The Queen's Accomplice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  She swallowed hard.

  She was still alive.

  And—somehow—she would get out.

  Chapter Four

  On St. James’s Street, past Boodle’s and White’s and the other exclusive men’s clubs, between Park Place and Jermyn Street, stood the headquarters of MI-5. It was officially known as the Imperial Security Intelligence Service. Its mission: countering any and all threats to national safety.

  Maggie hadn’t been back recently, but she still remembered where to go, resolutely making her way through marble hallways lined with rows of Corinthian pillars and past various security checkpoints, up in a polished brass elevator, until she reached the director general’s office.

  A secretary with grayish white hair that didn’t quite match the fake white braid on her headband greeted her, then picked up the telephone receiver. “Miss Hope is here, sir.” She looked up to Maggie. “Go in.”

  Maggie opened the heavy paneled door.

  Behind his massive mahogany desk, Frain stood. “Thank you for coming, Maggie.” Peter Frain had been made director under Mr. Churchill during the dark days of the summer of 1940, which was when Maggie had first met him. Then a tall man with slicked-back hair and cold gray eyes, he still looked the same—elegant, sophisticated, debonair—although Maggie could see he had more silver hair at his temples. It suits him, she decided as she shook his hand.

  “Please sit down.” He regarded her from across the desk, piles of folders, papers, and notes stacked neatly under brass paperweights. Not a salacious look, but intense—the kind one might give a particularly interesting crossword clue or a game of Chinese Go in progress.

  “How’s your father?” he asked, sitting back and making a steeple with his fingers.

  “Still in the hospital, I’m afraid. I’ve been visiting once a week, although he’s usually asleep or groggy. The doctors have him on a high dose of morphine.”

  Earlier in the winter, Edmund Hope, Maggie’s estranged father, had been burned in an “accident” that revealed terrible abscesses on his feet, due to untreated diabetes. Both legs had to be amputated above the knee.

  “I should go and visit, I know—but it’s been, shall we say, busy here.”

  “ ‘There’s a war on, you know.’ ” She quoted their oft-repeated line. “Next time I see him, I’ll let him know you asked after him.”

  “I knew he’d been drinking, but I had no idea things were so bad.”

  Maggie didn’t want to discuss it. “And any news of”—she didn’t know what to call her estranged mother—“Clara Hess?”

  “You know as much as we do. Either she died in the fire that night—or she somehow made it out of Chatswell House and she’s out there.” He waved a manicured hand in the direction of the window, with a view to Hyde Park and the rest of London. “Somewhere.”

  Terrific, Maggie thought. Nazi agent Clara Hess could possibly be at large in London—now that’s just bloody well terrific, isn’t it?

  “By the way, I have something for you.” Frain reached into a desk drawer.

  “For me?”

  He pulled out a brown paper envelope. To Miss Margaret Hope c/o MI-5 was written in calligraphy on the front. Maggie flipped it over before slipping it into her handbag.

  “You’re not going to open it?”

  It was the rarest of moments for Maggie to see Frain surprised. She rather liked it. “Later. I assume you asked me here for something more important than to pick up my mail.”

  There was a rap at the door; it opened to reveal Mark Standish, Maggie’s former colleague. They’d worked together before, and while they hadn’t always gotten along, they’d developed a begrudging professional respect.

  However, the Mark Standish who stood in front of her was a different man from the one she’d known in Scotland last fall. He wore the same style double-breasted suit, but now it hung loosely on him. Where he’d once been charitably called robust, he was alarmingly gaunt and wan. His formerly doughy face was angular, and a startling streak of white cut through his dark hair.

  “Hello, Maggie. Welcome back to MI-Five.”

  Maggie wondered if she would have recognized Mark if she’d passed him on the street. And when she shook his hand, she noticed it had a slight tremor. “Hello, Mark. Good to see you again.”

  “Let’s go to your office, Mr. Standish,” Frain said, standing.

  “Yes, sir.”

  They walked down a corridor, and Mark opened a door. “Welcome.” He stepped aside to let them enter.

