The King's Justice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  So many conscientious objectors dead, Maggie thought, feeling her throat tighten and her stomach churn. She put her dripping head in her hands—she’d been too late for many of the men. She’d nearly been too late for Milo. She wanted to scream in both relief and shame.

  “How long?” he called up to the driver, a burly fellow with large, meaty hands that made the steering wheel look small.

  “Five minutes. Get out of the way, you bleeding bugger!” he shouted at a hapless pedestrian. “Bloody storm.”

  Maggie could only brace herself as the ambulance careened around corners, watching Milo’s still, pale face. “Will he make it?” she finally allowed herself to ask.

  The medic didn’t look away from Milo. “We’re doing our best, miss.”

  At the hospital, a doctor and two nurses were already prepped and waiting for their arrival. The medics pushed Milo’s body on a gurney from the ambulance through to the entrance of the accidents and emergencies room through sheets of rain; Maggie followed, her knee twinging in pain and her wrist throbbing, oblivious to the rain soaking her.

  “Eighteen-year-old male,” the kind-eyed medic announced. “He was given a shot of what we think was nitroglycerin. We’ve given him saline to start. Let’s get him settled.”

  The doctor nodded and replied, “On my count, then. One, two three…” Together, they transferred Milo to a hospital bed.

  A nurse, white hair pulled back beneath her linen cap, turned to Maggie. “You’ll need to leave, miss.” Maggie could only stare blankly at Milo. “There’s a waiting room that way,” the nurse said, pointing down a corridor. “Ask one of the nurses there for a towel,” she added kindly.

  Maggie’s eyes never left Milo’s pale face. “I want to stay.”

  She could hear one of the other nurses saying, “Pulse is one seventy, BP is sixty over thirty.”

  “I know,” the nurse said, patting Maggie’s arm, “but we can do our job better without civilians present.”

  Wiping away rain from her face with cold hands, she found her way to the waiting room. There she saw Durgin, Staunton, and a few other men. “What happened to Imelda Reitter?” she asked.

  “She’s dead,” Durgin replied. “Did you shoot her?”

  “No, there was someone else up on the roof.”

  “Do you know who it was?”

  I think I do, but this isn’t the right time to say. “The person was wearing a mask.”

  “Male? Female?”

  “I couldn’t say. Whoever it was wore a black cloak.”

  “Can you give us any kind of description, Maggie?”

  “Whoever it was said Imelda Reitter was going by the name Nicolette Quinn,” Maggie told him instead, pushing back a lock of wet hair. “That she’s a nurse at Fitzroy Square Hospital and had been killing patients for years. And you should check her records.”

  “On it,” Staunton said, then hurried out.

  Maggie’s mind flicked back to the silver circle pin. “She was at the trial,” she told Durgin. “I remember seeing her there.”

  “It’s possible.” Durgin went to Maggie and reached out to touch her cheek. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

  A nurse had fetched a rough but clean towel, and Maggie grasped it, then began trying to dry her hair. “And Milo? Are you glad he’s all right?”

  “Of course I am.”

  Maggie was shivering, her arms covered in goose pimples. “Luckily you got there in time. How did you figure it all out?”

  She put the towel aside, rubbing at her arms to warm herself, to hold herself together. “Everything was in the letters at the prison. Nicolette and Nicholas—oh, God, even the names—were communicating in code.”

  “And she’s his mother?”

  “Yes, she was trying to offer herself up. She thought if he could give the authorities information on her—Jimmy Greenteeth—they might give him a life sentence. Or at least he could use the information to gain more time.”

  “Why didn’t he tell us?”

  “Things seemed…complicated between them. Something about he would be saved, but then she would win. And he couldn’t let her win.”

  “No matter how many people died.”

  Maggie was distracted. How would Clara Hess have known Nicolette Quinn’s real name? Her other murders? Was it possible she was working at this hospital, too? She blinked, for the first time noticing she’d been in the hospital before. This is where my father died, she realized.

