* * *
—
Maggie looked around at the faces of the men at the bar. They were stoic, yes, as befitted seasoned soldiers in wartime. But even the most in favor of the execution were quieter now, paler, repeatedly glancing up at the clock.
“I—I don’t think this execution is right,” she began.
Staunton gave a jittery yelp. “A little late for that,” he quipped.
“Why do you think so?” Durgin asked.
Fifty-seven minutes, twenty-four seconds. “I did some research on serial killers. There are genetic and biological components, as well as psychological. It’s complicated—a perfect storm of horror. And if we want to stop similar killers in the future, we need to understand why it’s happening.”
Durgin considered. “You could always take it up with the King—”
Several footmen burst into the room. One of them announced, “Pray silence for His Majesty Albert Frederick Arthur George.”
George VI entered the pub, tall and trim, wearing his glittering naval dress uniform, a blue so dark it was almost black. Everyone scrambled to stand. “Thank you,” he said, looking almost embarrassed for causing the disruption. He met the eyes of everyone in the room; while he didn’t have the charisma his older brother had possessed, he was sincere. “G-g-good afternoon.”
“Good afternoon, Your Majesty,” was the universal reply.
He was the monarch who had refused to move out of London in daytime during the Blitz and who, in the interests of national economy, took the time to paint five-inch lines inside all the bathtubs in Buckingham Palace and Windsor Castle to show the maximum hot water usage. He was the one who insisted the Royals and everyone who worked for them made do on rations, just like the rest of Britain. The people—including Maggie—had come to love him and his family.
The King addressed the gathering: “The death penalty is, in my opinion, an archaic p-p-punishment, still practiced with the trappings of antiquity. I have spoken at length about the trial and the sentence with the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Archbishop of York. We agree for most crimes, the stress must be on reform and rehabilitation r-r-rather than punishment and deterrence.
“We discussed my using the Royal Prerogative of Mercy—”
The room was silent.
He smiled, a sad smile. “Sometimes, to stand aside and do nothing is the hardest job of all. But because one is the Sovereign, an opinion is something, officially at least, one is not entitled to. The monarchy is a calling from God. That’s why one is crowned in an abbey, not Parliament. Why one is ‘anointed, not appointed,’ as they say. It’s the Archbishop who puts the crown on one’s head. Which means one is answerable to God in one’s duty, not the public.”
There were whispers in the group: “Will he pardon Reitter?” “A scandal!” and “Incendiary!”
“K-k-killing people in the name of Justice makes us like the murderers whom most of us so despise. It is not only about what capital punishment does to those killed but also what it does to those who do the killing and those in whose name the k-killing is done.”
The Colonel entered. The King waved him to come forward. He approached the monarch and bowed.
“However,” the King asserted, “in this country we have law, and we have courtrooms, and we have trials. Nicholas Reitter was pronounced guilty and sentenced to death. I will not interfere with Justice being served.” Then, “Yes, Colonel?”
“Your Majesty, we are prepared for the execution to take place at noon.”
“That’s what my private secretary informed me.”
“Sir, would you care for any tea? Or refreshment in the meantime?”
“Heavens, no,” the King said. “I’ll just speak to a few people here until it’s time.”
“Yes, yes, sir. Please let us know if you need anything, sir.”
The King caught Maggie’s eye and walked over to her, Durgin, and Staunton. The numerous medals on his chest clinked. Maggie curtsied while the men bowed. “Miss Hope, Detective Chief Inspector Durgin—” the King said. He looked at Staunton, but couldn’t place him. “And you are?”
“Detective George Staunton, Your Majesty,” Durgin said. “Headed the raid against the Blackout Beast that led to his capture.”
The King nodded. “Well done, Detective Staunton. How do you do?”
Staunton bowed again, and there was a loud popping sound from his back as the bones cracked. “Fine, sir. Er, Your Grace. Your Majesty. Um, sir.”
The King smiled. “ ‘Sir’ is fine, Detective Staunton.” He turned his gaze to Maggie. “Miss Hope,” the King began. “It’s good to see you again, although under strange and sad circumstances yet again. This must be an emotional day for you.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
“Are you in favor of capital punishment?”
“I—I thought I was, sir,” Maggie admitted. “But now I’m not so sure.”
“Why is that, pray tell?”
“I’ve seen the reality of execution before. In America—the state of Virginia. The young man in question was supposed to die by electric chair. Not only is it horrific, but so many miscarriages of justice can occur.”
“You don’t believe it to be the case here, with Mr. Reitter?”
“No, sir,” Maggie replied. “But it’s not about Nicholas Reitter. It’s about the death penalty,” she said. “Every time we as a society kill someone officially, we become more barbaric. We run the risk of being just as bad as our enemies. The violence runs in circles in societies, just as it does in people and families.”
“So you believe in mercy, Miss Hope? In grace?”
“I believe in a real life sentence, sir. I also believe people like Reitter are sick in some way we don’t yet understand. What better way to stop future serial killers than by studying the one we have captured? Surely, we would do the same with someone discovered to carry a new and infectious disease?”