  Maggie fought the urge to whistle. “Spiffy,” she said instead. It was spacious, with several good-size windows overlooking the street. There was a large desk with a green banker’s lamp and a leather chair, overlooked by the official photograph of the King. On the desk was a typewriter, hole punch, a TOP SECRET red stamp, several telephones, and a metal inbox.

  On one wall of the office, a corkboard had been set up. Photographs of a dead girl, clearly taken at a crime scene, were tacked up. Opposite was a green chalkboard, recently cleaned, fresh chalk and erasers at the ready.

  Maggie couldn’t help but think back to when Mark and Hugh had dented metal desks in MI-5’s windowless basement, with all the other junior agents. She wished she could say she’d seen Hugh in the morning, but it was against all rules to mention it. Anyway, Frain probably knew—he somehow made it a point to know everything.

  “Sit, both of you,” the director ordered, gesturing to a sofa and a side chair. It might have been Mark’s office, but it was clear who was running the show.

  The secretary with the white braid came in with the tea things and set them on a low table, then poured. Once the door closed again, Frain took a seat and turned to Maggie. “We want to borrow you.”

  “Borrow me, sir? For what?”

  Frain chose a cup of tea and took a sip. “There have been a number of girls vanishing around London. With the Blitz, it’s been hard to keep track of the dead, of course, but it seems there’s a definite pattern emerging in the Marylebone area. There are too many young professional women disappearing for it to be only the bombings. Which have ceased for the moment in London, at any rate.”

  Mark continued to stir his tea, his eyes not leaving the cup and saucer in his hand.

  “Vanishing women?” Maggie asked, her thoughts instantly turning to Brynn Parry. “But that would be a case for Scotland Yard, surely. Why MI-Five?”

  “Many of the missing young women were with the ATS and tapped for SOE duties. They were here for their interviews.”

  Joanna Metcalf, she thought. Then, with a shudder, Brynn. “Someone’s targeting SOE agents?” she managed.

  “It could be simple coincidence. Or it could be a Nazi plot to take our agents out before we can even get them off the ground. Or it could be something else entirely. The truth is we don’t know, but when there’s SOE involved, it makes sense for MI-Five to handle it. We’ll have a liaison with Scotland Yard, of course, but this investigation is top secret, and under my supervision.” Frain put down his cup and saucer with a clink. “I want you in particular on the case, Maggie, since it has to do with the murder of female SOE agents.”

  Mark rose and handed her a thick manila accordion folder from his desk. Maggie thumbed through page after page of the files of young women missing and presumed dead. In addition to Joanna Metcalf, she recognized more names—women she’d either trained with back in the day or trained herself when she’d been an instructor at Arisaig. All fit the same profile—women in their late teens to early thirties wanting to “do their bit.” All from different corners of Britain. All social classes. All passing through London to interview with SOE. She felt sick.

  “These are disappearances, sir. Are there any witnesses to these alleged abductions?”

  Frain didn’t blink. “No.”

  “And no one’s found any bodies?”

  “No. That is—not until now. A woman, Joanna Metcalf, who fit the profile, was found murdered outside Regent’s Park—you m
ight have read about it in the papers.”

  Maggie glanced at the corkboard, with its array of gruesome photographs. She remembered Brody’s mentioning Joanna’s murder at the office, and then Max Thornton bringing it up at the party. “Yes, I did hear something about a so-called Jack the Ripper–inspired murder. Figured it was the London press gone mad, as usual. I hear they’ve dubbed him the Blackout Beast.”

  “We’ve done our best to shut the whole thing down while we investigate,” Frain informed her. “The last thing we need now is a citywide panic.”

  Mark leaned on the edge of his desk and cleared his throat. “The particular young woman in question, Joanna Metcalf, was set to leave for France during the next full moon. What we managed to keep out of the press was that her body was mutilated, in a manner reminiscent of Jack the Ripper’s murder of Mary Ann Nichols, his first victim. Not just reminiscent. A re-creation, down to the last detail.”

  He handed Maggie another file. Her eyes widened when she saw photographs of the body, along with the painted statement on the brick wall, JACK IS BACK.

