The King's Justice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “The night watchman likes to listen to the wireless. Shhhh…” he said, putting one finger to his lips. “Don’t tell Governor Turner.”

  “What do you think you know?”

  Reitter began pacing in a tight circle. “I know the bones you’re finding belonged to men.”

  Durgin didn’t blink. “Well, there’s a fifty-fifty chance of that.”

  Reitter smiled, revealing a chipped front tooth. “I also know the men were conscientious objectors.”

  Durgin’s expression remained neutral. “What makes you say that?”

  “I’m right—aren’t I?”

  “What else?”

  “I can tell you things. Things that would help you solve the case.”

  A muscle in Durgin’s cheek twitched. “I’m listening.”

  “Do you want to know?”

  “Still listening.”

  “Don’t be coy, Detective. You’re here to see me within twenty-four hours of receiving my letter. You’re dying to know.”

  “All right—then tell me.”

  “The murderer knows how I think.”

  “How’s that?”

  “The killer knows me. And while imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, I don’t want my legacy upstaged.”

  “And how does this new killer know you?”

  Reitter chuckled. “Oh no, Detective Chief Inspector.” He took a step closer to the bars, crushing a cockroach under his boot. “This is where we start bargaining.”

  “Look around, Mr. Reitter. You’re not in any position to negotiate.”

  “On the contrary,” he said, tongue ringing his lips, “there are any number of things I want. For example, a life sentence.”

  “That’s not up to me.”

  “No, but you could begin the process, appeal to the King.” At this, Durgin looked directly at him. “No one would even have to know. You could just change my identity and stick me in a prison somewhere in the Highlands.”

  “You’ve thought about this.”

  Reitter raised and dropped his shoulders. “Not much else to do around here.”

  “Say that’s impossible.”

  “It’s not,” the prisoner replied. “And there are a few other things as well.” The detective raised bushy eyebrows. “I want to be moved to the Tower. I want a view of the Thames.”

  Durgin stuck his hands into his pockets and rocked back on his heels. “I can look into it.”

  “And I want access to newspapers. And books. Pencils and paper.”

  “A tall order.”

  “That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”

  “I haven’t even confirmed to you the victims were men and, if they are, that they’re conscientious objectors.”

  “But we both know they were. You wouldn’t still be standing here if they weren’t. Oh, and I have one additional condition.”

  “Really,” Durgin drawled.

  The prisoner took one more step to the bars, the shadows crossing his face. “Hope.”

  Durgin’s brow furrowed before he understood. “You want to speak with Miss Hope? No.” A vein under the DCI’s eye began to twitch. “No, out of the question.”

  Reitter withdrew from the bars and settled slowly into the chair in the middle of his cell. He crossed his thin legs. “I’ll only speak with her. Otherwise the deal’s off. And more people will die while you and your Keystone Kops try to solve this case. You have nothing and the public is getting scared.” He grinned. “Soon, they’ll turn on the police.”

  Durgin tilted his head. “Why Miss Hope?”

  “Because…” Despite the scar tissue binding his face, Reitter tried to smile. “Because she and I have unfinished business.”

  * * *

  —

  Back at his desk at Scotland Yard, Durgin made a call to arrange for Reitter to be transferred to the Tower first thing the following morning. While he was on the telephone, he scrawled notes from the meeting:

  Reitter claims to know the murderer.

  He knows the murderer is targeting conscientious objectors. How?

  What’s his relationship to killer?

  Why do they both want his sentence commuted?

  Working together?

  Five days until execution

  Then,

  Only wants Maggie Hope

  When Durgin hung up, he loosened his tie. Almost immediately, the telephone rang, a tinny, metallic bell. “DCI Dur—”

  It was Maggie. “You can’t not tell conscientious objectors they’re being targeted for murder.” She was telephoning from her kitchen, leaning against the counter, holding a cigarette in one hand and stroking K with the other.

  “Maggie—”

  “No, listen to me, there’s something funny going on with Carmine Basso,” she said, exhaling smoke, “even if his wife is oblivious. Or covering up something. Look, you met Milo. He’s barely old enough to shave.” She took a pull on her cigarette. “He needs to know!”

