Staunton sent a paper airplane sailing over Durgin’s head. “From white birds, Sherlock.”
Durgin tipped back further, putting his feet up on the desk. “But what kind of birds? Are the feathers available commercially? From a local farm? Swan Queens handing them out at the ballet? Girls plucking them off pet doves? How can we track them?”
The older detective sniffed. “Another suitcase full of bones found today. With a white feather.”
“Jimmy’s been busy.” Durgin sat up straight. “Something must have set him off. Where was the suitcase found?”
“Bit of sand on the Thames, right under Tower Bridge. Collins has it now.”
Durgin looked to the dusty black chalkboard, where they were detailing the Jimmy Greenteeth case. There was precious little information. And, so far, none of the skeletons matched with any missing persons.
There was also a map of the area, with red Xs where the cases were found and blue Xs where they were probably thrown into the water, based on the tides and the current. “We need more men along the river, on the bridges, patrolling—looking for people with suitcases, anyone throwing anything into the Thames,” Durgin said.
“We’ve already got all the boys they’ll give us on it.”
“Tell them to assign more.”
“No more to be had.” Staunton shook his head. “I hate bones—they don’t tell you much. What do you think our killer’s doing with the flesh? Any new pie shops open since the murders began? Which might also serve blood pudding?”
“Run by Mrs. Lovett? And Sweeney Todd?”
Staunton rolled his eyes. “Just thinking out loud, mate.”
Durgin spun around in the chair. “Ask our officers to be aware of certain smells.”
“Should we tell them any more?”
It was the same morally gray question he had discussed with Frain—whether to sacrifice the few to capture the killer faster and prevent even more murders. “No,” said Durgin finally. “Tell them it’s because we’re concerned about cats used for pie filling—can spread disease, et cetera. Say we’re looking for a home butchery. A basement, most likely. Access to sewers, that kind of thing.”
Staunton grimaced. “Speaking of unpleasant things,” he said, “your ex-wife called. Again. I left the message on your desk. Number’s the same.”
Durgin busied himself reading a memo.
“You going to call her back?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“We’re divorced for a reason.”
“I have to say, she was a bit snippy on the telephone. Downright rude, if you ask me.”
“That’s her maiden name, Rood—R-O-O-D. Janet Rood. She liked to joke about it. I never found it funny.” Durgin rifled through his mail and found an envelope. It had been hand-delivered, with DCI JAMES DURGIN typed on the envelope, no return address. “Any confessions since the Enquirer ran the story?”
“A few today. Nutters, all of them.”
“Figures. And anything new from the boys at the lab on yesterday’s body?”
“They’ve already dusted the bones for prints—nothing’s showing up. And lab tests of the bones don’t show evidence of poison. Of course they were quick to say it doesn’t rule out poison, but they can’t confirm it.”
Durgin searched through his top desk drawer to find a letter opener—long, with a silver wolf’s head—and used it to open the envelope.
“So—when are you going to propose to Miss Hope?”
“Staunton,” Durgin warned. “I’m hardly the knight in shining armor type. And it hasn’t even been that long.”
“You’ve known her for a year.”
“Yes, but we’ve only started…whatever it is we’re doing…since she returned from Scotland.”
“You could be the knight in rusty old armor type, you know.”
“I have a job to do. Maggie knows it. It’s why we get along so well.”
“Women like hearts and flowers, even when they say they don’t. Especially when they say they don’t. She’s too good for you, you know—”
Durgin opened the envelope, then unfolded the paper inside.
“Boss?” Staunton asked. “You hear me?” But Durgin could only focus on the letter in front of him. “What? Tell me!” Durgin passed Staunton the letter. It was typed, on thin, almost translucent onionskin paper.
2 March 1943
Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin
Metropolitan Police
New Scotland Yard
Westminster, London
Dear DCI Durgin:
I have plenty more suitcases.
