The King's Justice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

He shook his head with a rueful smile. “My Anna Maria was born in seventeen thirteen. She was alive long before I—and I had hoped she would live long after me. Antonio Stradivari made these beautiful instruments to give us all lessons in humility.” He added solemnly, “Every time we play one, we are reminded of our own mortality.”

  “Maestro Genovese,” Durgin began, “we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  “Giacomo, please.” The musician raised both hands. “I’ve already spoken to the police, to you, DCI Durgin—” He turned back to Maggie. “And I don’t consider her my violin. Rather, I am her player. Let me put it to you this way: in my life, I have had many lovers. But only one violin. I am”—he put a hand over his heart—“utterly devastated.”

  Maggie looked over to the violin case on the dressing room table, remembering how the stage lights had made the instrument’s varnish glint gold. “The violin you played tonight is also beautiful.”

  “Yes,” Giacomo replied, “but she is not mine. Picture, if you will, a man in love with…” he paused. “With a beautiful, soulful redhead. If she leaves him, will he find consolation in the arms of a young blonde? Perhaps, for a moment or two. But it is the Titian-haired beauty who will haunt his dreams for the rest of his life.”

  Durgin cleared his throat. “I’d like to talk to you about the night your violin was stolen. You played a concert here?” Giacomo nodded. “And this is the same dressing room you used that evening?”

  “Yes,” Giacomo said, looking around darkly. “Same room. This”—he punctured the air dramatically with one finger—“is where the kidnapping occurred.”

  “And who has access to this room?”

  “I told you already!”

  Maggie rose and went over to the violin. “May I?” she asked. He nodded. She opened the case. Inside, the violin glowed with a tawny varnish. She took a sharp breath, overcome by its beauty.

  “You play?”

  “Viola. Not well. And a long time ago.”

  He nodded. “You may touch it.”

  “Oh, I couldn’t—”

  “Please.”

  Maggie reached into the case and pulled the violin from its nest of blue velvet. “And the bow, too, of course,” he said.

  She removed the bow, then, from muscle memory, tucked the instrument under her chin. It almost felt alive.

  “Play,” he commanded.

  Maggie drew the bow across one string, her fingers tempted to vibrato. The sound grew and reverberated in the small room—sweet, rich, a touch mournful. “It’s beautiful,” she said, not daring to play more.

  As she put the instrument back in the case, she noticed a photograph tucked into a corner. In it, a woman gazed into the camera. She was perhaps in her early fifties, with dark hair and dark, sad eyes. “Who’s she?” Maggie asked, pointing.

  “Ah,” Giacomo replied. “My aunt, Silvana Genovese. She raised me from the time I was three. My parents died of pneumonia not long after they arrived in London. My aunt took care of me.”

  Maggie gave a sad smile. “My aunt raised me, too.” They regarded each other with a mutual understanding. “Did your aunt come to the concert that night?”

  “Yes, yes, she did.”

  Durgin cut in, “Is she on the list of people you gave to the police?”

  “Mia zia?” He looked at Durgin in horror. “My aunt? Of course not.”

  “But she was here, in the dressing room,” Durgin pressed.

  “We’re not accusing her of anything, but she might have seen something, heard something you didn’t,” Maggie said. If Giacomo had been surrounded by admirers and well-wishers, he might have missed certain things. “May we contact her?”

  “If you must,” he said. “But she doesn’t know anything.”

  “Sometimes,” Maggie said, as Durgin handed Giacomo his program for him to write his aunt’s address, “people know more than you think. Even more than they think. A small detail that didn’t consciously register…”

  “You are right. Thank you,” he said to her, grabbing hold of her hand and pressing it reverently to his lips in a kiss that was surprisingly intimate. The top of her hand tingled where his lips had been, and she felt if he didn’t let go of her, she might just combust. “Please, Miss Hope—find my Anna Maria.” She withdrew her hand.

  With smoky eyes, he looked from her to Durgin. “Are you together?” Durgin nodded and Maggie blushed.