  “And yet we can’t tell him.”

  “Why in heaven not?”

  He began to doodle the White Tower in the margin of his notes. “We don’t want the killer to know we’ve figured that part out.”

  She tucked the telephone receiver under her chin and picked up the cat. He settled against her, purring loudly. “It would save lives.” She sank her fingers into his thick fur.

  “Maggie, there are things we tell the press and things we don’t. Believe me, a lot of soul-searching was done over what we’d divulge about this case. But if conscientious objectors start changing their behavior, the killer might begin targeting some other segment of the population—and we might not necessarily know who. Knowing this, and keeping it from the papers, gives us an advantage.” K leapt from her arms, then began to bathe his paws. “Help us.” His voice softened. “Help me.”

  “How?”

  “We received a note from Nicholas Reitter. He says he has information on Operation Pinkie.”

  “And?”

  “And what he knows could save lives.”

  “And?”

  “And he wants to talk to you.”

  It took Maggie a moment to realize just what Durgin was asking. “It was horrible, terrible to testify in court.” She tapped ashes into a cracked saucer. “And I didn’t even have to talk to him there. Even though he stared at me as though he’d like to rip me limb from limb.”

  “If you choose to speak to him—if and only if—you’ll be perfectly safe. He’ll be behind bars. There is some connection between the new killer and him—my gut tells me there is.”

  “Your ‘gut.’ ”

  “My gut, yes.” Durgin put down the pen.

  “Why me?”

  He sighed. “Reitter wrote to me, saying he knew who it was. I visited him today and he said he’d only speak with you. And I wish to God I didn’t have to ask—but lives are at stake.”

  “Yes, the lives of conscientious objectors—the same ones you’re deliberately not warning.” She thought of Carmine, of Milo, of the other brave men she worked with. How vulnerable they were.

  Still, the thought of meeting with Reitter left her shaken. “No. I’m sorry. I can’t. I just can’t do it. I can’t see him again, ever.”

  “Maggie? Can we at least meet up for a cup of tea? Talk this over?”

  “No,” she said, straightening. “I have a book club meeting with Vera Baines tonight, remember? Rebecca?” She hung up.

  * * *

  —

  Mrs. Vera Baines lived in Marylebone, across from Regent’s Park. Maggie arrived before sunset, but it was still cold and dank in the streets, the shadows slanting. It was her fourth visit to Vera’s, and she was slowly becoming used to calling at the Nash-designed, symmetrical terraced house, the red rays
of the setting sun reflected pink by the bone-colored Georgian building.

  Vera had been a widow for eleven years, but, even in her eighties, she kept up with friends, traveled, volunteered as an ARP warden—and hosted a monthly book club.

  Maggie rang the bell and waited. It took a few minutes, but Vera finally opened the door. “Miss Hope! So glad you could make it!”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world, Mrs. Baines,” Maggie replied, allowing herself to be led inside as the small woman took her coat. She smiled to herself when she saw the walking stick with the silver bulldog in the umbrella rack.

  “Come in, come in!” With impeccable posture, Vera led Maggie to the library, where a cheery fire crackled behind a grate. “Let’s see—you already know Mrs. Marlow and Mrs. Patterson,” she said, gesturing to two women on a sofa, who each raised a hand in greeting. “And this is Miss Monica Friedman, one of our newest members. She’s another ARP warden,” Vera said.

  Maggie offered her hand. “How do you do?”

  The young, petite brunette shook it gently. “How do you do? It’s lovely to finally put a face to the name. Please call me Monica.”

  “Maggie.”

  “And here are Mrs. Bennett and Mrs. MacDonald,” Vera continued. “Mrs. Crewe and Miss Lennox have volunteer shifts tonight, so it will just be us. Please, Miss Hope. Sit down. I’ll pour you a cup of tea. And help yourself to apple turnovers, made with margarine, I’m afraid, but not too bad. I’m lucky enough to have an apple tree in the garden.”