  The white-haired nurse came into the room. “You’re the police?” Durgin nodded. “Milo Tucci is in stable condition,” she announced. “His vitals are coming back to normal.”

  Maggie hugged herself. “Will he live?”

  “He’s getting the best possible care, miss. And he’s young and strong. Good thing he was found when he was.”

  “Aye.” Durgin nodded. He looked to Maggie, seeming to want to say more.

  “Miss!” the nurse cut in.

  “Yes?”

  “You’re bleeding.”

  Maggie followed the nurse’s gaze to a long scrape on her shin dripping blood. “I—I guess I am.”

  “Let’s get your leg cleaned up.”

  “Go,” Durgin told her, gently squeezing her shoulder. “We’ll talk later.”

  The nurse led Maggie to an exam room. “There’s so much blood!” she exclaimed as she checked Maggie’s knees. “And you didn’t feel anything?”

  “No.” Although now the shock was wearing off, her leg was throbbing and she knew the pain would begin in earnest momentarily. “I didn’t feel a thing. But I’m starting to now.”

  * * *

  —

  In the exam room, Maggie’s scrape was cleaned and bandaged. “There you go,” the doctor said, as rain pelted the windows. “Quite a storm, isn’t it?” He was tall and thin, with white hair in a perfect U around a shiny bald spot and wide, flat hips camouflaged by his white coat. “Nasty scrape. How’d you get that?”

  Deciding to be honest, Maggie said, “Chasing a serial killer across a rooftop.”

  He stared, then began to laugh. “Well, I see your funny bone isn’t broken, Miss Hope. Good for you!” Maggie only grimaced. “And your hands are pretty beat up, as well. Let’s bandage those, too, shall we?”

  She held out her hands. “Make a fist for me,” he directed.

  “Ow.”

  “You fell, did you? With your hand outstretched?”

  Maggie closed her eyes to remember. “Yes.”

  “Your wrist is sprained.”

  “Broken?”

  “Sprained. Do you want something for the pain? It will most likely become worse before it gets better.”

  “No,” Maggie said. “It’s all right. I—I need to feel it.” She smiled, realizing she was strong enough to withstand her pain, as well as her past. “Keep the medication for the soldiers.”

  * * *

  —

  Maggie found Durgin in the waiting room. “How are you?” he asked.

  “Scraped leg, sprained wrist—I’ll live.” But she had something more important to tell him. “James, when I was in Nicolette Quinn’s flat, I think I saw Giacomo Genovese’s Strad.” The room was full of men tapping their feet or pacing. “There was a violin case in her second bedroom, along with everything else those poor men had in their suitcases.”

  “You’re absolutely right,” he said. “One of our boys picked it up.”

  “I hope it’s somewhere safe.”

  “I took care of it,” Staunton said as he approached them.

  “Let me guess: Frankie didn’t have the money to pay Nicolette to escape England, so Aunt Silvana stole the violin for him.”

  Durgin nodded. “We’ll be getting the Strad back to Genovese tomorrow.” Then, “You should see him.”

 
“Him?” Maggie said. “Giacomo?”

  “Yes, you should be the one to give it back to him.”

  A nurse entered the waiting room. The men turned and faced her.

  “James Durgin?” she asked.

  Durgin raised a hand. “Here.”

  “There are a number of reporters waiting for you. Follow me, please.”

  “Thanks.” Durgin, Maggie, and Staunton followed the nurse down a long corridor. “Did you find out anything about Nicolette Quinn?” Maggie asked Staunton.

  “Seems she’s the subject of an investigation already. An anonymous source left a list of suspicious deaths, which the hospital had started going through when I called. Lots, and I mean lots, of people died from poison,” he said as they walked. “It looks like it’s been going on for years. We’re going to have to investigate, interview the staff about what they’ve observed, missing medicine, all of it. And then there have to be safeguards put in place in hospitals—so something like this can never happen again.”

  They approached the hospital’s auditorium. Maggie could hear the hum of the assembled crowd. She remembered Milo’s mother, Giulia. “Someone told Milo’s mother he’s all right, yes?”

