“It’s…” Maggie thought. “Bones are clean, light. They’re easy to transport.”
Reitter sniffed, disappointed.
“The killer is someone who appreciates cleanliness. Oh—oh god, a cannibal!” She felt ill.
“No!” He rolled his single eye. “Not so dramatic! Use logic.”
“An orderly, a lab technician…” Maggie trailed off as a vein popped in Reitter’s forehead, like a fuse wire. “A doctor?”
“Come now, Maggie,” he sneered. The movement pulled his scars into jagged slashes across his ruined face. “You’re the one who believes women should be in the public world, after all. You should have all the same rights and responsibilities as men?”
A woman obsessed with cleanliness. A woman comfortable around dead bodies. A woman with access to poison…She felt her mouth go dry. “A nurse?” she whispered.
Reitter smiled.
“A nurse could have poisoned the victims, then dismembered them, boiled off the flesh, put the bones in the suitcase. But why a suitcase? Where is she getting the suitcases from?”
“I can’t tell you everything, Maggie.”
“Suitcases. Suitcases mean travel.” Maggie pursued the idea. “Men traveling. They won’t be reported missing because their families think they’re not able to get word through right away…”
Reitter nodded. “Not quite, but you’re definitely onto something.” He narrowed his eye. “Now I want you to tell me something. Tit for tat, as they say.” He walked forward, up to the bars. “Who’s Clara Hess?”
Maggie jerked back, a lock of hair falling free to hide one eye. She pushed it away. “What?”
“The carving up there. I saw your reaction to it. And your reaction now. You know her. Or know of her.”
“Clara Hess is…” Maggie measured her words. “Someone I met through work.”
“SOE?”
In a manner of speaking. “Yes.”
“What else?”
Maggie considered. What can I tell him that’s safe? “Someone who may or may not be dead.”
He smiled, watching her pain. “Come back tomorrow with an offer.” He leaned against the bars. “A real offer. A stay of execution.”
“Mr. Reitter, you have a chance to do some good before you die. To save lives.”
He raised his hands in front of his chest, as if in prayer. “Will it atone for my past sins?”
“Couldn’t hurt.” He was silent. “Well then, we’re done, Mr. Reitter.”
“You’ll be back tomorrow.”
Maggie took a step forward. “I hate you’re getting all this attention. I’d prefer the women you murdered be the ones immortalized and remembered. And the police officers on duty you killed. They’re the ones who deserve it. Not you.” She remembered his weakness: his narcissism. “Mr. Reitter, you, and your crimes, have become last year’s news, never spoken of, barely recalled. When you die, no one will remember you. They’ll only be talking about Jimmy Greenteeth.
“If you care about your ‘legacy,’ you’ll help me. Not because it’s the right thing to do—I have no illusions—but it’s in your best interest. If you don’t help me catch Greenteeth, he—or she—will go down as the biggest sequential murderer in London, in Britain. And you, Mr. Reitter, will be completely and utterly forgotten.”
He looked at her figure, a long and lingering gaze that left an itch in its wake, like an insect crawling down her body. “Do you long to be married someday, Maggie? Have children?”
Don’t let him inside your head. Outside, on the window’s ledge, Maggie could see a bird’s nest. A stout mother dove sat on it, allowing herself to be covered in the falling snow. “You’ve received letters from your mother since you’ve been imprisoned. Tell me about her.”
He looked bored, but a vein began to twitch under his one eye. “What’s there to tell?”
“You’re in touch.”
“She writes to me. I don’t write to her.”
“Handwritten letters.”
He looked at her sharply. “They’ve shown them to you?” He turned away. “She’s a simple woman. She writes about simple things.”
Maggie remembered the biblical quotes. “She’s religious.”
He barked a laugh. “After a fashion.”
“Has she visited you in prison?”
“No.” He shook his head. “I don’t want her to.”
“Did she come to the trial?”
He hesitated, then replied, “No. But I believe she was at the sentencing.”
“Have you talked to her about what you did?”
“No, but she’s written to me about God and hellfire.”
