The King's Justice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  Maggie took a deep breath. “Tomorrow, then.”

  “I’ll meet you outside the Tube stop at noon.”

  * * *

  —

  Later that night, as she lay in bed, Maggie pulled out a flask of gin she’d hidden under her mattress—next to the knife. Sipping as K burrowed in beside her, she looked around the room, once damaged by an errant German bomb. David had gotten the second floor rebuilt while she had been on her mission in Paris. The walls were now painted blue and decorated with framed covers of Vogue, Look, and even the cover of the first Wonder Woman comic book.

  Maggie flicked Diana Prince the V-sign. “You probably sleep just fine, don’t you? Probably one of your magical powers…” K looked at her with slit eyes, got up and stretched, turned around, and settled back in.

  Trying not to think of the day to come, Maggie drank more gin, hoping against hope it would be enough to render her unconscious. She felt the pressure of unshed tears building inside of her, things unsaid, things left undone. She finished the flask, then chain-smoked the rest of the pack of cigarettes, puffing ever more perfect circles into the air, until finally she fell into a numb, sticky slumber.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Saturday, March 6, 1943

  Four days until Nicholas Reitter’s execution

  The Blackout Beast loomed in front of Maggie, the blade of his knife glittering in the dim light. “Come on!” he bellowed. She could hear the rasp of his breath, smell its cloying stench. “Let’s have a game of Hide and Seek, shall we, Miss Hope? You’re it!”

  Maggie ran as fast as she could, slipping on a stretch of floor in her bare feet. She could hear his footsteps behind her. “I’m coming,” he called. She could feel him behind her, breath hot on her neck…

  Just as he grabbed her, Maggie struggled upward to reality and woke, gasping, her nightgown drenched in sweat, her heart a staccato tattoo, the bedclothes in tangles at her feet. She heard a scream. For a moment, she was confused. Was the scream her own, or echoing back from the dream? Her head hurt, her mouth was dry, and she lay disoriented for a few moments. Outside the blackout curtain she could hear noises—the caw of crows, a baby’s cry, and, from far away, a siren. Warily, she sat up, her mouth tasting once more of sour milk. To sleep, perchance to dream—ay, there’s the rub.

  She reached for the bedside lamp’s chain and pulled, producing a cone of inverted light. She looked at the clock and couldn’t stop her brain from calculating the perverted math: four days until Nicholas Reitter’s execution. Ninety-six hours five thousand seven hundred and sixty minutes. Three hundred forty-five thousand and six hundred seconds.

  Noting she was awake, K stretched at the foot of the bed, then walked over. “Meh!”

  Maggie reached out and rubbed his head, grateful for the distraction. “Yes, meh to you, too, Fur Face. Let’s get you your breakfast, shall we?” She sighed. “It’s going to be a long day.”

  * * *

  —

  When Maggie emerged from the Mark Lane Tube station at Tower Hill, the sky was overcast, murky with clouds portending storms. The Thames was steely in the distance, the same color as the battleships sailing under Tower Bridge. In this part of the city, buildings were thicker and higher. The Norman crenellated stone walls of the Tower merged with church spires and factory chimneys against the darkening sky. The air was alive with the sounds of the city—the growl of protest as the bridge lifted, the reverberation of the bells of nearby All Hallows church, the ever-present hiss of the Thames. A Salvation Army brass band in Seething Lane Garden played hymns, the trumpet’s notes sharp.

  A seagull shrieked and dove for a trash bin as Maggie caught sight of Durgin leaning against a thick, bare-branched tree trunk. Although his face was grim and worried, he lifted a hand in greeting. “You’re in battle dress!” he exclaimed.

  While Durgin was in his usual black, Maggie wore her rarely donned ATS dress uniform. Under her cap, her hair was pulled back into tight curls, set with sugar water. Her few light freckles were hidden by a mask of face powder.

  “My armor,” she said, attempting a smile. She was terrified and desperately trying not to show it.

  “I’ve never seen you like this.”

  “Since Reitter’s frightened of working women, I want to look as professional as possible.”

