The King's Justice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “Sarah, I really wish I could. But—”

  “We could share a flat!”

  Maggie smirked. “An apartment.” She finished her third glass.

  “See? You could be my interpreter in this new land.”

  Maggie quoted Churchill, quoting Shaw, again: “ ‘Two nations divided by a common language.’ ”

  Kirstein caught Sarah’s eye and drew her into the discussion with David. Maggie looked around and saw Durgin walk to their table. Their eyes met. In unison they said: “We need to talk.”

  * * *

  —

  “You’re drunk,” Durgin said as he opened the front door to his apartment.

  Maggie wobbled in her heels. “I’m tipsy,” she clarified. “There’s a difference. Drunk is out of control. Tipsy is…adorable.”

  “Sit down,” Durgin said, taking her coat. “Let me get you some tea.”

  “Don’t want tea,” Maggie slurred, falling back onto the sofa. The cushions were hard and the room was spinning. “Ouch. You need more pillows. And no tea. You have…Too much…” She waved her hands helplessly in the air. “Bloody tea!” She patted the cushion next to her. “Sit down.”

  He did, then reached for her hand. “We still haven’t found Reitter’s mother. And I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you this,” he said in a low voice, “but we’ve found another skeleton.” He squeezed her hand. “I’m afraid two molars have silver fillings.” She looked up at him, eyes wide. “The coroner has confirmed it’s Carmine Basso.”

  “Oh,” she said, remembering Carmine, his smile, his quick laugh, his gallows humor. Then she swallowed. “Oh. His poor wife.” Then, “There’s something I need to tell you, too.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I saw Giacomo at the ballet.”

  Durgin stiffened. “Yes?”

  “His aunt was lying. Her son’s not in the military, he’s a CO.”

  “What?”

  “Francesco Genovese. Giacomo’s cousin. He’s a CO and he’s missing, but not reported missing. There’s something very, very wrong.”

  “I’ll call—”

  But Maggie gave him no chance to complete his sentence. She deliberately fitted her lips to Durgin’s and kissed him. He returned the kiss, and Maggie felt a heady mix of both comfort and desire.

  “Do that and then let’s go to bed,” she said finally. Durgin drew back in surprise. Maggie felt her face flush in embarrassment, but she didn’t back down.

  “I have to follow up on this. I need to go back to the office.”

  Maggie felt a stab of hurt, but of course he was right. Still, she was unable to erase the memory of Giacomo’s lips on her palm.

  “It’s not that I don’t want you—”

  She frowned, still a little bleary. “Why is there a but coming?”

  “Because this is all new. Especially for me.”

  “Surely there have been women after your divorce.”

  “Truth be told—no.”

  They kissed again, more deeply this time, and Maggie leaned back, pulling Durgin down onto the sofa with her. “Isn’t this much better?”

  He broke away and pulled back to look at her. “I’m worried about you, Maggie. Whatever happened to you in Scotland…”

  “Scotland…” she said, “…was just the tip of the proverbial iceberg. Oh, the things I’ve seen. The things I’ve done. And now Carmine Basso’s dead. And probably Francesco. And Sarah’s going to Los Angeles…” She reached up to loosen his tie and unbutton the top button of his shirt. “I just don’t want to think for a moment or two. Is that so wrong? Now, come here—”

  Durgin gently removed her hands from his tie. “Whatever it is you don’t want to think about, you’re just pushing it down, burying it. And with your behavior—”

  “James, you sound practically Victorian.”

  “I’m a modern man, as you well know. I am, however, worried…”

  “I’m fine. Tickety-boo. Now”—she smiled seductively—“where were we?”

  “I think you’re using drink, bombs—and well, sex—to numb yourself.”

  She nibbled on his ear. “Shut up, Detective Chief Inspector. Stop thinking so much.”

  “Maggie, I’m serious.”

  “I am, too.”

  “I need to go. You can stay here if you’d like.”

