The Queen's Accomplice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “And what about the dates of—” Maggie knew them by heart. “March twentieth, twenty-seventh, and twenty-ninth?”

  “Nothing to do with me.” He shrugged, looking unconcerned, but his hands would not keep still.

  “What do you know about Brynn Parry?”

  “Who? Look, I want my solicitor.”

  “Brynn Parry, ATS officer. From Wales.”

  “I have no idea who you’re talking about. And I’m sure I have alibis for all of those as well. I’ll say it one last time, I want my solicitor.”

  Maggie knew they were at an impasse. “Guards!” she called, not without a certain satisfaction. Two burly men in uniform appeared. “Please take Mr. Thornton back to his cell—to await his lawyer.”

  Max gave Maggie a vicious look as he left. She met his cold eyes, unflinching.

  When the sound of footsteps had quieted, Durgin asked, “Getting hungry? I can run out and get us some fish and chips? Or, at least, what’s passing for fish these days?”

  “No!” Maggie cried, appalled. Even through her interview with Max, she hadn’t forgotten the package and its bloody contents.

  “Sorry.” Durgin frowned. “Do you want to go home? I can have one of my men—”

  “No,” Maggie answered, her tone not inviting opposition. “I’m staying.”

  “Very well, then—but you really should eat something. We have a lot of work in front of us.”

  “Coffee,” she decided. It had been a long day. She couldn’t bear the thought of food, but surely she could manage coffee. “I don’t care how bad it is, as long as it’s hot and caffeinated.”

  “Coffee, check,” Durgin said, rising and reaching for her coat, helping her into it. “Ah, the glamour—the long hours, the bad pay, the dead ends…But it’ll all be worth it when we catch the Beast.”

  —

  The man in the smudged sunglasses leaned against the wall of the building opposite New Scotland Yard on Victoria Street, hat pulled down over his eyes, a newspaper obscuring his face. But he wasn’t interested in the day’s lead story, about Nazis losing even more ground in Russia. He was waiting for the redhead to appear. She’d been there all day. He knew after his little gift she’d go running to her DCI. Yes, and there she was, her red hair like a beacon, walking swiftly, her shoulders hunched over, her head down. Submissive, good. That was the way he liked them. Had she shrieked when she’d opened the package? Had she cried? Had she felt frightened and alone? As he watched the whore walk down the stairs with the detective, he hoped so, he really did.

  Once again, as in the park, she turned and looked at him, looked straight through him—almost as if she could read his thoughts.

  He turned away and tucked the newspaper under his arm and walked on, cursing under his breath.

  —

  After having a few bites of toast and sips of coffee at a nearby café, Maggie went back to what she now thought of as their—Mark’s, Durgin’s and her—shared office to work, sitting down at Mark’s desk to use the telephone. According to David Greene, Max Thornton had indeed been in the office at the estimated times of the murders. And Chuck had neither seen nor heard anything about the package; she had merely found it at the back door. Maggie leaned on the desk in exhaustion. Two more dead ends, she thought wearily. And two more murders to go. Once again, the image of the bloody kidney in its waxed paper came back to her, unbidden, relentless. She wondered when she would stop thinking about it. If she would ever stop thinking about it.

  As the door opened, she started. “Ah, Mark,” she exclaimed, relieved. “You scared me!”

  “Sorry,” he said.

  “Are you feeling better today?” Maggie inquired as he hung up his coat and hat.

  “Glad to see you’ve made yourself at home.” Mark sat on the sofa, his eyes not meeting hers.

  “Oh,” Maggie said, rising. “I needed to make a few calls in private—didn’t think you’d mind.”

  “No, no.” He waved his hand at the desk. “It’s yours now. Obviously Frain’s going to see the work you’ve done and promote you. I’ll be working back down in the basement before long, most likely.”

  Maggie could see the tension and exhaustion on his face. “Mark, you know that’s not true. You’re doing an excellent job during a stern time.” She appraised their corkboard and the map. “We’re all on the same team.”

  She squinted at the map and the red pushpins. “Two to go.” She remembered her dream of the man of numbers and flies. Mathematics, she thought. Patterns. Logic. Math…

  Mark pulled out a silver flask from his breast pocket. “Want some?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Mark took a gulp before saying, “Sometimes I need a drink.”

