The Queen's Accomplice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “As you can see,” Durgin said softly, “she wasn’t merely killed—she’s been slaughtered.” The rusty, thick scent of blood was overwhelming.

  “Our victim, Miss Doreen Leighton, was found early this morning by the neighborhood’s ARP warden. She alerted the police.” Durgin noted Maggie’s pallor. “You all right?” he asked. “Would you like to return to your Swiss boarding school now?”

  “I didn’t come down with the last shower, Detective Durgin,” she countered, squaring her shoulders. There was no time for being emotional. Feelings would come later, in private. “I know my way around blood and bodies.”

  “Believe me,” Mark interposed. “Miss Hope has earned her stripes.”

  Detective Durgin shrugged, his face still skeptical. “Steady on then, Tiger.”

  Maggie found anger helped quell her grief and horror. “That’s Miss Tiger to you, Detective.”

  Durgin looked to Frain. “The victim was dead when we arrived. Looks to have been dead for some time, at least twelve hours.” He pointed to the girl’s neck. “Here you can see the first incision, and then the second cuts….” From his inside jacket pocket, Detective Durgin withdrew a magnifying glass and bent low over the woman. He looked through the thick glass at the bruises on her throat.

  “Killer wore gloves.” Durgin’s face was stone.

  “There’s not much blood.”

  “She was killed somewhere else and then moved here. She’s not wearing a coat—she was killed indoors.”

  “No signs of a struggle.”

  “No, she’s clean,” Durgin agreed. “She didn’t put up a fight.”

  “She knew her attacker then?” Maggie asked.

  “Possibly. I believe we’re looking for a man. Single. Young. Sadistic tendencies. Wishing he could be doing more with his life. He’s enraged with the cards life’s dealt him. And he despises women—probably had an abusive or absent mother. Look how he carefully arranged her body, her organs. Like she’s a doll. Like she’s a prop. Like she’s a, a thing to him.” Durgin said it softly.

  Maggie was baffled. “How could you possibly know all that—just from looking at a body?”

  Durgin continued to stare down at the corpse. “He’s arrogant. He’s young, but he’s experienced. This isn’t his first, or his second, murder. But now something’s set him off.”

  “But how do you know that?” Maggie insisted.

  “I get inside their heads. I think like them, create what I call a profile. It’s a new way to look at perpetrators.” He turned back to the body. “Look at his confidence. He’s been doing this for a while. His cuts are fearless. Even cocky. Only a young man cuts with that sort of arrogance.”

  “Any witnesses?”

  “I have my men canvassing the area, asking questions. Ah,” he said, as an older woman ducked into the tent to join them. “And this is the ARP warden I mentioned, Mrs. Baines. She has a few things to add.”

  Although she had one hand on the head of her silver bulldog walking stick, the woman’s spine was ramrod straight and Maggie could see a lifetime of discipline in her posture. “I was on my patrol at around one this morning, when I saw a man come out of the park, onto the Outer Circle.”

  “What did he look like, Mrs. Baines?” Mark asked, taking out a Moleskine notebook and fountain pen from his breast pocket.

  “He was big—a big man. Bald,” she explained. “No hat. And he was wearing an apron.”

  “An apron?”

  “The kind a butcher wears. White, but with stains. Bloodstains, I’d imagine.”

  Mark blinked. “And what did he do?”

  “I saw him walk to a van and get in, and then he took off in the direction of Park Square. I was close enough to use my torch—the license plate started with an E.”

  “Are you sure about the plate, ma’am?” Mark asked.

  “I may be old, young man,” the woman snapped, “but I’m not blind and deaf. Nor dumb in either sense, thank you very much.”

  “No, ma’am.” Mark had the grace to look embarrassed. “Of course not. Sorry, ma’am.”

  “You’re Mrs. Vera Baines,” Maggie exclaimed, remembering the file she’d read in Mark’s office. “You found the other young woman, too—Miss Joanna Metcalf.”

  Vera Baines appraised the redhead. “I did.”

  “And you know this area well.”