  Maggie watched him put on his coat. “And is now the time to mention to the public the killer’s going after COs?”

  “No—not when we’re so close.”

  “Durgin—”

  He hadn’t even noticed she had used his last name. Something shifted in her, hardened.

  “You’re not officially working this case, Maggie,” he told her. “My case, my rules.”

  “Will you at least call Mrs. Genovese—ask her about her son? Tell her he might be in danger?”

  “I will.” He stooped to kiss her goodbye. It was hurried, perfunctory.

  She watched him leave.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Tuesday, March 9, 1943

  One day until Nicholas Reitter’s execution

  Another day, another bomb…Maggie thought as she waited in the 107th’s mess for Milo to show, trying and failing to remember her dream from the night before. It was easier to try to remember something intangible rather than the awkward goodbye she’d had with Durgin that morning. Or that Carmine Basso was dead. That Giacomo’s cousin was a CO and possibly missing. That Nicholas Reitter had less than a day to live.

  It was three minutes past noon. Less than twenty-four hours until the execution, she thought. Twenty-three hours, fifty-seven minutes. Thirty-two seconds. Through the taped windows, she could see the butcher delivering meat from a small red motor van across the street. A few cars and omnibuses passed, and, in the distance, she could just make out the cries of the paperboys from the corner. The sky looked milky.

  She bit into a russet apple—the morning’s breakfast. Come on, Milo, where are you? The lounge filled with the sappers and detonators; they were all waiting on Milo as well. The clock ticked steadily on the mantel, and Maggie felt ill. She placed the apple on a chipped saucer. “It’s not like Milo to be late.”

  “Just like Basso,” Wilfred noted. Maggie’s heart dropped at the mention of the man’s name. Still, it’s not official.

  “And nothing from Richard Boone, either.” Boone was one of the Quakers of the group.

  “Since when?” Maggie asked.

  “Last week, I think.”

  Maggie felt cold. “My word.”

  “Maybe they just don’t want to do the job,” Cora noted.

  “Let’s call Milo’s mother,” Maggie said, trying to keep the panic she was feeling from reaching her voice. “Does anyone know where the contact list is?”

  Virgil Pippin was polishing a brass belt buckle. “Top desk drawer,” he said.

  Maggie went to the desk, pulled out the handwritten directory, and ran her finger down the Ts until she reached “Tucci.” She picked up the receiver and dialed, then waited as she heard the ring.

  Seven, then twelve, then twenty rings. Finally, she hung up. “Nothing.” She was filled with searing, seething, boiling anger. For Carmine. For Milo. For Francesco. For Durgin, for choosing not to warn the COs. And, worst of all, for herself, for not speaking up sooner.

  She thought about pouring a drink. She thought about lighting a cigarette. She thought about going out for a ride on her motorbike. Or all three at once. But she was too overcome with anger. Electric rage rushed through her brain, synapses lighting up like firecrackers, reason overruled. She wanted to hit the wall, or smash a glass, or throw something. And then she realized she was—throwing glasses at the walls, sending bottles of sticky liquor to the floor, overturning the bar cart, knocking over the desk chair.

 
At the sound of crashing and breaking glass, the men all took a few steps back. “Gadzooks!” Cora exclaimed from a safe distance. “Should we try to talk to her?”

  Wilson looked terrified. “I’m not sure if she’d listen—looks like she’s blown a gasket!”

  Pippin shook his head. “I’m going in.” The small, slight man walked to Maggie and put a hand on one of her shoulders. She whipped around, as though she might throw him as well.

  She held his gaze until he nodded. “You’re angry,” he said gently.

  Maggie choked back a sob. “I guess so.” She looked over to Wilson and Cora, still cowering. “I hope no one wanted a cocktail,” she managed. “Because I seem to have broken everything.”

  “It’s all right, Miss Hope. We understand,” said Cora.