  “Mark, how much have you had today?”

  He took another long swallow, then looked at her sideways. “None of your damn business.” Then, gentler, “Remember, this is England—we drink our feelings.”

  Well, not much to say to that, is there?

  “This is all I have now,” Mark continued, raising his flask. “No wife, no children, no home. This”—he looked around the office, gesturing with the flask and spilling a bit—“is all I have left. And I’m mucking it all up.”

  “We’re all doing our best,” Maggie reminded him, her voice low. His misery distressed her. “You’re doing your best, Mark.”

  “Do you think so?” He turned to face her. “Do you really think so?”

  Maggie saw the look in his eyes, the way they burned with need and desperation. “Mark, no.”

  “Please, Maggie.” He leaned in closer, breath stinking of whiskey. “Just once. What harm can it do? I need to forget everything that’s happened, everything that keeps happening….” He reached for her, trying to bring her mouth to his.

  She stiffened as his hand met bruised flesh. “No,” she insisted, trying to be gentle, but still pushing him away. “No, Mark.”

  “Please, Maggie…” He was nearly sobbing as he forced his mouth on hers. “I just need to forget….”

  “I said no.”

  His eyes narrowed, cruel. “You gave it up for Hugh. Oh yes, do you think he didn’t tell me all about it? And you gave it up for your RAF pilot. So what’s one more time, with one more man? As you keep pointing out, it’s not as if you’re some blushing virgin….”

  “You’re drunk, Mark. Leave. Now.”

  He toasted her with his flask. “Bitch! Frigid bitch!”

  “Get out.” She stared at him until he edged to the door.

  The furious glitter was back in his eyes. “You spread your legs for Hugh….”

  “Get. Out.”

  After a long moment, he picked up his coat and hat and strode out.

  When he was gone, she went to the door, slammed it shut, and locked it. Then she leaned against it, heart pounding, waiting for the sound of his echoing footsteps in the hall to cease.

  And now she was crying, weeping, really—for the first time since she had opened the package, since she’d seen Joanna Metcalf’s mutilated body in the park, really since she’d left John in Washington.

  She crossed back to the sofa and dropped down on it, her shoulders shaking and her chest heaving, her hands pressed over her wet face as she tried to muffle her sobs. The kidney, she thought. The kidney most likely belonged to a woman who’d died in terrible, brutal circumstances. A sharp knife had reduced a woman to a lump of meat, a re-creation of a Ripper victim, a numbered murder case to be solved. But she wasn’t just that—she’d been a living, breathing human being….After a few minutes of tears, Maggie went to her handbag and dug out a cambric handkerchief, wiping at her eyes and then her nose. She gave a sniffle and then a noisy blow. There now. Stiff upper lip. What would Mrs. Vera Baines say?

  But she was grateful she’d had a few moments to be alone, to not have to look brave or efficient or professional, to not have to talk or explain, to not be judged according to her sex by her male colleagues.

  There was a knock at the door
—shave and a haircut, two bits! Maggie jumped up, startled. “Who is it?” she called, her voice pitched higher than usual. Is it Mark? Is he back?

  “Durgin.”

  She blinked away tears and pressed at her wet cheek with the cuff of her sleeve before she opened the door.

  His eyebrows shot up as he took in her red eyes and nose. “Everything all right?”

  “Perfectly fine,” Maggie answered in clipped tones. Durgin placed steaming newspapers smelling of fried fish and potatoes on the desk. Her stomach lurched. “Mr. Standish was here. He is…still not well…and I convinced him to take a few more days off.”

  “Hmmmph.” Durgin gave a suspicious look, then took off his coat and hat. He came back to the table, opening up the grease-stained papers. “Only thing newspapers are good for, in my opinion,” he declared, grabbing for a chip. “At least we’ve been able to keep most of the details on this case from Fleet Street.”