  “Was she killed there, by the wall?”

  “We don’t think so,” Mark explained. “We believe she was killed somewhere else. And the corpse was placed there afterward.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “None. But we’re interviewing people who were in the area that night. We’ve put up signs—you know, ‘Did you see anything on the night of—call us’ sort of thing.”

  Maggie went back to the report. “It says here the body was found by a Mrs. Vera Baines, the neighborhood’s ARP warden.”

  “Yes, we’ve spoken to Mrs. Baines. She says she didn’t hear or see anything unusual that evening. Literally tripped over the body, wrapped in a blanket and placed by the wall, as the photographs show.”

  “It also says here the cuts were made with surgical precision.” Maggie was frowning.

  “Which means we’re looking for someone with skills. A doctor? A nurse? A veterinarian?” She tried not to wince. “A butcher?”

  Mark crossed his arms. “The exact occupations the original Jack the Ripper was theorized to be.”

  “Or someone with a lot of experience with murder,” Frain speculated.

  Maggie flipped through to the last page. “There’s no mention of rape.”

  “With the extensive injuries, it’s impossible to tell. However, the coroner found no evidence.”

  “So,” Maggie said, “there are missing SOE women. This particular murder scene had a message allegedly written by someone calling himself Jack, perhaps referring to the Ripper. The method of killing is the same as with Mary Ann Nichols. But what is there to link Joanna Metcalf’s murder with the disappearances? And weren’t the historic Ripper’s victims all prostitutes? And from Whitechapel? These women aren’t.”

  “Our Jack isn’t murdering prostitutes, but they are ‘working women,’ nonetheless,” Frain said. “The twentieth century’s working women—out in the public sphere, doing so-called men’s work, while the men are fighting overseas. The cuts to the lower abdomen show an intense anger toward women.”

  “Of course…” Maggie murmured, flipping through the pages again. She could see a pattern. Young women from out of town. All in the Women’s Auxiliary services, all somehow connected to SOE. Women like Brynn. Like Sarah.

  Like herself.

  She shifted uncomfortably as she remembered her dream, the beast of crawling black flies.

  “You fit the profile, Maggie,” Frain stated, seeming to read her mind. “And you have experience solving—shall we say—unusual cases. You’re also a female SOE agent—you have insider knowledge. Help us figure this out. We need to catch this monster before he kills again.”

  “But why do you think the SOE women’s disappearances and Joanna Metcalf’s murder are connected? Women can go off—elope, decide to work in a factory instead of the WAAF, go to Scotland to be Land Girls….”

  Frain nodded. “That’s the piece we need to figure out.”

  There was a rap at the door. “Excuse me, Mr. Frain,” the secretary said, ducking her head in, “but Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin from Scotland Yard’s on the line. They’ve found another body. In Regent’s Park. And, yes, he’s keeping the press away—so far, at least.”

  The three exchanged grim looks.

  Maggie was first to stand, smoothing down her skirt. “Well, what are we waiting for, gentlemen? Let’s go and catch ourselves a Blackout Beast.”

  —

  The black metal gates of Regent’s Park had been removed and melted down for munitions, but John Nash’s graceful rolling greens and bench-lined gravel paths remained. Still, it felt all too open and exposed, the thick grass covered in frost and speckled with dead leaves. While slanting sunlight pierced through the thick clouds, birds—sparrows, crows, ravens—chirped warnings of squalls to come, and pairs of black and white swans glided across the lake. The day was wintry and raw, and the air smelled of ozone and approaching storms. A bitterly cold east wind whispered its way through bare tree branches, making them shiver.

  There were people walking the gravel paths: a few Polish soldiers on leave, a thickly mustached businessman in a black bowler hat, and women—everywhere women. Women in ATS uniforms, WAAF uniforms, FANY uniforms. Women in the uniforms of bus conductors, crossing guards, and shop assistants. Women in trousers on their way to their shifts at factory jobs, their hair pulled back in head scarves, swinging tin lunch pails as they walked. Women clutching their handbags, gas masks, and hats against the wind.