  “Actually, you don’t.” It was time to tell the truth. “You know the new murderer, Jimmy Greenteeth?” The three men nodded. “Well, there’s more going on than the police are telling the public. The victims are all conscientious objectors—with Carmine as the latest. It’s not official, but one of the found skulls’ teeth match the description we got from his wife.”

  She watched as realization turned to horror. Cora bowed his head. “Oh, Carmine…”

  Maggie blinked back tears. “And each of the suitcases with the skeletons has been found with a calling card: a white feather.”

  “That’s why you warned us.”

  “I did,” she said. “But I didn’t say enough. Scotland Yard wants to keep the details under wraps. But I can’t do it anymore. I won’t keep the secret. Carmine is dead—Milo is missing—and I believe you’re all at risk.”

  “Do you want us to call that detective of yours and have him come over?” Pippin asked.

  “Thank you, but no,” Maggie replied, “because I just might kill him. No, I’m going to Milo’s flat to see if I can learn anything. But first I have one more telephone call to make.”

  “To whom?” Wilson asked, his face ashen.

  “Boris Jones, a reporter at The Daily Enquirer. If he knows what’s going on, he can get it in the paper, warn all the COs.”

  Cora’s brows knit in concern. “Aren’t you worried your detective beau will be mad?”

  “At this point,” Maggie told him, “I’m too angry to be worried about what he thinks. Or anyone else. What matters is Milo.”

  She picked up the receiver. “Yes, I’d like to speak with Boris Jones. Tell him Maggie Hope is calling.”

  * * *

  —

  Staunton approached Durgin’s desk at the office. “There’s a lad here to see you,” he told Durgin. “Name’s Anthony Smith.”

  The Detective Chief Inspector looked up from the papers on his desk. “And what does this Mr. Smith want?”

  “Says he saw someone throw a suitcase off Tower Bridge a few nights ago. Heard our request over the wireless. So he’s here.”

  “Take Mr. Smith to whatever interview room’s empty. And get him some tea and a roll or something.” Durgin swept his papers into a file folder. “I’ll be right there.”

  Durgin entered the windowless interview room carrying a notebook and pen. There was a boy in his early teens already seated, with a steaming mug of tea. “Anthony Smith?”

  “Tony,” the boy said, his voice cracking slightly on the y. He was no more than fifteen, with curly light brown hair, wide eyes, and a few pimples dotting his forehead.

  “Tony. And I’m Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin.” He sat down opposite the young man and pointed at the plate. “They call those ‘rock buns.’ Made from all sorts of patriotic things—like whole wheat flour, margarine, and powdered eggs. I find they live up to their name, so I recommend dipping it in your tea if you don’t want to break a tooth.”

  Tony remained silent, leaving both his tea and rock bun untouched.

  “My colleague Detective Staunton said you might have seen something unusual. Care to tell me about it?”

  The boy traced a finger along the table’s edge. “I saw a lady throw a suitcase into the Thames from Tower Bridge. It was after sunset, but I could still see her.”

  “What day was this?”

  “Saturday, the twenty-seventh of February.”

  “And what time?” Durgin was taking notes.

  “Just after sunset—but there was still some light. I guess around six-thirty or seven?”

  “And what did she look like?”

  “She was old.”

  “Old with white hair?”

  “Old, like a mother.”

  “What else?”

  “The suitcase had a weird texture, not smooth…”

  “Like alligator skin?”

  Tony looked confused. “I don’t know what that is. But it was rough, I could see that much in the light. And then she picked it up and put it on the railing. Then she looked around to make sure no one was watching—she didn’t see me then, because I was across the road—but I saw her. And then she pushed it off and it fell into the water.”

  “And then what happened?”

  “She stood there for a while. I—I just watched her. I thought it was so odd, you know? To throw a suitcase into the water? And then she turned around and saw me.”

  “She did?”

  “There was still just enough light I could make out her face. She smiled. And she put one finger up to her lips. And then she left.” He ran his hands through his hair. “I’ve already told this to the other copper.”

  Durgin nodded. “Thank you for telling me, as well. Who else have you told?”