“Do you want her to be at your execution?”
He grimaced. “No.”
“We’re done.” Maggie turned to walk away.
“You don’t look as good as you used to, Maggie,” he told her. “The inevitable decline is starting. Shadows around the eyes, sunken cheeks. Berries wither on the vine, you know. Tomorrow, Maggie,” he called as her heels clicked. “Come and tell me something more about Clara Hess.”
She stopped and turned. “If we meet tomorrow, I will dictate the terms.”
“Why, you are a plucky thing, aren’t you?”
“You have no idea, Mr. Reitter,” she muttered as she made her way out. “No idea at all.”
* * *
—
“Yes, that’s what he said, James.” Maggie was inside a red telephone booth, speaking into the heavy black receiver. “The men may have been planning to travel and therefore aren’t technically missing. And Jimmy Greenteeth may be a nurse.” There was a pause. “No, not a doctor, a nurse.” She reached in her handbag for her cigarette case. It was empty. “We can talk more later.” Maggie replaced the receiver in the cradle, then went to get a drink.
The Hung, Drawn and Quartered, a pub not far from the Tower, was relatively empty. On one magnolia-painted wall hung a plaque quoting a passage from Samuel Pepys after he witnessed an execution on October 13, 1660: I went to see Major General Harrison. Hung drawn and quartered. He was looking as cheerful as any man could in that condition.
Shouldn’t it be hanged? Maggie thought as she ordered a pint of cider at the bar. She passed over some coins, took the glass, and sat at one of the dark wood tables in the back corner. Someone had left behind a copy of The Daily Enquirer. She lit a cigarette, then paged through the paper absently, waiting for the alcohol to defuse her. Her skin felt hot and prickly, and Reitter’s almost-mocking tones still rang in her ears. She shrugged off her coat and rubbed her arms. Sobriety seemed too painful an option in the moment—feeling the edges blur, the onset of daze, was preferable. I’m not hard-hearted enough yet for temperance.
“Margaret Hope.” It was said in a funny, nasal voice.
Maggie looked up to see Boris Jones, the reporter, holding an old-fashioned glass with brown liquid in a plump, pale hand. “Yes?” What fresh hell is this?
“Boris Jones with The Daily Enquirer, Miss Hope.”
Maggie was well acquainted with him—his rotund figure, hands and feet tiny in comparison. She remembered his shiny, domed head and heavily lidded, almost reptilian eyes behind the thick black-framed glasses from Reitter’s sentencing. “Yes, Mr. Jones. I know who you are.”
“I’m flattered,” he said, sitting down across from her.
“I didn’t say you could sit with me, Mr. Jones,” she said coldly.
“I’d like a word, Miss Hope.” He reached into his coat pocket and fished around until he came up with his business card, which he presented with a flourish. When Maggie didn’t take it, he placed it on the table. Maggie ignored it, pretending to read the paper.
“That piece is mine, you know,” Jones said.
“The paper was here when I sat down,” Maggie replied, pushing it away.
> “What they all say—and yet, since the Blackout Beast came on the scene, we’ve nearly doubled our sales.” His voice became even higher pitched. “I know you just came from the Tower,” he said. “I’d like to talk to you about Nicholas Reitter—on or off the record.”
“No.”
“It’s the second time in two days you’ve been seen at the Tower. Yesterday with Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin and today alone.”
Maggie appraised him. “You have eyes.”
“Why the Tower? Is it because Reitter was just moved there?”
I’m not going to fall for this. “Was he?”
“You’ve been working with UXBs,” Jones pressed. “You’re not connected to the Met Police anymore. So why would you be involved? My intuition says Nicholas Reitter is somehow connected to Jimmy Greenteeth.”
Maggie tipped back the rest of her cider. She put on her coat and stood, sticking her handbag under her arm.
“Good day, Mr. Jones.”
“Wait—”
“No.”
Jones followed Maggie through the pub, winding between tables and chairs, then out to Great Tower Street and a rush of frosty air. Maggie spun around and stopped just short of bumping into his protruding belly. “Don’t follow me,” she said, her eyes narrowing. “That would be a mistake.”
