a number on her. On top of everything that happened with Reitter.”

  Frain’s face, always a mask of professionalism, slipped ever so slightly. “Is she all right?”

  “Aye.” Durgin put on his coat. “At least I hope so. I’m seeing her tonight. I’ll ask her if she’ll help—but I can’t make any promises. I don’t want to set her off.”

  “In the meantime, what can we do?”

  “Keep our eyes open until we catch a break—or until the next suitcase of bones washes ashore.”

  * * *

  —

  That evening at Maggie’s house in Marylebone, the party was in full swing. Scarves were draped over the lamps for atmosphere, there was loud music, and people mingled, drinking, smoking, and dancing. Maggie was wearing a low-cut dress, her hair pulled back in a braided crown, Cuban heels on her feet. She watched people spin and twirl, sipping a juniper-scented pink gin. When she spotted David, she waved jubilantly. “Glad you could make it!” she called over the din. The hot, humid air was thick with L’Heure Bleue, cigarette smoke, and the faint odor of burned sausage rolls.

  David came over and kissed her on both cheeks. “Glad to be here, Magpie. You look lovely,” he said. “Where’s Freddie?”

  “He’s here somewhere,” Maggie said, taking another sip of her cocktail as she watched one laughing young woman in an apple-red frock spin in circles. “Dapper as ever.”

  David was “like that”—but only a very few of his closest and most trusted friends, Maggie included, knew about his relationship with his
“roommate,” Freddie Wright. David had shared the secret with her during the summer of 1940, and Maggie had kept his—and now Freddie’s—confidence, knowing arrests and worse could follow if their secret life were revealed.

  David gazed at the assembled throng of men in uniform and women in jewel-colored dresses. “Gadzooks, it’s crowded.”

  “Mostly Nigel’s friends. And their dates.” A number of Nigel’s fellow pilots from the RAF, blue caps tucked under their arms, clustered around the crackling fireplace, each with a drink in one hand and a lit cigarette in the other. They all raised their glasses in tandem to toast Russia’s Red Army, who had just forced Mussolini to pull all surviving Italian troops from the Eastern Front. Several women in tight dresses with long cigarette holders, none of whom Maggie recognized, joined in.

  Chuck’s friends—women from the Great Ormond Street Hospital and St. James’s Roman Catholic Church, and “mum friends” from Regent’s Park—were putting out trays of sausage rolls. “Afraid they’re a bit singed on the bottom,” a round woman with paste earrings began as she approached. Maggie helped herself, while David demurred. “But, after all…”

  The three chimed in together: “There’s a war on, you know!” As the woman left to pass out more sausage rolls, David scanned the room, the fire reflected in his eyeglass lenses. “I thought you’d persuade your man to come, at least for a bit.”

  “He’ll be here.” Maggie grabbed David’s hand and pulled him to a quieter corner. “Something about an emergency at work.”

  “Oh, I read something about it in the paper. Did you see? There’s a new murderer in London now. ‘Jimmy Greenteeth,’ they’re calling him. Apparently he’s killing people, then stuffing the bones into suitcases and throwing them into the Thames.”

  “Good God,” Maggie said, taking a gulp of her drink. Reitter’s not even dead and already another killer’s taking his place.

  Milo entered the room, and Maggie waved him over, grateful for the distraction. “Thanks for having me, Miss ’Ope. Er, Maggie.” He looked around in wonder. “Is this really your house?”

  “Well, it was my grandmother’s,” Maggie replied. “And I inherited it. Long story. And it’s not just me living here. There’s Chuck, Nigel’s wife.”

  “Chuck?”

  “Nickname for Charlotte—but don’t ever call her that unless you want your ears tweaked. And then there’s Griffin, Chuck and Nigel’s son—he’s about a year and a half now. And Sarah, who’s back to dancing with the Vic-Wells Ballet after a…short hiatus. And last, but certainly not least, is K, the cat I adopted in Scotland.”

  “K?”

  “K for Kitty, of course. Mr. K on formal occasions. He’s a bit…opinionated.”

  “Holy Hera!” David guffawed. “That’s an understatement. If K were human, he’d be wearing a smoking jacket, carrying a snifter of cognac, and discussing recent developments in astrophysics.”

  Milo looked panicked. “I’m allergic to cats.”

  “Well, he probably won’t come out with this many people around,” Maggie reassured him.

  Freddie Wright came by with a silver tray of drinks. He was a handsome man, tall, with dark, wavy hair and kind eyes. “Maggie, darling,” he said. “Drink? Pink gin—your favorite.”

  “Freddie, thank you!” Maggie traded her empty coupe glass for a fresh one. “Milo, this is Freddie Wright, David’s roommate.”

  “A place to stay is dear in London these days,” Milo offered.

  “Certainly is,” Freddie said. “I’m lucky David here could offer me the spare bedroom.”

  “And, Freddie, this is Milo Tucci—we defuse bombs together with the Hundred and Seventh.”

  “How do you do? Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have more cocktails to serve.” He moved on with the drink tray and someone put a Vera Lynn record on the gramophone. The first song was “There’ll Be Bluebirds over the White Cliffs of Dover.”

  “Someone should tell Miss Lynn bluebirds aren’t native to England,” David quipped.