  “My mum. She’d heard something on the wireless about the Jimmy Greenteeth killer—and how anyone with any information should go to the police.”

  Durgin nodded. “Which side of the Thames?”

  “The Tower side,” the boy said. “I remember because I could still see the White Tower.”

  “Did you see what direction the woman was walking in when she left?”

  “South.”

  “Did you see where she went?”

  “No.” The boy looked as though he might be sick.

  Durgin spoke in a gentler tone. “Did the woman look familiar?”

  “No. Never saw her before.”

  “Would you recognize her if you saw her again?”

  “I think so.” His voice lowered. “She looked like a witch.”

  “Because she was wearing black?”

  “No.” The boy swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Because she scared the shite out of me.”

  Durgin waited until the boy had left, then opened his notepad. The words from his interview with Charlie floated up to meet him.

  Wicked Witch.

  In scrawling script, he added a new line:

  Jimmy Greenteeth = Jenny Greenteeth?

  * * *

  —

  Milo’s mother, Giulia Tucci, led Maggie down a narrow hallway to a small bedroom, and motioned her inside. Maggie held herself together by clenching her teeth. The twin bed was neatly made, a square of midmorning sun glowing on a faded quilt. There was a framed picture of Jesus next to Joe DiMaggio, and next to him, Gino Bartali, the cyclist. “I don’t know why Milo wouldn’t have come to his shift. He was proud of doing the job. Said it was just as terrifying as going into battle. And he was happy to make London safer.”

  “Was happy?” Maggie said, noting the past tense.

  “Is happy. Is. My English…is not so good.” Maggie examined the room. Under the bed, she found copies of Beauty Parade.

  “O, Dio,” Giulia said, looking mortified, her cheeks turning red.

  “Boys…” Maggie said to reassure her.

  “DiMaggio,” Giulia said, pointing to the Yankee baseball player’s photograph. “American, but ’is parents are from Italy, too. And the U.S. government took
them prisoner as ‘enemy aliens.’ If they can do that to Joe DiMaggio’s parents in America, it’s no surprise they’re doing it to us, here.” She glanced out the window.

  “Milo mentioned you were imprisoned in a camp for a time,” Maggie said. Giulia nodded. “And your husband died in custody. I think Milo said he was imprisoned in Scotland?”

  “On an island somewhere in the north,” Giulia clarified. “Orkney. Ork, ugh. An ugly name for ugly place.”

  “To the best of your knowledge,” Maggie said, “is anything missing from Milo’s room?”

  “No, no,” she said without looking. “Everything’s fine.”

  “Does he own a suitcase?”

  “No, no suitcase.” In the distance a paperboy shouted, “Extra! Extra! Tutto quello che devi sapere!”

  “No suitcase?”

  “He has a bag.”

  “Where does he keep it?”

  Maggie checked the closet, the drawers. She saw a mask on Milo’s desk. It was decorated with feathers. “The feathers—do you know if they’re from the Order of the White Feather girls?”

  Giulia nodded. “Those girls are all over London—the pubs, the parks.”

  “I—I’m sorry to have to ask this, but it’s for the file. Has Milo had any dental work done? Cavities filled?”

  “No,” Giulia said. “He’s never liked sweets. His teeth are perfect.”

  Maggie and Giulia made their way out of the room. “Mrs. Tucci, I have to be honest with you. You’ve heard of Jimmy Greenteeth?”

  “Yes, yes, of course. It’s all over the papers.”

  “Well, we think this murderer is targeting young men who are conscientious objectors. Men who’ve received white feathers.”

  “No…no, it’s not possible.”

  “I’m afraid it is.”

  “Well,” she said, her voice strong, “Milo isn’t involved with anything like that.”

  “But how do you know?” Maggie insisted.

  “A mother knows.” Giulia’s face shuttered. “You are done here?”

  “Yes,” Maggie replied, realizing she was being dismissed and there was nothing more she could learn. She walked to the door. “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Tucci.”