The Queen's Accomplice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

To forgive those who trespass against us—unimaginable.

  To forgive was an impossibility. Elise couldn’t lie to herself or to her God, and so she was silent during that line.

  Chapter Six

  “We always go to the loveliest places, Mark,” Maggie deadpanned as they hurried into the Paddington Mortuary, following in DCI Durgin’s long-legged wake.

  Durgin didn’t stop his mad pace to sign in at the front desk; he merely glared at the elderly guard on duty from beneath his eyebrows.

  “We’re, ah, with him,” Maggie told the half-asleep guard, a bald man with a barrel-shaped chest, who blinked heavy-lidded eyes at them before settling back into his reverie.

  They trailed Durgin down a cement staircase to the building’s chilly basement, then down a long gray linoleum hall until they reached the morgue. “ ‘Abandon all hope…’ Well, you posh types know the rest,” the detective muttered, holding the thick metal door open for Maggie and Mark.

  Inside was a white-tiled room illuminated by fluorescent pendant lights, a room even colder than the hall. The floor was concrete, with a drain in the middle. A porcelain sink stood in one corner, while a human skeleton posed in another. On various shelves were scales, glass jars of organs, and containers of swabs and cotton balls.

  A short, round man was working on a body, whistling the melody to “Heart and Soul.” Despite his small stature, his nose was long, his ears were long, and his eyes were wide, red, and drooping, giving the impression of an old hound dog. “Hmph,” he snorted, hands deep inside the abdomen of a dead body. “Imagine meeting you here.”

  “Ah, Collins—light of my life.” Durgin spread his arms wide in abject surrender. “And where else would I be? I can’t seem to tear myself away from you and your odiferous basement.”

  “You likes me for my corpses is all.” Collins flicked his eyes to Maggie and Mark. “Who’re they?”

  “MI-Five,” Durgin replied, seating himself in a rolling chair. He pushed with his feet to glide across the rough floor, ending up next to Collins. He looked back to Maggie and Mark and gestured. “Mr. Standish and Miss Hope, this is Mr. Alfred Collins—best coroner in the business.”

  Collins pulled out bloody gloved hands from the corpse. “Forgive me if I don’t shake.” He gave Mark the once-over, then looked to Maggie. His eyes lingered on her figure. “You don’t look like no agent I’ve ever met.”

  “Perhaps, Mr. Collins,” Maggie proffered, “you might try expanding your horizons.”

  They locked eyes for a moment, then all turned to the body. Maggie did her best not to gasp.

  It lay on a white enamel autopsy table, nearly obscuring the drain grooves, which led to a circular hole drilled between the ankles for fluids. Next to the table was a steel tray, and on it was a leather instrument kit, lined in velvet, the ivory-handled instruments glinting in the overhead light.

  Durgin stood and made the sign of the cross, then removed his magnifying glass from his jacket’s breast pocket and leaned in to peer at the corpse. “So, what do we have here?”

  “Arrived just before you did—a Miss Doreen Leighton.” Collins jabbed a bloody thumb at a sheet-draped body on a table next to the one he was working on. “But here’s your first. Joanna Metcalf.”

  Maggie cleared her throat. “Think it could be the work of a butcher?”

  “Maybe,” Collins admitted. “Look here—cut all the way to the bone.”

  Durgin turned his penetrating gaze to the body. “He certainly knows his way around the human body.”

  “Any thoughts as to the weapon?” Mark asked.

  Collins shrugged. “These cuts were all made with something extremely sharp—but it’s hard to know exactly what—hunting knife, a shoemaker’s knife, penknife, stiletto….But the cuts themselves are assured, confident. Our killer’s got style, the bastard does.”

  “Long blade or short?” Mark asked.

  “Can’t tell. Human flesh is soft—it keeps its secrets.”

  “What’s this?” Maggie asked, going to a muslin bag on the counter.

  “Her clothes,” Collins said. “Smell them.”

  Maggie braced herself, then took a whiff. There was a strange smell, like a dentist’s office or an operating theater. “Nitrous oxide?”

  “That—or ether or chloroform.”

  “So”—Maggie pondered—“since she shows no signs of a struggle, it’s possible she was drugged, then killed. And then her body was moved.”