I will keep killing until my count is higher than the Blackout Beast’s. And then I’ll just keep going.
Nicholas Reitter is nothing. It’s me you really want. But you can’t have us both.
Have the King commute his sentence or else I’m set to become the biggest murderer London’s ever seen—and that’s including our old friend Jack the Ripper.
Every murder from now on is on your head, Detective Chief Inspector.
Yours sincerely,
“Jimmy Greenteeth”
“So there is a connection between him and Reitter.” Durgin swallowed as he put down the piece of paper. “And he’s after Reitter’s crown—wants to be the biggest sequential murderer London’s ever seen.”
“You’re going to tell the King?”
“Yes, next time we have tea.” Durgin grimaced. “I’ll pass it along to Protection Command at Buck House, and they can show it to His Majesty. But I don’t think it’s going to change anything.”
“So we just wait around—twiddling our thumbs—while Jimmy Greenteeth kills more people?”
“No,” Durgin said, his face grim. “We solve this case.”
Chapter Seven
Wednesday, March 3, 1943
Seven days until Nicholas Reitter’s execution
At just past 1:00 A.M., Dorothy Wilson stood in front of the blackboard at the nurses’ station at Fitzroy Square Hospital in Fitzrovia. Nineteen years old, Dorothy was a nursing student, entering her second year of study at the Florence Nightingale Training School at King’s College, London. She was young and fresh-faced, with dark eyes, curly black hair always trying to escape from her nurse’s cap, and a deep dimple in her right cheek. Her nails were clipped short and her hands were rough and scaly from constant washing, despite the lavender-scented lotion she applied nightly. She wore the nurses’ traditional blue dress with starched white collar, cuffs, and white wraparound apron.
On the blackboard, the days of the week were separated into columns with day and night shifts listed and nurses’ names written in white chalk on the slate. Dorothy scanned for her own name: she was working every night for the next week. She grimaced, disappointed to know she’d miss at least one party and a dance.
One of the janitors, a conscientious objector named Lorenzo Conti, mopped the sticky brown tile floor with carbolic cleanser nearby. The chipped mint-green walls were covered in government-issued posters: UNITED! pronounced one, showing the flags of the Allied nations carried into battle. Another proclaimed: BRITAIN EXPECTS THAT THIS DAY YOU TOO WILL DO YOUR DUTY.
The other student nurse at the desk, Reina Spector, was paging through the evening’s newspaper. Behind Reina was a poster of a glamorous blond spy surrounded by attentive men, with the caption KEEP MUM, SHE’S NOT SO DUMB! CARELESS TALK COSTS LIVES. Dorothy could just make out The Daily Enquirer’s upside-down headline: NEW SEQUENTIAL MURDERER IN LONDON: JIMMY GREENTEETH KILLS AGAIN!
Reina was older than the traditional student nurse, in her late fifties, eyes hidden behind thick glasses, lank brown hair streaked with gray, and a wiry frame. Quiet and hardworking, she preferred the night shift. She’d arrived in London in January 1942 and immediately vo
lunteered as a nurse’s aide, taking classes for her four-year training program. Despite her reserve, she was always professional and competent; the staff and patients respected her. Her emerging specialty was working with victims of eye injuries and blindness.
“It’s bad enough we’re at war, isn’t it?” Dorothy said, indicating the article. “Now there’s yet another murderer?”
Reina’s eyes turned to the younger woman. Or at least one did. Her blue eyes turned out slightly, what the medical profession called amblyopia and others described as lazy eye. “At least Nicholas Reitter will hang for his crimes soon,” she replied in a flat, accentless voice, pointing to the smaller article below.
Because of the war, nurses’ training wasn’t as structured as it had been in the past. Each student was placed according to her particular interest and ability. Dorothy, who had recently lost her grandmother, was specializing in geriatric medicine, with an emphasis on pain management. She soothed her patients with gentle hands, offering smiles and kind words.