  Don’t sit under the apple tree, with anyone else but me, a memory of her time incarcerated in Scotland, popped into Maggie’s head as she took a seat next to Monica and pushed the memory aside.

  While Vera poured tea into a fragile bone-china cup, the ladies on the sofa took tiny bites of turnover and discussed the Academy Awards. Mrs. Miniver had won for best picture and Greer Garson for best actress. When everyone had their cups, Vera took her seat.

  “We’ve all finished the novel, yes?” The women nodded. “Good. A show of hands, please—who thought Mrs. Danvers murdered the first Mrs. de Winter?”

  All of the ladies, including Vera, raised their hands. Maggie was the only one who did not. “And why do you think we—with one exception—were duped?”

  “Well,” Monica offered, “from the beginning Mrs. Danvers is spiteful and manipulative.”

  “True,” Vera replied. “However, there are endless numbers of spiteful and manipulative people who don’t actually murder.”

  Ha, Maggie thought.

  Mrs. Bennett spoke: “When Mrs. Danvers is introduced, she’s described as ‘tall and gaunt, dressed in deep black, whose prominent cheek bones and great, hollow eyes gave her a skull’s face, parchment-white, set on a skeleton’s frame.’ ”

  Vera raised a perfectly penciled eyebrow. “There are also plenty of unattractive people who don’t murder.”

  Too true.

  “Our unnamed heroine, the second Mrs. de Winter, is afraid of her,” offered Mrs. MacDonald.

  “But she’s young and, quite frankly, not all that bright. Certainly not confident. Max de Winter treated her badly from the beginning,” Maggie interjected. “ ‘I’m asking you to marry me, you little fool.’ We all should have known then something wasn’t right.”

  “And I was going to say it’s wrong to suspect a woman,” Vera added. “Women, even poor, twisted Mrs. Danvers, don’t have the wherewithal to commit murder. Or poison, maybe, but shooting someone?” Maggie must have made a face. “You disagree, Maggie? Do you think it’s possible for a woman to commit such a crime?”

  “I do,” she stated. “Let’s not forget she’s capable of burning down Manderley in the end.” She noticed a couple of heads nodding slightly in agreement with her.

  “Well, I do love Agatha Christie,” Monica added. “And she definitely has unsavory female murderers. But they generally use poison. I’ve always assumed poison was a more…feminine method. A woman shooting another woman seemed, to me at least, a bit implausible.”

  Maggie thought of all the women of the SOE, how they’d been taught to fight dirty and kill silently. How so many of them—herself included—turned out to be quite good at the job. Maggie knew her own hands weren’t clean: she’d killed one man and been responsible for the deaths of more. But those were not the sorts of things one brought up at book club.

  “I think that all humans, men and women,” Maggie began, “are conditioned to do what they—we—must to survive. I’m not saying that to defend Mr. de Winter, of course, but I don’t think Mrs. Danvers is incapable of murder, under the right circumstances. It’s just that she loved Rebecca and this isn’t that book.”

  “Do you really think so?” asked Mrs. Bennett. “I’ve always thought that the female sex ordinarily rises above men in morality and kindness and gentleness.”

  “Perhaps,” Maggie said, but in her mind’s eye she saw the face of Clara Hess—her mother—one of the Nazi inner circle, who illustrated only the opposite traits. Clara had been captured by MI-5, then imprisoned in Chatswell House, a prison for high-ranking officers. During the chaos following a fire, Clara had escaped. The last time Maggie had checked in with Frain, Clara’s whereabouts were unknown. “But that sentiment might just be flattering to women. Or it might be men are too afraid to picture us angry enough to kill.”

  Monica’s eyes were wide. “Surely no woman has ever behaved like that? No lady, at least.”

  “In the U.S., we have the example of Lizzie Borden,” Maggie said. “Our Lizzie used an ax. Few methods of murder are more violent.”

  “Yes,” Mrs. MacDonald said, “but she was American.” She looked embarrassed. “No offense meant, Miss Hope.”