  Durgin looked up, his blue-gray eye through the magnifying glass huge, almost surreal. “Not a bad hypothesis.”

  No call for sarcasm, Detective.

  Collins moved on to the body of the most recent victim, pulling off the sheet.

  Durgin drummed his fingers on the table. “Well?”

  An explosive exhale. “Jesus Christ.”

  “Any fibers or hairs?”

  “No. She’s clean. But—” Collins crooked a finger at Maggie; she approached warily. “Give ’er a sniff.”

  Maggie mustered every ounce of self-control she had and forced herself to inhale. Beyond the coppery smell of blood, there was also the odor of gas. “It smells the same as Joanna Metcalf’s clothes. Some kind of drug?”

  “I’m wagering yes.”

  “I’ll check to see if she has family, then, if not, cross-check missing persons and SOE to identify the body, as well,” Maggie added. Our Jack is playing a game with us. She thought of her nightmare. You want to play? All right, then, Jack—let’s go.

  “Excuse me, Detective!” The police officer who appeared at the door was at least seventy, an enormous belly protruding over his leather belt. He struggled to catch his breath. “They found…a man with a white…van!” he panted. “Fits the description and there’s…blood on his clothes! He’s been…taken into custody!”

  Durgin gave a wolfish grin. “Good job.” He glanced at Mark. “Let’s go—holding cell’s on the second floor.”

  He squinted at Maggie. “Don’t you have tea with the Queen to go to? Crumpets and jam? Scones with marmalade?” He tapped absently at his chin, now sporting a dark shadow. “You look like the sort of girl who likes marmalade.”

  “I do like marmalade,” Maggie answered evenly, “but only when this case is over. Detective Durgin, I want to catch this monster as much as you do. Maybe even more.”

  He trained his hooded eyes on her. “More? And why is that, Miss Hope?”

  Maggie raised her chin. “The victims are all women, all young, all working for SOE. Let’s just say for some of us—for me—it’s personal.”

  He gave her a long look, then began walking. “Chunky or fine?” he tossed back over his shoulder.

  “What?” Maggie asked, rushing to keep in step as he started his lope, leaving Mark to find an elevator.

  “Marmalade. How do you like it?”

  “Chunky,” she replied, catching up with him.

  “Bitter or sweet?”

  She matched him, step for step. “Bitter. Dark and bitter, Detective Chief Inspector.”

  —

  Mark had caught up by the time they reached the second floor. Outside the large taped windows, the wind had picked up and the snow was beginning to fall in earnest.

  “I’m going in alone,” Durgin announced.

  “Detective,” Mark said as a flunky handed Durgin a file. “I don’t know if you realize this, but I’ve been catching domestic terrorists—IRA as well as Nazi—for years. And it’s also how Miss Hope started off in this crazy business. The details of her most recent cases are classified to the likes of me, but I wager she’s seen more action than you could ever imagine.”

  Durgin paged through the file, eyebrows drawn together. “Mr. Standish, Miss Hope.” He made an astonishingly graceful courtly bow. “I don’t want a woman in there. That is all.” He turned to enter the interrogation room.

  “What?” Maggie called after him. “This is my case too!”

  “Sorry, Miss Tiger, no skirts allowed. You”—he jabbed his ch
in toward Mark—“if you insist, you may sit in.”

  “I want to show you something.” Maggie began to pull her blouse out of her skirt’s waistband.

  Durgin drew himself up to his full height, looking aghast. “Miss Hope—that’s neither appropriate nor necessary.”

  Maggie didn’t stop until she’d uncovered her ribs. “See this scar?” she hissed, pointing to the still-raw bullet gash on her side.

  Durgin’s eyes were steely. “Hard to miss.”

  “I lived through that.” She dropped her blouse and tucked it back in.

  “And what happened to the person who shot you?”

  Maggie met his eyes. “I killed him. He’s dead.” It was a simple statement of fact. “I’d like you both to keep that in mind as we conduct this inquiry. I have strengths and experience you may not anticipate. Don’t make assumptions.”

  “She’s good on a motorcycle, too, Detective, if it comes to it. Can make those big jumps.” Mark made a soaring movement with his fingers, whistling through his teeth.