  Maggie ignored the food. She walked to the map, running her fingers over the pushpins that indicated each victim found: Joanna Metcalf—Mary Ann Nichols, and Doreen Leighton—Annie Chapman. Gladys Chorley—Martha Tabram, Olivia Sutherland—Elizabeth Stride. There were two ominous spaces left underneath Catherine Eddowes—and Mary Jane Kelly…

  When she saw Buckingham Palace on the map, Maggie gasped, remembering. It was the night of the Queen’s dinner. “I’m supposed to be somewhere tonight—but I’ll cancel, of course.”

  “I think you should go. Take a break, and get your mind off things. Come back refreshed. Quite frankly, I’d advise it. You’ve had one hell of a day.” Durgin took a bite of chip. “Where are you off to?”

  “Dinner with the Royal Family at Buckingham Palace, actually.” As she patted back loose tendrils of red-gold hair, she flashed a sudden smile. “Why, DCI Durgin—would you care to join me?”

  Chapter Sixteen

  “I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Durgin muttered under his breath to Maggie as servants soundlessly cleared away china and crystal in Buckingham Palace’s Chinese Dining Room. It was decorated in flamboyant gold and jade-green papers, red silks, and chinoiserie panels originally bought by George IV for the Brighton Pavilion. The storybook oriental splendor—golden dragons, enamel pagodas, and shining lacquerwork—all illuminated by tall beeswax candles, was a universe away from the cold and dreary and dangerous London outside the palace walls.

  Maggie and Durgin were seated at a table set for ten, who included King George and Queen Elizabeth, as well as various high-ranking government officials, their wives, and a few lesser royals. Dinner had been cream of barley à la reine soup, matelote of eels, and cutlets made from mutton purée Maggie decided tasted like old socks. Dessert was Tarte de Pommes.

  From behind the blackout shades and rich crimson draperies, the windows rattled in their frames. “A storm’s brewing,” intoned an ancient duchess, her black, arched eyebrows painted on like two commas, her heavy emerald earrings swaying.

  “The wind’s picking up,” the Queen said, her voice rising over the rattle. She was wearing a sapphire-blue silk gown and dripping in diamonds. Maggie was amused to see that none of the other women were in blue, a nod to the Queen’s authority that she’d learned during her days at Windsor—only the Queen wears blue. Maggie herself was in a long white gown she’d bought in Washington, D.C., which she’d worn only once before, to a New Year’s ball at the White House. And Durgin, seated next to her, was in his Scotland Yard dress uniform. He’d been quiet all evening. Maggie was disappointed none of the other guests had gone out of their way to make him feel welcome. It wasn’t that they’d been rude; they’d simply ignored him. And Maggie and Durgin were seated too far from the King and Queen for them to ask him any questions.

  “And I daresay the temperature’s dropping. Shall we retire to the anteroom?” The Queen stood, and her guests scrambled to their feet. “There’s a lovely fire there. And the Princesses will meet us. They’re quite keen to reenact one of their pantomimes for you all!”

  Durgin offered his arm, and Maggie took it; it was strong and solid. She felt better since they’d reached the palace. It was only a temporary respite, she knew. But it felt as if they were suddenly miles away from London, the case, and everything else going on.

  They followed the rest of the group into the drawing room. The Queen was correct. A huge roaring fire had been lit and a tea service had been set up. The ladies’ jewels—rubies, diamonds, and sapphires set in gold and platinum—sparked and glowed in the flickering light.

  Suddenly, there was the sound of running footsteps. “Miss Hope! Miss Hope!” Maggie heard. It was Princess Margaret, with her creamy cheeks and mischievous grin.

  Behind her, walking more sedately, was Princess Elizabeth, her gentian eyes clear and bright. “Welcome, Miss Hope,” the older princess said. “It’s lovely to see you again.”

  “This is Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin,” Maggie told the two girls as around her people poured tea from a silver urn and took seats. Durgin bowed gravely, while the Princesses greeted him and giggled. Then, to Durgin, Maggie said, “And these young ladies are the Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret. They let me teach them mathematics at Windsor Castle, two years ago.”

  “Was Miss Hope a good teacher?” Durgin asked, quite serious.

  “Well…” Princess Margaret began, weighing her opinion.

  “Miss Hope was an excellent maths teacher,” Princess Elizabeth stated, brooking no discussion. “And she also taught us secret codes and cryptology.” Maggie and Elizabeth exchanged a significant look, remembering how using code had saved the young princess’s life.