Relieved to finally have her week’s schedule, Dorothy looked up at the clock; six hours still to go. And one of her patients needed a change of bedding. She sighed and went to the supply closet for fresh linens. As the door squeaked open, she realized the light in the closet was already on; someone was inside, humming “Begin the Beguine.”
Dorothy could see cardboard boxes on shelves and lines of green bottles, and at the back, a petite, rounded figure in uniform: Ward Sister Nicolette Quinn, reaching for a small brown vial of what Dorothy could have sworn was morphine.
“The Devils won, darling,” Nicolette remarked in an offhand manner, her voice syrupy. While the Ward Sister wore the same white starched cuffs and apron as Dorothy and Reina, Nicolette’s dress was pale pink, indicating her higher rank. A linen cap covered her dyed blond victory rolls, the starched ribbons tied in a bow under her pointed chin. Rouge dotted her round cheeks, and she sported a brightly polished silver circle pin on her apron—against regulations, but the long-term patients loved her rotating collection of brooches.
Dorothy was distracted by the vial Nicolette had taken. It couldn’t have been morphine, though, could it? “What’s that, Ward Sister?”
“The Manchester Devils?” Nicolette turned, her hands empty. “They won. Having quite the streak.”
“Oh, yes—football.” Dorothy didn’t particularly care for the sport, but she followed the games on the wireless and the scores in the newspapers, so as to have something to chat about with the wounded men she tended. “I’m more of a Chelsea fan myself.” She took fresh sheets and a pillowcase from the shelves.
“Did you hear? Frank Clayhorn died.” Nicolette smiled her sweet, mollifying smile, pink tongue darting out for just a second.
Dorothy stopped, hugging the linens to her. It took her a moment to catch her breath. “I’m sorry to hear that.” Frank Clayhorn was one of the nurses’ favorites; he often performed magic tricks to amuse his fellow patients. Dorothy had adored him, and they had often joked together, their laughter echoing around the ward.
There was a knock at the door. “Incoming wounded,” Reina announced in her flat voice.
“I know, Nurse Spector,” Nicolette called back in honeyed tones. “But thank you.” She took in Dorothy’s pale face. “Mr. Clayhorn didn’t suffer, dear. He’s at peace now. And we have another open bed for one of our poor soldiers.”
“I know, I know,” Dorothy said, blinking hard. “But I did really like him.”
Nicolette’s rosebud lips curved into a smile. “I did, too.”
“Mr. Clayhorn died?” Reina asked. “He was recovering nicely.”
“You know how these things go, Nurse Spector—things can turn on a sixpence here, as you and Nurse Wilson are learning.”
Dorothy wasn’t sure, but as Reina left, she thought she heard the gray-haired nurse murmur, “Especially while you’re around.”
Nicolette looked at Dorothy. “I know Nurse Spector is someone who is older—you might instinctively look up to her. But she has a number of bad habits, which I’m trying to break her of. If you see her doing anything amiss—or even outside of standard protocol—let me know, would you, love?”
The young nurse nodded and smiled, her dimple creasing her cheek. “Of course, Ward Sister Quinn.”
* * *
—
Dorothy fitted clean sheets onto the bed, then made her way to the accidents and emergencies room. In the drive, ambulances queued in a long line, packed with injured sailors coming from the Battle of the Atlantic. Orderlies and porters moved the seamen from the vans to gurneys to waiting beds. Inside was a cacophony of coughing and moaning as doctors shouted orders and nurses ran to do their bidding. A man sitting up on a gurney in one corner was screaming, eyes wide open, seemingly unable to either blink or stop.
The wounded sailors had been treated in Navy hospitals on the coast already, but many were still in bad shape. Most were missing arms or legs—sometimes both—and the stumps were wrapped in blood-soaked bandages.