  Durgin’s eyes glided over her service stripes and rank badges. “I had no idea you were so high up.”

  “Navy has the best women’s uniform, actually—most of us hate the ATS one. But it will have to do. Any news on Carmine Basso?”

  “None of the skeletons’ teeth match the description his wife gave us.”

  “Good, that’s good. So it’s possible he’s still alive.” As they set off toward the Tower, Maggie noted the moat had been given over to victory gardens, the tilled black earth frozen. The iron railings that had once protected pedestrians from falling had long been taken away and melted down for planes and bullets.

  “You don’t have to do this,” Durgin said softly.

  “I know. It’s my choice. And I chose to.”

  Walking down the hill, Maggie took in the ancient palace-fortress, its massive walls with slits for arrows. Beyond the moat rose the Tower’s thick outer walls; a Union Jack flew atop the White Tower, snapping smartly in the chill wind. Where so many drums have beaten and heads have fallen, she thought. “Do you think it will rain?” she asked, falling back on the old custom of talking about the weather in the face of uncomfortable emotions.

  “Trying to,” Durgin replied, playing along. “It’s been awfully humid and overcast this week.”

  While the Tower had been open to tourists before the war, it was now back to functioning as a prison. Rudolf Hess, the deputy leader of the Nazi Party, had been held there back in May 1941, as had Jakob Meier, a German spy and the latest person to be executed there in November of the same year. Now it was home to Reitter.

  But only in the recent past it had been a place for families on holidays. “I suppose you came here as a child?” Maggie asked, trying to distract herself.

  “My parents brought me once,” Durgin replied. “When I was about eleven. I loved the arms and armor of course—but then I had nightmares about the little princes and the ghost of Anne Boleyn…”

  “I can imagine.”

  Durgin began singing Gilbert and Sullivan’s “Yeoman of the Guard”:

  It’s a song of a merryman moping mum

  Whose soul was sad, and his glance was glum—

  “Singing about yourself?” Maggie tried to joke. But somehow she couldn’t keep her voice from trembling.

  Who sipped no sup, and who craved no crumb

  As he sighed for the love of a ladye…

  At the bottom of the hill, they stopped outside what had once been the ticket office and refreshment room, now returned to a guard post. “If I remember correctly, this was once the site of the Lion Tower,” Durgin said. “They kept the Royal Menagerie here for hundreds of years.”

  They turned left and proceeded under a rounded Norman arch adorned with the royal lion and unicorn carved in stone, set between two round towers. A Yeoman Warder, in dark blue Tudor-style uniform adorned with red braid, stood guard. Maggie noticed immediately that he held a submachine gun, instead of the traditional staff. He was somewhere in his fifties, she guessed, with a sandy mustache touched with gray. His eyes were brown and sharp, but with enough crinkles at the corners to suggest a life with as many smiles as frowns. “Detective Chief Inspector Durgin and Miss Margaret Hope?” he asked, with a Welsh accent. Brynn was Welsh, Maggie remembered. I’m meeting with the man who killed Brynn.

  “Yes, sir,” Durgin replied.

  “I’m Yeoman Warder Bertie Boyce. Welcome to the Tower.” Shouldering his weapon, the Warder motioned for them to follow him. “I hear you have a meeting with our newest inm
ate, Mr. Reitter.”

  “Yes,” Maggie said, voice tiny. She cleared her throat and tried again, stronger this time. “Yes, we do, Warder Boyce. Thank you for meeting us.”

  He touched the brim of his blue hat. “Plenty of time here, Major.” They crossed the bridge over the moat, then through another archway. Durgin began to whistle. Maggie recognized the melody and recalled the lyrics:

  The screw may twist and the rack may turn,

  And men may bleed and men may burn,

  O’er London town and its golden hoard

  I keep my silent watch and ward!

  “We all love Gilbert and Sullivan here, sir,” Warder Boyce said, in a voice intimating he’d heard the song one too many times. “That’s Byward Tower. And that one’s Bell.” Maggie nodded, but her eyes were unseeing, heart heavy with dread.