  “I do. I’ve lived here all my life. Raised my children here. And I’m taking it personally that this sort of horrible thing is happening on my streets, in my neighborhood, on my watch. Two poor dead girls! We need to catch whoever’s doing this—before anyone else gets hurt.”

  Durgin stared down at her. “We’re doing everything we can, Mrs. Baines. Please let me know if you remember anything else.” He handed her his card.

  She took it, then placed it in her handbag for safekeeping. She looked shrewdly at Maggie. “So many girls coming and going now, what with the war on.” She sighed. “So many girls—who can keep track of them all? I don’t know them the way I might have a few years ago. It’s not like the old days, you know.”

  “These girls,” Maggie asked, thinking hard, “the ones new to the neighborhood—where do they stay?”

  “Anywhere. Everywhere. Anyone with a spare bedroom can rent it out these days, and most do. Some of the larger old houses have been turned into efficiency flats. There are women’s hotels, boardinghouses….Everyone’s trying to turn a profit from this war, it seems.”

  “I like your cane,” Maggie offered impulsively, admiring its silver bulldog’s head and silver tip.

  “Young lady, it is not a cane—it’s a walking stick. There’s a vast difference, you know.”

  “My apologies,” Maggie said hastily. “Of course it’s a walking stick. And a handsome one at that. Does he have a name?”

  At this, Vera smiled. “Her name is Lady. Named after my beloved childhood pet. She was a good dog. But enough about walking sticks—go catch this monster!”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Baines,” Maggie called as the older woman was escorted out.

  Mark murmured to Frain, “This second victim’s injuries parallel the wounds made to Jack the Ripper’s second victim.”

  Maggie started. How would Mark know that?

  Mark caught her look of surprise. “Bit of a Ripperologist in my spare time,” he said with a crooked smile.

  “Our Jack seems to have left a calling card.” Durgin pointed to a piece of bark removed from a tree trunk and brought into the tent. The writing in white paint read: Catch me if you can! Yours, Jack the R.

  “Take the bark to the lab,” Frain ordered the officers surrounding them. “And get the body to the coroner’s.”

  They went outside. Maggie took a deep breath, grateful for the fresh air. “I have other business to attend to,” she heard Frain tell Mark. “You two and Detective Durgin will take it from here. The three of you will use Standish’s office at MI-Five as a home base for the duration of the case.” He strode back to the street, the tails of his long coat flapping in the wind.

  Durgin looked down at the two MI-5 agents. “We can meet them at the coroner’s for the postmortem. I’ll show you Metcalf’s body and then we’ll go over Leighton’s.” His gaze raked over Maggie. “Unless you have a tea party or a debutante ball to go to? Or perhaps an office with a desk, for that matter?”

  She wasn’t about to let him affect her. “I’ve checked in with my ladies-in-waiting and apparently I have the all-clear for today.” She gave a grim smile. “Lead on, please, DCI Durgin.”

  —

  The sky might have been gray and the wind chill, but to the man it was a beautiful morning.

  He wore green sunglasses in a tortoiseshell frame and a Burberry coat as he walked down the stairs. As he reached the pavement, a red ball bounced across his path. He bent to pick it up, then looked into the face of a four-year-old—smiling when he saw the toddler’s bright eyes and light locks. “Is this yours?” he asked, offering the ball.

  Th
e boy held out mitten-covered hands gravely. Behind him stood his mother, a heavyset woman with a patched wool coat and a strained smile.

  “Well, here you go, son!” He handed the ball to the child, then straightened, noticing the woman was carrying willow baskets on each arm, heavy with onions and potatoes. “May I help you with those, ma’am?” he asked with a tip of his hat.

  “Thank you.” She gave a grunt of relief as she handed them over.

  As they all walked together, he asked the woman, “Long queues at the shops today?”

  “And not much left when you get to the front of them.” At a drab yellow-brick building, she stopped. “This is us. Thank you so much for your help.”

  The boy hung behind his mother’s skirt, shy.

  “My pleasure,” he replied with sincerity. “A boy with his mum—it’s a lovely sight to behold.” He looked down to the child. “You be good for your mother, young man—do you hear? She’s making incredible sacrifices for you. You’re a lucky, lucky boy.”