  “Yes? Too bad for me. You are a lucky man,” he said, waving a finger at the detective. “And if he ever becomes unlucky,” he told Maggie with a Cheshire Cat grin, “come find me at Claridge’s.”

  “Detective Chief Inspector Durgin will do everything to help find your violin,” she told him, as she and Durgin turned to leave.

  * * *

  —

  The concert and interview over, Maggie and Durgin went to his flat, a small efficiency apartment not far from Charing Cross, within walking distance of Scotland Yard. Durgin had lived there since his divorce, but it looked as if he’d just moved in. Still, a housekeeper kept it clean and neat and, during the daytime at least, it had a view of the sky and the chimneys across the street.

  “I don’t like the way he looked at you,” Durgin said as he opened the door for Maggie.

  “Are you jealous?” she teased.

  “Desperately,” he replied, sounding anything but. Durgin flipped on the lights and then took Maggie’s coat.

  She sat on the lone sofa, which was low and hard and covered in scratchy wool, as he went to what could charitably be called the kitchen. It was just a sink, half icebox, and two-burner stove. Durgin had mentioned once that the oven was broken and he’d never bothered to get it fixed. “Tea?” he asked, a lopsided smile on his face. It was wide and warm, completely different from the one he might show in public.

  “Yes, please.” Maggie leaned back and made herself more comfortable, even though her heart was beating irregularly as she gazed at him. “The concert was beautiful,” she said, tucking one ankle behind the other. “I once heard someone say, ‘Music is the hospital for the soul.’ ”

  “Poor Giacomo,” Durgin said, turning on the gas. Blue-and-orange flames burst from the burner. “Losing his precious violin. He sounded like a widower grieving.”

  He set the kettle down, then rummaged in the cupboards for tea things. “Good for you, finding the aunt’s photograph, by the way.” Maggie tensed. “I’ll interview her, of course,” Durgin said, noting her distress. “We’re also watching at the violin shops in London—J. P. Guivier and Co., W. E. Hill & Sons, and the like—to see if anyone’s trying to sell one. Auction houses. Also the black market.”

  “Giacomo’s violin won’t have any kind of paperwork.”

  “No, not legitimate paperwork. But a Stradivarius certificate’s much easier to fake than the violin itself.”

  “What are the odds of finding it?” Maggie could hear the water begin to boil. “Or her, as he calls it.”

  “Not good,” Durgin admitted. “If we’re lucky, someone might discover it in a generation or so.” He poured the steaming water into the pot with the tea bags to let it steep. “Which doesn’t mean we’ll stop looking now, of course.”

  “Of course.” Maggie rummaged through her handbag. “Do you mind if I smoke?”

  “Actually, I do—I’m sorry, but I can’t abide the smell.”

  Maggie snapped her handbag closed and pushed it away as Durgin poured the steaming tea. “If I’m going to do men’s work, I’m also going to enjoy men’s pleasures. Like wearing trousers and smoking.”

  Her answer brought a look of raw vulnerability to Durgin’s eyes. “And drinking from pint glasses, speeding on the motorbike, and taking your life in your hands working on bombs.” He came over with two mugs and set them on the table.

  They sat facing each other, their bodies near
ly touching. His eyes grazed her. “You look beautiful,” he said. “I might even come to like this new scent.” He reached over and tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear. “I love your hair,” he said. “So many colors—copper and flame and gold.” He leaned in and kissed her jawbone, then down her neck.

  “James,” Maggie whispered. They found each other’s lips and the kiss deepened.

  When she became insistent, unbuttoning his shirt to grasp bare flesh, he stopped her. “No rushing. We have time.” But as Maggie reached to run her hands over his shoulders and down his back, pulling up the back of his shirt, the kiss changed from less demanding to more bittersweet.

  “Is everything all right?” she asked, her breath catching in her throat.

  Durgin pulled away. “It’s just—it’s just been a long time.”

  “For me, too.”

  He held her tightly.