  “And there’s Traitors’ Gate on your right,” Boyce continued, as though they were just carefree tourists on holiday. They turned left under the portcullis, past sentries standing guard. Like Warder Boyce, they carried guns. Maggie watched as one of the soldiers turned, marched a few paces, turned again, marched back, and resumed his position.

  The clouds blackened and the sunlight dimmed further as they walked down the cobbled street, their footsteps echoing in the cold, moist air. The stone inner walls were covered in creeping vines.

  Standing on the green-velvet grass was yet another yeoman warder. “Raven Master, Yeoman Arthur Mattock,” Boyce told them as a large, sharp-beaked bird settled in a flurry of iridescent blue-black feathers on Mattock’s red-serge-covered shoulder.

  “Usually ravens are considered birds of ill omen, aren’t they?” Maggie asked. “A group of ravens is called an ‘unkindness,’ after all.”

  “Not here—not with us,” Boyce told her. “The very future of both Country and Kingdom relies upon their continued residence. According to legend, at least six ravens must remain at the Tower, lest both it and the monarchy fall.”

  “How many do you have now?” Durgin asked.

  “Er, well—two. Grip and Mabel.”

  Maggie forced herself to speak. “Why so few?”

  “The Blitz was hard on them, Major. We took a direct hit here—the other ravens dropped dead from shock.”

  “I hadn’t heard the Tower was hit.”

  “No, miss, they kept it out of the papers. The bit about the ravens, too—although Mr. Churchill heard and promised to send us more, to bring our numbers back up. We need six for the legend and always try to have seven, just in case.” Maggie knew the P.M. to be keen on tradition. And he adored and respected animals.

  “The ravens are enlisted, if you can believe,” Boyce continued. “They’re issued identity cards, the same as soldiers and police.” He grinned. “And, as is the case with soldiers and police officers, the ravens can be dismissed for unsatisfactory conduct.” Maggie had a flickering moment of amusement wondering what constituted unsatisfactory conduct for a raven.

  “Meet Grip,” said Boyce.

  Durgin inclined his head to the bird, who regarded him in turn with bright eyes, then made a low, gurgling croak before flapping off in a flurry of ebony wings.

  “Handsome fellow,” Durgin remarked.

  The Warder shook his head. “And doesn’t he know it.”

  They walked past a grassy slope dotted with sycamore trees. “And this is Tower Green,” Warder Boyce said, pointing. “That’s where we executed Jakob Meier. The black-and-white Tudor building there’s King’s House, where Rudolf Hess was kept. Reitter’s here now.”

  A sentry at the door stepped aside as Boyce rang the bell. Still another guard opened the door, greeted them, and led them up the dark wooden stairs to a landing. Boyce knocked at the first door.

  “Enter!” boomed a voice.

  The Warder opened the door. “Detective Chief Inspector Durgin and Major Hope to see you, Colonel.” He nodded to Maggie and Durgin. “Colonel Sir Colin MacRae.”

  The Colonel stood. He was younger than Maggie would have expected, perhaps forty, with light brown hair and a thick mustache. His uniform was pinned, to compensate for the loss of his left arm. After how-do-you-dos were exchanged and coats taken, Maggie had a chance to look around the room. Dark beams bisected the white walls, and a high, wide mullioned oriel window overlooked Tower Green. The one opposite had a view of the outer wall and the Thames beyond.

  “Please sit down,” the Colonel told them. “Would you care for tea?”

  Maggie looked to Durgin and then back to the Colonel as they all took seats. “I want to get this over with as soon as possible,” she said, doing her best not to twist her hands in her lap.

  “Of course. And we can send an escort with you.”

  “Thank you, but I’d prefer privacy.”

  “Read about the takedown in the papers. I’m sure you can handle yourself,” the Colonel said. “Nice shot, if I may say. Now, for the rules: please don’t pass him anything, no paper clips, pens, or pencils. Don’t reach through the bars, or even touch the bars, for that matter. And don’t accept anything from him.”

  “Of course,” Maggie said.

  “How has the prisoner’s behavior been?” Durgin inquired in a matter-of-fact tone.