“Then I’ll go with you.” Although the sidewalk was slippery with ice, Maggie walked as fast as she could to Lower Thames Street. Christopher Wren’s church St. Dunstan-in-the-East could be seen peeking over the chimney pots. The church’s nave, already damaged by the Great Fire of London, had been destroyed by bombs during the Blitz. Only its Gothic tower and needle spire steeple remained, held aloft by four flying buttresses.
Despite her rapid pace, Jones remained close. “I’m writing a book,” he told her. “About Reitter. But maybe his story’s not over? Why have you gone to the Tower twice now, Miss Hope?”
It had been a long day, in a long month, in an already long year—and Maggie controlled her urge to turn and punch him in the throat, SOE-style.
“We could help each other, Miss Hope,” Jones exclaimed, his heavy breathing making clouds in the cold.
I could tell him about the white feathers and the danger to conscientious objectors, she thought. I could warn them. Maggie raised her arm for a taxi. But I can’t—or at least I won’t. A cab pulled up into a slushy puddle, and both Maggie and Jones jumped back to avoid getting soaked. When the vehicle came to a stop, Maggie stepped inside, then slammed the door.
“Here,” Jones said, pushing another business card through the window as the cab pulled away. “In case you change your mind.”
* * *
—
Instead of smoking her usual cigarette on her break, Dorothy was in the hospital’s basement.
At the door to the records room, the young nurse made sure she was alone, then picked the lock with a hairpin, making it rattle before it popped open. She turned on the lights and bolted the door behind her. She went straight to the file of patients with the surnames starting with C. She went through the manila folders until she found the one she was looking for. As she read, the line between her eyebrows deepened.
According to his file, Frank Clayhorn had died of heart-related issues. Dorothy bit her lip as she read. She knew from her training that if a burn victim suffered a heart attack, it was usually during the fire or soon thereafter. But this attack, coming weeks after the incident, seemed inexplicable. She checked the names of the staff on duty at the time of death: the doctor was Theodore Merton, whom Dorothy held in high esteem. Assisted by Nurse Reina Spector.
Dorothy found a pad and paper at a desk, then started looking through the first folder from the drawer marked A. Slowly, she worked her way through the alphabet, taking notes as she went along. By the time she’d gotten to F, a distinct pattern had emerged. By the letter M it was confirmed. If a patient died, it was likely Reina Spector was the nurse on duty. Deaths on her watch were twice as likely to occur as during another nurse’s shift. Neck aching, Dorothy replaced the files and pocketed her notes.
She took her findings to Nicolette. “I knew there was something fishy,” the Ward Sister said. Together, they went to the office of Dr. Merton.
“The number of deaths is statistically unlikely,” the doctor said after examining Dorothy’s notes.
“That’s what we’re telling you, sir,” Dorothy said. “And Nurse Spector is always there.”
“She’s generally on the night shift—fatalities are more likely then.” He took off his glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. “Still, we need to look into it.” He turned to Nicolette. “Find one of the orderlies and have him open Nurse Spector’s locker.” Under his breath, he murmured, “God help us all.”
* * *
—
Dr. Merton looked on as the small group of nurses in starched white caps gathered in the changing room to witness Lorenzo Conti using a bolt cutter on Reina Spector’s locker.
Reina stood by, spine straight, chin held high, aware of the accusations Dorothy and Nicolette had brought. At the back of the throng, Dorothy looked small and miserable. Only the Ward Sister’s pink lips curved in a Mona Lisa–like smile.
Once the locker was open, the doctor went through the contents: a few clean handkerchiefs, a fuzzy wool cardigan, a small red apple, along with Reina’s street clothing. There was nothing unusual—no money or jewelry that could belong to patients, no stolen medication.
“Search her person,” Nicolette demanded.
“That’s enough, Ward Sister Quinn,” Dr. Merton warned.
“Perhaps you should search her locker,” Reina suggested, eyeing Nicolette.
“I have nothing to hide!”