  “What did the grown-ups get for dinner?” Margaret interrupted. “We were stuck with mock mutton cutlets. They’re the worst—taste like old, dirty laundry.”

  “Margaret!” Elizabeth warned.

  Maggie giggled. “We had the same, if it makes you feel better.”

  “Oh, I do miss sausages,” Elizabeth sighed.

  “I personally miss chocolates most,” Margaret confided, taking Maggie’s hand and leading her to a low divan near the fire.

  Durgin followed, and Princess Elizabeth went to get the tea. At the piano in the corner, a man in a dinner jacket began to play Cole Porter’s “You’d Be So Easy to Love.”

  “Hello,” Maggie said to a woman seated in a wing chair across from her, Princess Margaret, and Durgin. She was not much older than Maggie, in a scarlet dress showing off her delicate collarbones and a long, slim neck encircled by a choker of pearls. She was the younger wife of one of the officers, and hadn’t said much during the dinner. Her husband was standing and chatting with the King and the other men, and Maggie thought she looked a bit lonely.

  Elizabeth set down Maggie’s and Durgin’s teacups and smiled as she also took a seat. “Lady Westfield is an expert Tarot card reader,” the Princess informed them.

  “Hardly,” the woman in scarlet said. “But I did pick up some cards in France a few years back. And I enjoy doing readings for friends.”

  “Would you read Miss Hope’s cards, Lady Westfield? Please?” said Elizabeth.

  “Oh yes,” Margaret agreed. “You must read her cards.”

  Lady Westfield went to her beaded evening bag and opened it, pulling out a box wrapped in a silk scarf. The leather box was engraved with the lettering B. P. GRIMAUD, ANCIEN TAROT DE PARIS, and a gold triangle in a circle.

  Margaret’s eyes were wide as she looked up at Maggie. “Do you believe in the Tarot, Miss Hope?”

  “Well,” replied Maggie, trying to be diplomatic. “I prefer math, science, and provable facts. However,” she said, winking at Durgin, “I have become more interested in instincts and the unconscious of late.”

  Lady Westfield placed the scarf and the box on a low rosewood table, then passed the deck to Maggie. “Please shuffle,” she instructed.

  Maggie did as she was bid, enjoying the cards’ elaborate illustrations. “Don’t look!” Margaret warned. “You mustn’t look
.”

  “All right,” Maggie acquiesced—she had nothing against Tarot cards as an amusing parlor game but didn’t take the idea of a reading seriously. When she was satisfied, she handed the deck back to Lady Westfield.

  As the lady took them, she said, “Before we begin, you must tap the deck three times.”

  Maggie felt a rush of impatience but realized this action was part of the act. Well, Lady Westfield certainly does put on a good show, she thought.

  “Tarot cards can be a window to ancient wisdom, to truths we’ve become alienated from in these modern times,” Lady Westfield said, pressing the deck in her hands. “The cards are a book of life, can answer the deepest questions, and sometimes can be a means to warn of imminent danger.”

  Beside Maggie, Princess Margaret gave a melodramatic shiver.

  “They represent challenges and tests, twists of fate. They move from terror and loss to unexpected good fortune—and out of darkness, hope is born.”

  She laid out three cards from the top of the deck, facedown.

  Maggie felt a prickle of expectation. It’s only good theater, she reminded herself.

  The first card showed a naked woman and a naked man. They stood in a field with a mountain peak in the distance, over which an angel with wings and a purple cloak hovered.

  “Ooooh!” Margaret gave Maggie and Durgin a significant look, and Maggie, despite her best efforts, felt herself blush. We’re just sitting too close to the fire, she thought, unable to look at Durgin.

  “Hush, Margaret,” Elizabeth scolded.

  But Lady Westfield was focused on the card. “The Lovers represent perfection—harmony. There is mutual attraction, yes, but it’s their trust in one another that gives them the strength and confidence to overcome the obstacles in life. The bond between them is incredibly strong—not necessarily marriage, but still a powerful connection.”

  “Weren’t you stepping out with Hugh Thompson when you were with us?” Margaret interjected, giving Durgin a sideways look. “We rather liked Mr. Thompson, didn’t we, Lilibet?”