The King nodded. “I see parallels with our struggle with the execution of Nicholas Reitter and Britain after the war. After our victory—and we shall be victorious,” he assured them, “how shall we treat the enemy? We can’t exterminate all of them. We’d be just as wicked.”
“Yes, sir,” Maggie replied. “I agree.”
“Maybe once the war is over, things will be better,” the King mused. “I have seen too much suffering and too much death to think more, especially under the government’s sanctions, would be of any use either to the people or to the sentenced. When the war is over, we must, as a nation, revisit the death penalty.
“But for now”—he raised one hand—“carry on.”
Warder Boyce approached. “Excuse me, Major Hope,” he said. “May I have a quick word?”
“Of course.” Maggie rose and followed him outside.
“It’s just that—our prisoner has asked for a final visit.”
Maggie swallowed.
“You don’t have to do it, miss.”
“I know.” Maggie struggled to find the right words. “I know I should hate him. I don’t forgive him—and never will. But I don’t hate him anymore.” She gave a ghost of a smile. “It feels good to let that go.”
* * *
—
Maggie heard singing, a light tenor voice, as Warder Boyce took her to Reitter’s cell:
As she was walking home one day,
Fal the dal the di do,
She met those babes all dress’d in white
Down by the green wood side.
She said, “Dear children, can you tell,
Fal the dal the di do,
Where shall I go? To heav’n or hell?”
Down by the green wood side.
“Oh, yes! Dear Mother, we can tell,
Fal the dal the di do,
For it’s we to heav’n an
d you to hell.”
Down by the green wood side.
As the last notes faded and Boyce walked away, Maggie approached the bars. “Hello, Mr. Reitter.”
He looked up. “Hello, Maggie.”
“I’m sorry…” What exactly does one say in circumstances such as these? “For your loss.”
Reitter nodded. “Thank you.”
“I’m not sure if it makes a difference, but I’m not the one who shot her.” Although I’m not going to say who did. “You never used the knowledge you had of her killings to have your sentence reduced or commuted.”
“No.”
Why not? she wanted to scream. “You could have saved so many lives.”
He smiled. “I know.”
“And yet you stayed silent, letting man after man be murdered.” Reitter didn’t respond. “Do you think you’ve won?”
“I’m not playing the game anymore.”
Maggie began to pace in front of the cell. “The journalists are outside the Tower.”
“Ghoulish vultures.”
Maggie looked out the window. Through the many diamond-shaped panes of glass, she could see the wooden chair had been set up on the lawn, with the dark shapes of two ravens pecking in the grass. A murder of crows? An unkindness of ravens? I think you can say a murder, too. A raven is a crow, but a crow is not a raven. A raven is not like a writing desk….“I’m told you refused any religious counseling.”
“It’s too late for God and me to reconcile.”
“Do you believe in God?”
“I can only hope there’s no God.” Reitter tried to smile but failed. “For I’ve been a rather naughty boy.”
What else was there to say? “Good luck to you, Mr. Reitter.”
“And good luck to you, too, Miss Hope.”
* * *
—
At the bar, the men gathered continued to drink. “How’s the prisoner doing?” Staunton asked Maggie when she returned.
“As cheerful as any man could in that condition, as Pepys would say.” She looked to the clock: it was eleven-thirty-two. Twenty-eight minutes left.
“Does he have a will?” Maggie asked.
“All his earthly possessions were sold off to pay his solicitor, I was told,” Durgin said.
Maggie nodded. “Burial instructions?”
“No money,” Staunton said. “His body will be cremated and his ashes scattered. Judge’s orders. He didn’t want a grave site to become inspiration for some other future killer—inspired by Jack the Ripper or Nicholas Reitter. Same for Nicolette Quinn.”
Maggie looked at the clock. “This is horrible. I just never realized how horrible it would really be.”
Durgin looked at her with concern. “Would you like to leave?”
Maggie squared her shoulders. “No, I need to see this through to the very end.” For Brynn’s sake. She thought through the list of his victims: Joanna Metcalf, Doreen Leighton, Gladys Chorley, Olivia Sutherland, and Bronwyn Parry…
* * *
—
“These are for you, Reitter.” Bertie pushed a folded jumpsuit and pair of socks through the bars of Reitter’s cell. On top were a pair of scuffed oxford shoes. “The shoes are because the grass is wet from all the rain.” Reitter accepted the clothes and shoes, nodding.
The warder pulled out a flask. “Whiskey?”
“No thanks.” Reitter looked up. “No coat?”
“You won’t be cold for long.” The guard continued to stand at the bars, watching.
“Can’t a man have some privacy on his last day on earth?”
“All right then—but you’d better start changing. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”
“I’ll be here.”
As Reitter changed into the clean clothes he repeated the last verses of the song:
She said, “Dear children, can you tell,
Fal the dal the di do,
Where shall I go? To heav’n or hell?”
Down by the green wood side.
“Oh, yes! Dear Mother, we can tell,
Fal the dal the di do,
For it’s we to heav’n and you to hell.”