  Maggie was amused to see people in matching uniforms keeping to their own, just like the park’s pigeons, ducks, and geese. Under an ancient oak tree in the distance, a busking violinist played the melody of Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique, while a man being pushed in a wheelchair by a nurse tossed coins into his case.

  “Ah, there he is,” Frain said, catching sight of a man in a gray mackintosh pacing the walk near the park’s entrance, causing a flock of strutting pigeons to scatter. “Detective!” he called. Then, to Maggie and Mark, “Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin, to be precise.”

  The detective whirled, then strode toward them in thick-soled shoes, pigeons startling and taking flight in his wake. Durgin was tall and lean, like a distance runner, Maggie thought, and his gray-blue eyes burned with an intense, almost maniacal energy. His full curly brown hair was clipped, his eyebrows were bushy, and the diagonals of his widow’s peak only emphasized the severe lines of his forehead and sharp cheekbones. Maggie guessed he was in his mid to late thirties. He was certainly not the reedy, tweedy, upper-class sort of man, such as those in Mr. Churchill’s office, whom she was used to.

  “He’s a pioneer in fingerprinting,” Frain continued over the flaps of pigeon wings. “A legend at the Yard. You’ll learn a lot from him.”

  Durgin called, “Glad you could join us, Director General,” in a thick Glasgow burr. He took in Frain’s and Mark’s polished shoes and camel-hair coats, and Maggie’s handbag and pumps with a withering squint. “This is your crack team—here to save the day?”

  But Frain was unflappable. “This is Mr. Standish, one of MI-Five’s senior agents,” he replied, introducing Mark, “and our associate, Miss Hope, who will be…consulting.”

  Durgin didn’t greet them. Instead, the policeman turned on his heel and walked at a terrific pace down one of the paths, past a red-and-white proscenium for a Punch and Judy show, past an empty band shell, and a row of box-trimmed holly bushes. “I’ve told you how I feel about this, Frain,” Durgin threw over his shoulder. “I’m not pleased, not pleased at all. This case should be the Yard’s—”

  “It’s sensitive,” Frain countered easily, matching the detective’s stride, while Maggie and Mark hastened to keep up.

  “Just because we don’t all wear Cleverley shoes—” Durgin shot back.

  “I understand, Detective, and I respect your and your department’s expertise. However—”

  “I know,
I know—‘there’s a war on, you know.’ ” The Detective Chief Inspector gave Frain a piercing glance from beneath his remarkable eyebrows. “Believe me, I know. Thing is, you think the war started in ’thirty-nine—whereas we at the Yard know the war never, ever begins or ends.”

  As they walked farther into the park, the hum of traffic faded and the birds’ chirping grew louder. On the battered grass near one of the lakes was a cordoned-off area with a canvas tent where bobbies in uniform were turning away gawkers. One officer strong-armed a journalist, pinning his arms behind him and cuffing him, while another smashed his camera.

  Detective Durgin stopped, turned, and shot them a warning glare. “Prepare yourself.” He gave Maggie a particularly hard stare. “And absolutely no vomiting on my crime scene, young lady. I must insist.”

  “No, sir,” Maggie replied. “No vomiting. Of course not, sir.”

  As they walked past more officers and then ducked into the tent, Durgin closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross. Then he gestured to a woman’s prone body, lying on a makeshift cot and splattered with dried blood. The victim was a slender woman in her twenties, with black hair and high cheekbones. She wore a gray flannel skirt, blouse, and Fair Isle sweater. Her head was turned to the left, her colorful scarf lying loosely around her slashed throat. In the shadows of the tent, Maggie could see not only was the woman’s abdomen ripped open but her intestines had been deliberately placed over her right shoulder.

  Oh, God. Maggie recoiled in horror, but fought the instinctive urge to turn away, to close her eyes, to run from the tent and throw up the morning’s tea and roll now churning in her stomach.

  Instead, she forced her gaze to the woman’s innocent-looking face. You were so young, Maggie thought, her heart heavy. So very young. A surge of anger cut through her. And someone killed you deliberately. Murdered you. But why?