  “Why won’t you make love to me, James?”

  “We have time, Maggie. I don’t want to rush.” He rose. “Excuse me.” He headed to the door of the small loo. Heart still thudding, Maggie tried to sip her tea, but it was still too hot. She stood and began to circle the room.

  Durgin’s desk was a mess, piled high with folders and papers, a black telephone, and a jade paperweight carved in the shape of a wolf. The air was thick with the sweet smell of decaying apple, emanating from the trash basket. She jumped a bit when the phone rang, a harsh metallic jangle.

  She looked to the bathroom door and then back to the phone, not knowing the etiquette. Should I answer it or not? Maggie couldn’t help herself and went to the desk, but when she got there, the ringing stopped.

  Still, she didn’t leave the desk. Once a spy, always a spy, she thought. There were the usual items—bills, paycheck stubs, random notes in Durgin’s familiar scrawl, a shopping list: tea, dish soap, antacids. A manila folder sat precariously on top of a large pile. Maggie reached for it, then began flipping through. It was a file marked OPERATION PINKIE, but it was obviously about Jimmy Greenteeth.

  Maggie read through the papers, realizing the police were withholding one important detail from her and from the public. Every skeleton discovered—six now—had been found with a white feather. She shivered as she remembered the girl at the pub giving Milo a white feather. Is Milo somehow marked for death now?

  Taking the folder back to the table, she sat down again and reached for her tea. It was cool enough to drink now, but bitter. Still, she sipped as she turned through the rest of the pages. The hypothesis was the men were registered conscientious objectors. She couldn’t help but think of the men in the 107th, conscientious objectors all. They were in danger—and not just from exploding bombs. Maggie became angrier and angrier. How are they supposed to defend themselves if they don’t even know there’s a threat? When Durgin returned, she held up the file.

  “Ah,” he said, an edge in his voice. “You found it.”

  Maggie felt a prickle of anger. “The COs are possibly—probably—targets. You must warn them!”

  Durgin swore in Scottish Gaelic, then sighed. “I’m afraid I can’t.”

  “But you can. You have to. Milo just got a white feather—you saw yourself!”

  Durgin went to her and put his arms around her. His face, with its sharp lines, was stern, but his voice was soft. “If we let that information out, we give up our advantage. The killer might change his methods and we’d be back to square one.”

  Maggie pulled away. “So you’re willing to sacrifice the lives of the few for the many?” She thought back to SOE operations in Paris. “I see you’re a believer in consequentialist morality.”

  A vein throbbed in his forehead. “If it means saving as many lives as possible, then yes.” He took the file from her and placed it back on the desk.

  “I’m a believer in deontological ethics, myself,” Maggie said, her voice shaking. “Save the one and also save the many. And by the way, someone called when you were in the loo.”

  “Did you answer?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” His eyes were dark with suppressed anger, but he kissed the top of her head. “I’m sure it was a wrong number.”

  “Now, where were we?” Maggie asked, lifting her chin.

  “Getting you a taxi home.” A flash of sadness flitted across his face. “It’s late and I want you to be safe.”

  “I’d really prefer to stay here—”

  “I have an early morning meeting tomorrow,” Durgin told her.

  “But—”

  “We have time, Maggie.”

  Her face flushed. How did a woman say certain things? “There’s a war on, you know.” Either of us could be dead tomorrow. What’s wrong with seizing the day? Or the night, as the case might be?

  “We’ve only known each other a relatively short while.” He pulled her close. “There’s no need to rush.”

  Maggie felt the keen edge of desire, although with the frustration of disappointment. Life was infused with the possibility of death, refracted through the lens of war. For her, the war had extended a sexual freedom previous generations of women never dreamed of enjoying, and the heady combination of danger and sex seemed impossible to resist.

  As Maggie reluctantly gathered her things to leave, she realized, I have been bewitched by the love charm of bombs.