  He gave the lad a pat on the head and was off, whistling the tune of “Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?” as he made his way through the Marylebone streets to Regent’s Park. The wind picked up, and he bent against it, pulling down the brim of his hat so it wouldn’t blow away.

  When he reached the entrance to the park, he was pleased to see the police had already set up a tent. He took some bread crumbs wrapped in a handkerchief in his pocket and found a bench—not too near and not too far from the flurry of activity—where he could feed the pigeons as well as watch the proceedings.

  He put his gloved middle finger to his mouth and began chewing on it, savoring the rusty tang of the blood that had collected in the leather’s seam. The taste reminded him of his previous night’s adventure, the way he’d ripped the girl—slain her, annihilated her. For years, women had treated him like a mouse—well, who were the animals now? When he had gone to the hunting shop to buy a knife, he’d told the salesman he was after “small prey.”

  As the man in the green sunglasses gnawed at his fingertips, he thought with joy of Brynn Parry—the animal still down in the basement, awaiting him. One of the police officers nodded to him as he passed. With a thrill of adrenaline, the man realized he could sit on his bench and feed the pigeons as long as he wanted, and no one would suspect a thing. He liked that. He liked feeling powerful, being the man who knew the most. He was the hunter, lying in wait.

  He recognized Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin as he strode up the path, as well as MI-5’s Peter Frain, from the newspapers. But who was the man with the white streak in his hair? And who was the redheaded girl? His eyes narrowed. That hair! Even in the overcast, the slut’s coppery hair glowed like Little Red Riding Hood’s cape, like a matador’s mantle, like fresh red blood. His lip curled. The arrogant whore must like the attention her hair brought her or she’d cover it up or cut it off. Flaunting it, that’s what she was doing. Flaunting.

  Things must be pretty dire if MI-5 and Scotland Yard were letting girls play in their sandbox. Another woman, stealing a job away from a man. It wasn’t fair, he thought, muscles bunching under his jaw. It just wasn’t fair.

  As she passed him, she looked at him directly. As if she could look right through him, despite the glasses. Disconcerted, he looked away, then tossed more crumbs to the birds, pitiful creatures with molting feathers who fought over the meager morsels. But in his peripheral vision, he followed her movements. He waited, feeding the pigeons and biding his time. And when the whore left with Durgin and the other man, he rose, the collar of his coat hiding the ghost of a smile. She could be my redheaded Mary Kelly, my last victim in tribute to Jack, he decided, bringing his gloved finger back to his lips and worrying once again at the dried blood on the tip. But later.

  Now it’s time to hunt.

  —

  Hugh and Sarah left the Baker Street office to take the Tube to Waterloo, where they caught the train back to Brockenhurst. As the train pulled out from the station, heading south with a shrieking whistle and clouds of steam, Sarah sank back in her seat with a sigh of relief. The air inside was stuffy, but at least they had the carriage to themselves.

  “Not a big fan of London?” Hugh asked, putting their suitcases in the overhead rack.

  “Love London.” Sarah smoothed her gloves and settled her handbag in her lap. “Adore London. But I just want to get on with it—whatever ‘it’ is.” She was excited, a little scared, but altogether eager to begin whatever it was they’d been training for.

  “Agreed. Remember how they’d say it in Scotland? Jess get oan wea it!”

  “And I suppose we should now say, Juste passer à autre chose!”

  It was an overcast afternoon, the grass green laced with snow, the sky heavy and leaden. Sarah and Hugh sat opposite each other on the worn seats and looked out silently as the train sped past fences and haystacks and horses munching away at rough patches of grass. Sarah struggled to open the dirty window to let in some fresh air. As Hugh reached over to help her, their hands touched and they both burst out laughing.

  “There will always be an England….” Hugh sang in a decent tenor.

  Sarah poked his arm. “I was thinking that, too!”

  The two smiled, then became solemn as they remembered what they had pledged to do for their country, what they might be called on to sacrifice. Even though they didn’t know the particulars yet, there was no question their mission would be dangerous.