  “I did,” acknowledged Staunton. “She’s coming to the hospital. Do you know, she thought he was going to Argentina?”

  “Yes—which explains why she wasn’t concerned when I showed up at their flat,” Maggie said.

  “The problem is, now we have to ask if anyone’s missing but presumed in Argentina or some other South American country. The families probably think their conchie is off eating steak on the pampas when really he’s a skeleton at the morgue here in London.”

  Maggie’s shoulders drooped. “I know. There are a lot of people who’ll be hearing terrible news, I’m afraid. They thought their loved ones were going somewhere safe. And when they lied to the police, they thought they were helping.”

  They arrived at the auditorium, and there was a collective gasp as Durgin walked down the steps. “Here he comes!” “He’s here!” “It’s the DCI!”

  Durgin stepped up to the podium and faced the crowd. “I’m Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin, and I have information about Operation Pinkie.” The faces in the audience looked confused. “Jimmy Greenteeth,” he mumbled.

  “Look up, Detective!” There was a flash and an explosion as Durgin raised his chin, catching him off guard.

  He blinked. “As I was saying, we have information about the sequential murders.” He took a deep breath. “I can confirm a fifty-seven-year-old London woman is now suspected of the Jimmy Greenteeth murders as well as the unlawful imprisonment and attempted murder of Milo Tucci. She was shot trying to escape the scene of the crime and pronounced dead.”

  There was a collective gasp from the reporters and photographers. “The killer was a woman?” one man called out.

  “We’ve got a lady killer!” called another.

  “Forget Jimmy Greenteeth—it really was Jenny Greenteeth!”

  Durgin continued, undeterred. “Yes, the killer was a woman.”

  “Has she been identified?”

  “Yes,” Durgin said. “She was known as Nicolette Quinn and she worked as a Ward Sister at Fitzroy Square Hospital.” There were more gasps, and the sound of pencils scratching on paper as the men took down the information.

  Boris Jones raised his pencil. “She was shot by a police officer?” he asked in his nasal voice.

  “No, by a civilian on the scene in Clerkenwell.”

  There were more mumbles and then “Bloody Mafia must be on our side—at least where crazy murderesses are concerned!”

  Jones waved his pencil again. “Was it Margaret Hope who shot Jenny Greenteeth?”

  “No.” Durgin shook his head. “Miss Hope was a witness, but the assailant was someone unknown, dressed in a Carnevale mask and cloak. Our men are investigating.”

  One reporter laughed. “Must be an Eye-talian. The Pinocchio should get a bloody medal.”

  Durgin ignored him. “I’m pleased to say Milo Tucci, who would have been her most recent victim, is alive and currently being treated for dehydration.” He cleared his throat and looked at Maggie, who was standing at the door at the top of the stairs. “I would like to thank Miss Margaret Hope for her help in finding Mr. Tucci.”

  The reporters turned toward Maggie. Flashbulbs exploded. Smoke curled up to the ceiling. Jones pushed his way toward her. “Miss Hope, you were spotted at the Tower of London on multiple occasions since the Blackout Beast was transferred there. Did Nicholas Reitter give you any leads to help find Jenny Greenteeth?”

  “Only inadvertently,” she said.

  “What was it like, seeing him again?”

  “Frightening,” Maggie admitted. “Infuriating. And sad, as well.”

  “What did you talk about?”

  She lifted her chin. “Our mothers.”

  As the reporters erupted into a frenzy of taking pictures and yelling questions, she smiled sadly. “In her own twisted way, his mother was trying to save him.”

  * * *

  —

  When the press conference was finally over, Maggie went to Durgin. “Well,” she said. “You did it.”

  “We did it.” He looked at her. “Are you all right?”

  “Nothing a little rest won’t cure.”

  “Why don’t you stay?”

  “It’s your moment. I can only imagine how much work you have to do. Besides, I’ve had quite the day—and would like nothing more than a hot bath and long sleep at home.” To sleep, perchance to dream, she thought, although already dreading just what dreams might come.