  “He was pleasant enough when he came in this morning,” the Colonel replied. “Courteous, even. Hard to believe he could have killed so many young women and in such a chilling way.”

  “Believe it,” Maggie replied.

  Durgin cleared his throat. “Has he had any visitors?”

  “No, no visitors.”

  The detective nodded. “Did he have any mail transferred with him from HM Brixton?”

  “A few letters from his mother.”

  “Do you have them?”

  “Of course.” The Colonel went through a stack of manila folders on his desk and selected one. He handed it to Durgin, who flipped through.

  “May I see?” Maggie asked.

  Durgin handed her the folder. There was nothing personal, just biblical passages, handwritten, some with misspellings. She quickly scanned them:

  Behold, I was shapen in iniquity; and in sin did my mother conceive me. Psalms 51:5

  And when they were departed, behold, the angel of the Lord appeareth to Joseph in a dream, saying, Arie, and tke the young child and his mother, and flee into Egypt, and be thou there until I bring thee word: for Herod will see the young child to destroy him. Matthew 2:13

  Can a woman forget her sucing child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? yea, they may foget, yet will I not forget thee. Isaah 49:15

  And his mother said unto him, Upon me be thy curse, my son: only obey my voice, and go etch me them. Genesis 27:13

  Then she said, I desire one small petition of thee; pray thee, say me not nay. And the king said unto her, Ask on, my mother: for I will not say thee nay. 1 Kings 2:20

  Moreover his mother made him a little coat, and brought it to him from year to year, when she came up with her husband to offer the yearly sarifice. 1 Samul 2:19

  My son, hear the instruction of thy father, and forsake not the law of thy other: Provrbs 1:8

  And Elijah took the child, and brought him down out of the hamber into the house, and delivered him unto his mother: and Elijh said, See, thy son liveth. 1 Kings 17:23

  Therefore shalt thou fall in the day, and the proet also shall fall with the in the night, and I will destroy thy other. Hosa 4:5

  And say, What is thy mother? A lioness: she ay down among lions, she nourished her whelps among young lions. Ezekiel 19:2

  Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil, as a roring lion, walketh about, seeking whom he may devour. 1 Peter 5:8

  And when the morning aose, then the angels hastened Lot, saying, rise, take thy wife, and thy tw daughter, which are here; lest
thou be consumed in the iniquity of the city. Genesis 19:15

  Too nervous for anything to register, she passed the folder back to the Colonel. “All right, then,” she said with much more confidence than she felt. “Let’s get this over with, shall we?” She stood, smoothing down her skirt. She felt faint. No time for that now, Hope.

  “He’s on the third floor. Last cell on the right.”

  “Thank you.” She looked to Durgin. “May DCI Durgin and I have a moment together?”

  The Colonel rose. “Of course,” he said and then left, making sure to close the door. Maggie and Durgin embraced fiercely. When Maggie finally pulled away, he offered up a lopsided grin for her benefit. “Ready?” he asked.

  “As I’ll ever be,” she replied.

  “Courage.”

  She nodded. It was time.

  Reitter was waiting for her.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Stiff upper lip now, Hope, she thought as she climbed the stairs, the leather soles of her oxford shoes tapping. You outwitted an assassin, escaped the Gestapo, and survived a Scottish prison island. Here, you’re on home ground—and he’s the prisoner, not you. You have the upper hand. Remember that.

  Maggie finally reached the third floor, feeling like Bluebeard’s wife unlocking the final door in the castle. She turned down the hall. There was only one cell, hemmed by iron bars. A wooden chair was set a few feet away from it. Maggie was terrified. He’d killed so many people. Brynn. Other SOE trainees. Men of the Met Police. And now he’s waiting for me. Is he really going to help? Or is this just another sick and twisted game?

  She looked past Reitter to the barred window overlooking the Thames and Tower Bridge. “Lovely view.” From the vantage point, she could see the beach where one of the suitcases had washed up. This isn’t about me—it’s about saving lives.

  Maggie saw Reitter’s shadow on the wall of his cell before she saw him. For a moment, her breath caught in her throat. But she forced herself to breathe deeply. I’m in control. I’m doing the questioning now.