  On and on the train sped, past glossy black crows on telephone lines and small villages where little boys ran alongside the carriages for as long as their legs could hold out, waving their caps gleefully at the passengers. Sarah and Hugh bought tea from a plump young girl with a heart-shaped locket around her neck, wheeling a cart. They drank it and shared a cheese and apple sandwich, then did the Times crossword puzzle together.

  “So really,” Sarah said, “how do you know Maggie?”

  “We worked together.” A shadow passed over Hugh’s face. “A long time ago.”

  “Just work?”

  “You’re observant,” he noted. “You’ll make a good spy.”

  “Oh, ha ha—hilarious. But I notice you didn’t answer my question.”

  “We were…involved…for a time, you might say.” Hugh tugged at his Tattersall collar, as if it were suddenly too tight.

  “And you ended it with her?”

  “She ended it with me.”

  “And broke your heart. Are you over her?”

  “Are we ever over the people we’ve loved?”

  “End of the line!” the conductor bellowed as the train slowed and lurched into the Brockenhurst station, its whistle piercing the air. Hugh reached for Sarah’s suitcase.

  “I can get my bag,” she said.

  “No, really,” he insisted, smiling, swinging it down easily. “I’ve got it.”

  Stepping off the train into the fresh country air, they were met on the platform by a man in a gray suit with a dark red tie and pocket square. “Ah! Mr. Philby!” Hugh called, recognizing the man who had recruited him.

  “Hello, Hugh, good to see you again!” The man in the red tie raised a hand in greeting. “And it’s Kim, remember? We don’t stand on ceremony here.” Walking closer, Kim Philby smiled. “And you must be Miss Sanderson.”

  She held out her hand. “Sarah.”

  He shook it, smiling warmly. “Welcome back to Beaulieu. The car’s this way, please. And let me help you with those bags.”

  —

  Philby drove them in his russet Lagonda through winding hills, passing cow pastures, braking frequently for wild ponies and donkeys meandering across the road. At one juncture, while a shaggy brown horse seemed to deliberate which way to go, he made a full stop in the middle of the road. “They rule the roads here, and they know it,” Philby told Sarah and Hugh. “The land is theirs—we’re all merely passing through.”

  “When I was here last, I learned to give them a wide berth,” Sarah agreed, staring out the
car’s passenger window as a line of silvery gray donkeys with dark, limpid eyes and large ears passed by the car without so much as a sideways glance.

  “Of course, they’ve been here for over a thousand years or thereabouts, so I suppose seniority does confer certain rights.”

  “They’re quite handsome,” Sarah remarked as Philby shifted the car into third gear, and they continued on their way in the slanting afternoon sunlight.

  “They are, but they’re wild creatures.”

  “I know—I tried to pet one of the donkeys once, and he nearly bit my hand off. So, you two know each other?” Sarah asked. “From London?”

  Philby and Hugh exchanged a look. “Right, right—” said Sarah. “ ‘Ask me no questions, I’ll tell you no lies.’ ”

  “Indeed,” Philby agreed, “as we all learn how ‘to stoop to conquer.’ ” He pulled the car into the gravel drive of a thatched-roof cottage and stopped, turning off the engine. “Here we are! A regular chocolate box, isn’t it?”

  The house did look like something out of a storybook, with diamond-paned windows, thorny vines of climbing roses, whitewashed cob walls, and a red-brick chimney. A shaggy tan and cream pony nibbled on the grass of the front garden. The only indication of a military training camp nearby was the sound of Range Rovers backfiring and gunshots in the distance.

  “I thought we’d be back at the dormitories?” Sarah asked.

  “We’ve requisitioned lots of the houses around here. Most of the trainees stay in the big houses on the Beaulieu estate, as you did—but since you two will be working closely together, we thought we’d give you some privacy.”

  “Privacy? Why on earth would we need privacy?” Sarah’s pumps crunched on the gravel driveway as she sidestepped a mound of horse excrement.

  “Miss Lynd didn’t tell you?” Philby grinned. “You’re being sent over as a married couple.”

  Sarah and Hugh exchanged an astonished look.

  “You didn’t know? Well, you do now. Think of this as your honeymoon cottage.” Philby winked at Hugh. “Of course, what goes on behind closed doors is up to you.”

  Chapter Five