One young towheaded man was bent over vomiting, while another, wearing an eye patch, lay unconscious, his mouth agape, beads of saliva dripping down his chin. It would be a long, grim night of work, Dorothy knew. And it was—in a well-practiced dance with the doctors and other nurses, she irrigated wounds, bandaged wounds, and administered precious morphine.
Hours later, it was over—the men with the worst injuries in surgery or intensive care, the rest cleaned, bandaged, and tucked into their narrow sickbeds to recover as best they could.
While some of the nurses went to the mess for a cup of tea, or straight to the Tube or buses when their shift was through, Dorothy couldn’t stop thinking about Clayhorn’s death. She never played favorites with the patients, but she’d quite liked the older man and enjoyed his jokes. And, despite his age, his death was unexpected.
Feeling melancholy, she walked slowly to the nurses’ room. It was large, with walls of bottle-green lockers and low, scarred wooden benches. Dorothy began undressing. A few lockers down, Nicolette was also changing into civilian clothing—a cherry-colored dress with a cinched black belt and grosgrain-ribbon trim.
“Doing anything exciting on your day off, darling?” Nicolette asked, transferring her circle pin from her pink uniform to her dress.
“Sleeping, mostly,” Dorothy replied, slipping into a pale blue blouse and gray flannel skirt. Then, “I’m sad about Mr. Clayhorn’s death.”
Nicolette heaved a theatrical sigh and fluttered a hand to her heart. “I know. Such a tragedy.”
Dorothy shrugged into a coat. “I thought he was getting better.”
“First better, then worse—I do wish they’d make up their minds!”
“So—what happened to him?”
“His heart gave out,” Nicolette said. “Poor lamb.”
Dorothy busied herself at the mirror with her boiled wool hat, placing it on at an angle, then fastening it with a pearl-tipped pin.
“Well,” Nicolette continued, “it’s not as if he was ever going to recover from those burns. Patients like that—they take our time, our energy, the hospital’s resources…Sooner might be better than later. More room for the soldiers.”
From behind a wall of lockers came Reina Spector’s low voice. “Quite something for a Ward Sister to say. It’s what they’re doing in Nazi Germany, you know—euthanizing the weak and old, giving all the care to the soldiers who can be patched up and sent back into battle.”
“That’s not what I meant!” Nicolette turned to face Reina, who emerged from behind the lockers, wearing a simple serge suit in dark gray, scented with Chanel No. 5. “He was covered by burns,” Nicolette continued. “He had nothing to look forward to but pain and agony for the rest of his life. At least he’s not suffering now.” Nicolette frowned at Reina. “You know, Nurse Spector, I’ve tried and tried to figure out whe
re you’re from, but I just can’t pinpoint your accent.”
Reina pulled her black coat around her. “I’ve moved around quite a bit.”
“For your husband’s job?” Nicolette pressed.
“My husband is dead.”
“Ah.” Nicolette turned to put on her wool cape. But before she closed her locker door, both Dorothy and Reina saw a photograph clipped from The Daily Enquirer taped inside. It was of a young woman with painted lips, smoking a cigarette, straddling a defused bomb.
“Do you know her?” Reina asked, indicating the woman in the clipping.
“No,” Nicolette replied, slamming the door shut with a clang. “Just thought the photo was striking.”
“It’s a lady named Margaret Hope,” Dorothy offered. “She’s working with the UXB squad. First woman to do so. Pretty brave, I’ll say!”
“Or pretty stupid,” Reina murmured.
Dorothy turned to the older nurse. “Do you know her?”
“No.” Reina shook her head, almost sadly, as the three made their way out of the changing room. “I don’t know Margaret Hope at all.”
* * *
—
The three women walked the hospital’s bleach-scented halls together, pausing by the supply closet. Conti, the janitor, was mopping inside. He kept his head down, muttering to himself.
“Are you supposed to be in there?” Nicolette asked, interrupting the steady stream of unintelligible Italian.
“They want me to mop everywhere. I have key.” Conti produced a ring bristling with jangling keys. “See? I all right now?”
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