  “Oh, I’m sure any number of people have already written to her,” Maggie replied. As she took a sip of her drink, Durgin came up behind her and bent down to kiss her cheek. She turned at the same moment, and they inadvertently bumped noses. They both laughed at their awkwardness as Maggie put down her drink and threw her arms around him, enveloping him in a crushing hug.

  “Can I get you a cocktail, old thing?” David asked. He and Durgin had become friends after traveling to and from the Western Highlands of Scotland together to retrieve Maggie from her confinement on the remote Isle of Scarra.

  “James doesn’t drink—remember?” Maggie said, taking Durgin’s hand. “So, you’re working on the case of this new killer—the Greentooth?”

  “ ‘Jimmy Greenteeth’—and you know how much I detest these monikers. The journalists are getting everything wrong, as usual. Our old friend, Boris Jones from the Enquirer, is the worst of the lot.”

  “Wait, wasn’t it Jenny Greenteeth in the old stories? Could our new serial killer be a woman?” Maggie asked.

  “Sequential murderer,” Durgin corrected her in a patient voice. “And it’s doubtful. Women don’t really have the violent nature required for murder. Violence—murder—is associated with the male and the masculine. Men commit violence—and women and children suffer from it.”

  Milo reached into his pocket and took out a white feather, rolling it in his palms. The detective frowned. “Where did you get that?”

  “It’s nothing,” Milo said, tucking it back.

  “Not nothing,” Maggie said. “Some odious young woman gave it to him yesterday at the Rose and Crown,” she explained to Durgin. “They’re bringing back the white feather tradition from the Great War without bothering to check what the young men they’re targeting are actually doing for the war effort.” Maggie realized she’d been remiss in introductions. “Oh, heavens, where are my manners? James, this is Milo Tucci, one of the Hundred and Seventh. Milo, this is DCI James Durgin.” The men nodded.

  “I’m an admirer of your work, Detective Chief Inspector,” Milo said. “Nice job with the Blackout Beast case.” Maggie took another sip of gin.

  “Do you know the young lady who gave you the feather?” Durgin pressed.

  “No, sir,” Milo replied. “Never seen her. Before yesterday, that is.”

  “She said they were from the Order of the White Feather,” Maggie told him. “Can you believe? In this day and age? Why they can’t knit socks for soldiers or do something else positive is beyond me…”

  Durgin drew his thick eyebrows together. “Have you ever received any white feathers before today?” he asked Milo.

  “I’m making a pillow.” The young man tried to smile, but it never reached his eyes.

  “Where and when were you given them?”

  “James,” Maggie said, reaching over and squeezing his hand. “Must you interrogate him? It’s a party, after all.”

  “It’s fine, Maggie,” Milo reassured her. “Got one in Regent’s Park, a few weeks ago,” he told Durgin. “Then one in Clerkenwell last week.”

  “Where in Clerkenwell?”

  “At a café.”

  “Which one?”

  Maggie pulled her hand away. “Why the third degree?”

  “Café Mela Rossa. I live in one of the flats above,” Milo explained. “On Clerkenwell Road, between Back ’ill and Saffron ’ill. Next to St. Peter’s. My mother works there—waitress, baker, espresso maker when there are beans. She reads tarot cards sometimes, too.”

  “How’s it been in Clerkenwell?” Durgin asked. “With the Britalians?”

  “Only a few incidents—not as bad as Manchester and Glasgow. We’re not allowed to ’ave a wireless radio, since my mother wasn’t born in Britain. And I’ve been called a few names. You know the ones: ‘garlic nose,’ ‘oily bugger,’
‘grease bomb,’ and the like.”

  “And you’re a conscientious objector?”

  Milo nodded. “I work with Maggie. Defusing UXBs.”

  “He’s a natural,” Maggie said proudly.

  Durgin nodded. “If you get another feather, make sure to find out the name of the young lady who’s distributing them.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “James,” Maggie said, “what’s this about?”

  Durgin leaned over and kissed her cheek. “Darling, so sorry, but I can’t stay. More work back at the office.”

  “But it’s a party!”

  “I know, but with that new sequential murderer afoot…I did want to pop around and see you for a bit. Unless you’d like to come back to the Yard and work the case…”

  “No,” Maggie replied flatly. “Absolutely not. No more cases.” After Nicholas Reitter, she was done. “But do let me walk you to the door.”

  At the front door, she rose on tiptoes to kiss his lips. “Detective Chief Inspector,” she said, “I don’t suppose you’d like to look for clues upstairs? In my bedroom, perhaps?”

  His face softened. “As tempting as the offer is, I really do have to go.”

  “Come on,” she said, reaching up and putting her hands on his shoulders. “It will be fun. Don’t you want to have fun?”

  “Well, you’re just all about ‘fun’ these days, aren’t you?” he asked, looking at her closely. “You smell like a gin distillery.”

  “Mother’s milk, as they say.”

  “Mother’s ruin, I’ve heard.”

  Her cheeks were flushed and she placed one finger to his cheek. “Come upstairs with me and see how much fun we can have.” There was noise from the party in the other room, but for Maggie it didn’t exist. They were disconcertingly close, and she pressed her lips to his again.

  When at last Durgin came up for air, he panted and pulled away, giving a heart-stopping smile. “Maybe you can help me with a new case.”