“That pin you have on,” Reina said, pointing to a circle brooch covered in round milky pearls. “It belonged to Mrs. Roth. I know because when I complimented Mrs. Roth on it, she told me her son gave it to her.” She looked to the doctor. “I’m sure he could identify it.”
“Mrs. Roth gave it to me,” Nicolette said, “because she was so grateful for my care.”
At this, Dr. Merton frowned at Reina. “Ward Sister Quinn,” he declared, “is one of the finest women and best nurses I know. And I will not listen to anything against her.”
He pointed at Reina. “Just know my eye is upon you, Nurse Spector.” He left, followed by a smirking Conti.
“I’m so sorry,” Dorothy whispered to Reina as she slipped out.
Nicolette waited until she and Reina were alone in the locker room. “You know,” she began in a sugary voice, “you remind me of my mother. Cold and distant. Smug.” She smiled. “Be careful, Nurse Spector.”
“You don’t have to be present at the time of death to kill someone. Some poisons take longer, or are cumulative.” Reina’s voice was rising in volume. “ ‘Give me two vials of nitroglycerin and I’ll clear the place out before the end of the night.’ Yes, that’s what you’ve said, on any number of occasions!”
“That was a joke,” Nicolette clarified.
“Some joke.”
Nicolette drew herself up to her full height. “Watch yourself, Nurse Spector. Remember—I’m a respected and admired Ward Sister. And you’re a mere nursing student. Vulnerable to garnering a bad reputation. Didn’t one of your patients die in mysterious circumstances about a year ago? What was the name of the poor man—diabetic, wasn’t he? Edmund Hope—that’s it. He was only in his fifties. Supposed to have a double amputation, but then he died suddenly, showing symptoms of asphyxia…”
Reina turned and left without another word.
Chapter Twenty
Monday, March 8, 1943
Two days until Reitter’s execution
Nicolette’s shift was over at 2:00 A.M. and she was back to her flat by 3:00. She’d changed out of her uniform and was wearing
a soft chenille housecoat, her hair tied with rose ribbons. Sitting on the brocade sofa, she ate a bowl of sanguinaccio dolce sangue her housekeeper had made for her, along with a plate of savoiardi biscuits. The dark chocolate custard was a rich Carnevale delicacy, thickened with pig’s blood. With her small pink tongue, she licked chocolate from a tarnished silver spoon as she looked up at the clock on the mantel and sighed in exasperation.
Before she could take another spoonful, there was a knock at the front door. Nicolette opened it: there stood a round man with a salt-and-pepper mustache, his cheeks red from the cold. “You’re Mr. Fermi?” she whispered, looking up and down the hallway to make sure no one saw them together.
“Yes, ma’am. Luciano Fermi—”
“No need to tell me more.”
He nodded.
“Well, come in, come in!” she whispered, taking him by the shoulder and pushing him inside. The man did as he was bid. “Oh, just set it down,” she said, indicating the suitcase. “May I take your coat? Would you like some sanguinaccio?”
“I just want to make sure—Signora della Piuma Bianca?”
“In the flesh. Would you like something to eat? Drink?”
“No, thank you, ma’am,” he replied as he sat on the sofa, hat in hands. “I’m too nervous.”
“Of course you are—it’s perfectly natural.” Nicolette selected a record, removed it from its sleeve, then placed the black disk on the gramophone, cranking the handle. The record began to spin. She delicately placed the needle in the groove, and Artie Shaw’s rendition of Cole Porter’s “Begin the Beguine” began to play, the clarinet lush. “But there’s nothing to be scared of,” she continued. “What exactly did your mother tell you I do?” She took the seat opposite Luciano, who was drumming his fingers on his thighs.
“She said you help people get out. Out of England. Out of the war.”
“And why do you want to leave?”
“I’m Italian—from Sicily. Palermo. Not actually Britalian, even though that’s what I tell people. I’ve faked my papers and gotten away with it so far, but I’m afraid I’ll be discovered and sent to a camp. I’m working for the One-Oh-Seventh now, defusing bombs.”
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