  Durgin glanced at Staunton, who told Maggie, “I’ll drive you, Miss Hope.”

  She nodded in relief. “Thank you.” She faced Durgin. “Goodbye, James.” Somehow, the goodbye felt final.

  “Goodbye, Maggie.”

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Tuesday, March 9, 1943

  The night before Nicholas Reitter’s execution

  The house was empty when she arrived. Upstairs, Maggie took a warm bath, then put on a clean cotton nightgown and sat on the edge of her bed, taking down her braids and working out the knots in her hair with a comb. She could hear the thunder and see flashes of lightning from the cracks underneath the blackout curtains. K jumped up next to her, purring loudly. She picked him up, burying her face in his fur. Her shins burned. Her wrist throbbed. But worst of all, her heart ached. She looked up to the framed cover of the first Wonder Woman comic book David had given her. I’m no Wonder Woman, she thought.

  She wanted a drink. She wanted a cigarette. She wanted to take out a motorbike and speed through the blacked-out city. She wanted everything to go away. Outside, the wind screamed, like a banshee.

  Then, a new thought: What if you stopped thinking about it? What if you let yourself feel it? She could taste the acid at the back of her throat.

  Nicholas Reitter’s mother killed those COs, all those patients. She was going to kill Milo. And me. Then, She was trying to help her son. Just like my own mother was trying to help me.

  The bile rose at the same time as her emotions—sharp and spiky, finally unleashed. What if I had told James, from the beginning, how wrong he was about female killers, how stupid he sounded, how much time, and energy, and resources he’d wasted while men died. How terrified I was to go face-to-face with Reitter. How scared I felt when I thought Milo might be dead. How angry I am at the game Nicholas Reitter and Nicolette Quinn were playing. How angry I am to be here—again—still—a woman who feels she needs to sleep with a knife under her bed. Because all of this isn’t unique. This isn’t new.

  We’re taught to bottle it up, to build a dam, to keep silent. And what that does is let it fester, let the pressure build, let us feel shame and isolation. Of course there’s no controlling it, w
hen it finally does come to the surface. To articulate it. To redirect it in more socially appropriate, but more personally dangerous, directions.

  I am rage.

  I am a live wire, sparking and igniting.

  I am the unexploded bomb.

  Maggie opened her mouth and let it out, howling out her pain. Over and over again she wailed, until nothing was left. Then she held on to K and wept. Put off by the steady drip of tears, K wriggled out of her arms and curled up next to her where she fell to the bed and wailed her release into the mattress. She felt like she howled for an eternity, her rage and despair seemingly bottomless.

  But eventually she ran out of tears, and, like water thawing from ice, her rage and sorrow were released into the air. She was drained, weary, but, to her surprise, she didn’t feel empty. More like—I was carrying poison, and I finally poured it out.

  She went to the bathroom and massaged her face with cold cream, catching sight of her reflection in the mirror. Then she washed the mask away.

  What would happen if I let myself feel my anger, express my rage, and let it be part of my life—just like fear and happiness and sadness. What if? What if the old proverb about burying the seeds of anger was true—that she thought she could bury her rage, but didn’t know it was a seed? What if rage—and a woman’s rage at that—didn’t have to be a negative thing? What if rage could be something to motivate, and galvanize, and ultimately change things for the better? Just be honest, that’s all you can do.

  At last, she felt exhausted and ready to sleep. K, who’d kept his distance, now came close and curled up in her arms. Their noses almost touched and they breathed the same air. As the storm receded, the sound of thunder grew fainter, and the only sound was the gentle patter of raindrops against the window. K stretched and reached for her, his paws against her heart. “It’s going to be all right,” she told him. “Somehow, we’ll muddle through. K.B.O. as Mr. Churchill used to say. Keep Buggering On.”

  Maggie’s last thought as she fell asleep was Maybe the other side of anger is indeed hope. Because we wouldn’t feel enraged if we didn’t believe we could do better.