  “None taken. Well, if you’re looking for British examples, there’s Mary Bateman, who was known as the Yorkshire Witch, executed in 1809. Mary Ann Cotton with her twenty victims, hanged in 1873. Rebecca Smith, who killed eight of her own children…”

  “But they all used poison, did they not, Maggie?” Vera inquired.

  “Well…yes.”

  Monica offered, “Surely there’s no female killer as legendary as Jack the Ripper.”

  Or the Blackout Beast, Maggie thought. She and Vera exchanged glances. “Oh, I’m so terribly sorry,” Monica said, realizing the roles the two women had played in the trial. “I’m such a twiddlebrain!”

  “Not at all, my dear,” Vera said. She rose. “I also have some biscuits I made today, with mashed pippin apples, if you can believe. I’ll bring them out.” Mrs. Bennett and Mrs. MacDonald rose to offer assistance.

  “Well, that was cheery,” Maggie said. “Perhaps next time we could read Evelyn Waugh.”

  Monica frowned, still thinking. “How did those women get away with so many murders for so long, do you think?”

  Maggie wanted to tread gently. “First of all, I think good people tend not to be suspicious of others. They just can’t envision anyone doing things they’re incapable of doing themselves. I also think we’ve all read too many books and seen too many films—there’s always the telltale ugliness of the murderer. That’s probably why so many suspect our Mrs. Danvers.” Clara Hess was—and probably still is—remarkably beautiful. “And then there’s the fact murderers are often smart.” Like Nicholas Reitter. “They know how to appear ordinary, blend in with the crowd, not draw attention to themselves.”

  “I suppose you’re right—but how awful.” Monica went to fold up the newspaper she’d had out, The Jewish Review and Observer.

  “Wait,” Maggie said. The headline read HITLER: WE WILL EXTERMINATE ALL POLISH JEWS IN 1943. “Do you mind if I take a look?”

  “Please.”

  Maggie read: “Not a single Jew will be left alive in Poland by the end of 1943 if the Nazis are not defeated by that time, a report from Turkey received here predicted. The detailed plans to exterminat
e the Jewish population of Poland by the end of the year were prepared by Reinhard Heydrich, deputy chief of the Gestapo, shortly before he was executed in the Czech protectorate last summer.”

  She blinked. “I—I never saw it put quite like that.”

  “Two million Jews have already been killed,” Monica said, matter-of-factly. “There was just a huge rally at Madison Square Garden in New York to help save the Jews in Eastern Europe. I read in The New York Times over twenty-one thousand people showed up.”

  Maggie swallowed. “My word.”

  “My younger brothers are in the Army,” Monica said, “the Eighteenth Army Group, under General Sir Harold Alexander. They’re in Tunisia now.”

  “Brave young men,” Vera said, setting down the plate of biscuits, the two other ladies in tow.

  There’s so much evil in the world, Maggie thought. And so many are making such sacrifices to fight it. She handed the newspaper back to Monica. “Mrs. Baines,” she said.

  Vera was settling into a buttery leather armchair. “Yes, my dear?”

  Maggie knew Vera had seen the work of Reitter firsthand, knew exactly what he did, how sadistic and violent it was. “If you could help someone—maybe many people—by talking to someone like Mr. Reitter—would you?”

  “I would.” The snowy-haired woman didn’t hesitate. “I wouldn’t like it, of course. I’d absolutely detest it. But I’d do my duty all the same.”

  Maggie then knew what she had to do. “Mrs. Baines, may I please use your telephone? It won’t take but a moment.”

  “My study’s through that door.”

  Maggie sat at the desk and picked up the green receiver. She called Durgin’s direct line. “It’s time for me—regardless of my feelings—to do my duty,” she said without preamble.

  “You mean—?”

  “Yes. I’ll meet with Reitter.”

  Durgin exhaled. “When?”

  “No time like the present, is there? That’s what Vera Baines would say, so what about tomorrow? I can meet you at Brixton prison?”

  “Reitter’s being moved to the Tower tomorrow morning. We can go together.”