  * * *

  —

  Later that same evening, two sailors, one American and one British, entered a pub separately, strangers. Five hours and countless pints later, they left together, ducking into the misty shadows of the blackout. The American, Billy O’Sullivan, laughed as they stumbled along the cobblestone street, the stones slick with moisture, each with a shuttered flashlight. “We’re going to get caught!”

  The Brit, Andrew Carter, was more cautious. “Shhhh…Trust me, I know where we can go.” He led the Yank to the edge of the Thames, then down a moss-covered set of stairs.

  “Where the hell are we going?”

  “There’s a little beach,” Carter explained.

  “Oh, how romantic,” O’Sullivan joked.

  “It’s more private than any of the men’s lavs,” Carter rejoined over the lap of waves on the shore. “And we’ll be able to see any coppers coming.” They found a dark corner against the seawall. “Come here.”

  O’Sullivan laughed softly. “You don’t outrank me down here,” he countered, but his voice was husky.

  Carter put his arms around the taller man and held him closer, burying his face in his neck and licking salty skin. But when O’Sullivan turned around and began to undo the buckle of his trousers, he slipped, falling forward. “Shit!”

  “What happened?”

  “I fell on something—a rock maybe.”

  “You all right?”

  “I just need a minute,” O’Sullivan said, getting to his feet, then rubbing his shins. “Hey, this isn’t a rock.”

  “Oh, for God’s sake…” Carter’s frustration was palpable.

  O’Sullivan felt around the edges. “It’s a suitcase.” He pulled out his flashlight. The suitcase was waterlogged, made of canvas and bound in tan leather. The American opened it.

  Both their flashlights illuminated the contents—bones glowing white. “Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” O’Sullivan gasped.

  “This is bad,” Carter said. “It’s one of Jimmy Greenteeth’s.”

  “Who?”

  “Local murderer—don’t you read the papers?”

  “Just the comics and the horoscope.” Then, “We need to tell the coppers.”

  “No, we can’t.”

  “We have to!” O’Sullivan insisted. “My uncle Jimmy’s with the LAPD—if he knew I’d found something this big and didn’t turn it in, well…”

  “What are you going to tell the coppers you were doing down by the Thames in the early hours of the morning?”<
br />
  “Look, I’ll say I needed to take a piss and slipped down the stairs in the dark. Believe me, when we show the police a suitcase full of bones, they’ll be too distracted to ask me any questions.”

  “What about us?” Carter said, sounding put out.

  “The night is young, my dear Limey friend—the night is still young.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Thursday, March 4, 1943

  Six days until Nicholas Reitter’s execution

  In the early hours of the morning, the 107th received a report from the Air Ministry. A Stirling bomber had crashed near London’s Primrose Hill. The airplane had been torn in two, and a one-thousand-pound bomb, fitted with a 37D Mk IV long-delay fuse, had become detached from the ripped-off tail unit, now forty yards from the aircraft. The preliminary examination by the armament officer showed the ampule inside was still intact. As a precaution, the area had been cordoned off and the danger area was guarded by sentries.

  Maggie was on duty. She and the sappers were driven to the bomb site, where a tent had been erected. They were met by men from Kidbrooke, an RAF equipment store in London, who arrived with a prototype piece of Bomb Disposal apparatus. She waited near the car, drinking hot tea from a thermos and examining the BD, while the sappers dug up what they could.

  At last they returned. “What news?” she asked.

  Jack Roland shook his head. “Not sure if it’s sustained damage.”

  “Oh, goodie.” The bomb couldn’t be accepted back into service while fused with this long-delay pistol, but it would be wasteful to blow up a perfectly good bomb: if disarmed it could be taken in another aircraft heading for Germany. “Guess I should have a go, see if I can remove the pistol?” She gave a crooked smile. “I’ve never worked on one of our own before—this should prove interesting.”

  Roland nodded. “I’m recommending we get a lorry close by and attach a wire cable. Then we can tow the bastard toward a safer area.”

  “What about the plane?” Maggie asked. Surely it was still loaded with incendiary bombs.