Down by the green wood side…
* * *
—
The reality of the execution was crashing in; the assembled onlookers could hear it in the heavy boots marching outside, the silence as they put down their drinks and refused to meet each other’s eyes.
And yet when Colonel MacRae entered, hat in hand, they somehow instantly all knew the truth. “Gentlemen—and Major Hope—I’m afraid to say, the prisoner has taken his own life.” There were murmurs and whispers throughout the pub. Maggie looked out the window. One of the ravens flew past, black feathers iridescent blue in the breaking sunlight.
“Nicholas Reitter is dead.”
Chapter Twenty-nine
Outside the Tower walls, Durgin read a statement to the press: “Nicholas Reitter, the man convicted of murdering eleven and sentenced by the court to death, was discovered dead in his cell at eleven thirty-seven, twenty-three minutes before his scheduled execution.
“An inquiry will be launched into how he came to die while under the charge of the Yeoman Warders. Reitter was certified dead by Dr. Richard Taylor—the cause was strangulation. He appeared to have used the laces of his shoes to hang himself.”
Back at the pub, Maggie and Staunton were left to sit together in silence. “Dead is dead, I suppose,” Staunton was saying as he downed more beer, “but as a man of the law I wanted to see the sentence carried out properly. For my men’s sake—may they rest in peace.”
“May they rest in peace,” Maggie said, and then she thought, And now for Nicholas Reitter, the clock has stopped. Will it help Brynn and those he killed? Will it help any of the families? She had no easy answers.
Staunton looked to her. “Our friend out there will be dealing with the press for quite a while—”
“And then he’ll be back to the Yard,” Maggie finished.
Staunton nodded, his eyes betraying things he couldn’t say. “We have the fancy violin in custody now, what’s it called?”
“The Stradivarius.”
“That’s the one—back at the office. Durgin suggested you doing the honors of presenting the Eye-talian chap with his violin? End this miserable day on a high note? So to speak?”
Maggie smiled for what felt like the first time in a very long time. “Bringing a bit of happiness to Maestro Genovese? Sounds perfect.”
“Want to say goodbye to our DCI before we leave?”
“He’s busy,” Maggie replied. I have nothing more to say to him, she thought. “Let’s just get out of here, shall we?”
* * *
—
It took a bit of time and effort to get through all the red tape at Scotland Yard, but by six, Maggie, carrying Giacomo Genovese’s Stradivarius and accompanied by two armed police officers, arrived at Claridge’s Hotel. She nodded to the doorman as she swept through the revolving door.
Scotland Yard had alerted Giacomo, who was waiting for her in the polished lobby with its graceful staircase and shining checkerboard marble floors. “Miss Hope!” he called when he spotted her, opening his arms wide.
“Maestro,” she said, handing him the violin. He accepted the instrument reverently.
“Amore mio,” he whispered as he cradled it and went to a side table. There he sat and opened the black case. “Mia bella,” he crooned, taking the instrument from its blue velvet cushions and caressing it like a lover. When he looked up to Maggie, he had tears in his eyes. “I can never thank you…”
Maggie smiled. She noticed the two police officers waiting. “We’re all set then?” she asked them.
One officer pulled out a folded piece of paper and offered it to the violini
st. “You have to sign for it, Mr. Genovese.”
He took the paper and pulled out a fountain pen from his suit’s breast pocket. “Of course, of course.” He scribbled his signature as only one used to giving autographs could. “Thank you, thank you—I can never thank you enough!”
The officers left. Giacomo continued to stare at the violin, the golden wood glowing under the light from the crystal chandeliers and the flames flickering in the fireplace. Then he plucked each string, turning the black pegs until all were in perfect tune.
“I don’t suppose you’d play?” Maggie asked.
“It would be my great joy.” Giacomo stood, tucking the Strad under his chin. He lifted the bow and touched it to the string, drawing out a long, gorgeous A.
Mrs. Claridge looked down in approval from her portrait as Giacomo began to play. He chose Debussy’s Clair de Lune. Immediately the people in the lobby stilled and began to listen. Even the flowers of the exquisite arrangements seemed to turn and strain closer. For the length of the song, there was only joy and transcendence.
When at last he put down the bow, there was a long silence. And then, rapturous applause. Giacomo grinned and bowed, then humbly placed the Stradivarius back in its case.
“I must buy you a drink,” he said to Maggie.
She nodded. “Thank you.”
As they walked to the bar, he cradled the violin in its case like an infant. At the banquette, he placed it next to him on the seat. “I’m never taking my eyes off her again,” he said as he gestured to the waiter, in black tie and a spotless white coat. Then he smiled to Maggie. “Of course, with such a beautiful woman at my side, it will be difficult.”
Giacomo ordered champagne, but Maggie demurred. “Tea for me, please.” She looked around. The smoky bar was filled with men in uniform, and women in jewels and fascinators. There were dour cabinet ministers escorting their pearl-draped, gray-haired wives, as well as younger women sporting low décolletage.
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