  “Here’s what’s going to happen,” Durgin stated, unsmiling. “I’m going to take Standish in with me—and you, Miss Tiger, will remain outside.”

  “But—”

  “I do not doubt your expertise, Miss Hope, but I know men like this. And all my hard-won knowledge informs me he’ll be more forthcoming without a lady present. That’s my experience of more than twenty years. It’s not personal—just my ken. Now, are you going to make this about the case? Or are you going to make it all about you?”

  “Fine,” Maggie muttered. “Have it your way.”

  “But, please, watch through the one-way mirror. And listen.” Maggie got the distinct feeling Durgin wasn’t the sort of man who said please often. “I want to hear what you think when we’re done.”

  “Of course.”

  As Durgin took a seat and Mark entered the room, the Detective Chief Inspector told the MI-5 agent, “And when we’re in there, take my lead. We’re doing this my way.”

  —

  The interview room was small, with a scratched wooden table and three dented metal folding chairs. Durgin and Mark both sat on one side.

  They waited as two officers led in a large man with his hands cuffed behind him. The suspect had sloping shoulders, a shiny, bald head, and a prominent Roman nose. His shirtsleeves were rolled up, revealing forearms with protruding veins. He slumped into the chair on the opposite side, appraising the two men through slit eyes. The police officers departed, leaving behind a folder and a pen. From behind the thick mirrored glass, Maggie watched.

  “I’m Detective Chief Inspector Durgin and this is MI-Five Agent Standish. Please state your name and your date of birth.”

  “Billy Fishman,” the man said in a low rumble. “Born six of February, eighteen ninety-nine.”

  “Where were you last night, Mr. Fishman?” Mark asked, as he leafed through the file.

  There was only silence and the creak of the chairs. It was cold in the room and Mark’s nose began to drip. He pulled out a handkerchief and blew hard.

  Detective Durgin took the file from him and flipped through it, pen in hand. “We have a witness who says she saw you coming out of Regent’s Park at one A.M. She said you got into a van. Mr. Fishman, what were you doing in Regent’s Park in the dead of night?”

  Fishman looked straight into the mirrored window with flat, expressionless eyes; Maggie could feel her skin crawl. “I was takin’ a piss.”

  “When you were arrested,” Durgin continued, still looking at the file, “our officer reports you had blood on your hands. Underneath your fingernails.”

  Fishman glared. “I work with meat.”

  “What do you do?” Mark asked. “Are you a butcher?”

  “No,” the man snapped. “I transport the meat from the slaughterhouses to the shops. That’s why I got me a van.”

  Durgin finally looked up. “Do you often urinate in Regent’s Park?”

  The man shrugged powerful shoulders. “Sometimes.”

  “And where did you go exactly?”

  “I dunno. The Queen Mary Garden, maybe.”

  “Ah,” Durgin mused, as though trying to picture it. “You stopped your van, and you went all the way into the park, at night, to take a piss in the Queen Mary Garden? May I ask why the wall wasn’t good enough for you?”

  Silence.

  Mark leaned in. “A girl was murdered and her body was dumped in the park last night. What do you know about it?”

  “Nothing! I don’t know nothing about no girl!”

  “Wait—who do you know, then?” Durgin appraised him from beneath his eyebrows. “Come on, tell the truth and shame the devil.”

  Agitated now, Fishman shook his head. “Can’t tell you—but I didn’t kill no girl. Didn’t even see no girl.”

  Durgin rose, walked to the door, and opened it. “Guards!” he thundered.

  Fishman’s heavy-lidded eyes widened. “Wait!”

  The detective waved the guards off. He closed the door, turning back to the suspect.

  Fishman looked down at the metal table. “There weren’t no girl—but there was a—well, a man.”

  Durgin leaned back against the wall, waiting. He folded his arms theatrically.

  “Men—men like me—we go in the park at night. Hoping to…you know…find a bloke.” Fishman glared up at them. “You gonna arrest me now?”

  “Who’s the bloke?” Mark asked impassively, making notes.

  “Hell if I know! We didn’t exactly go courtin’.”

  “What did this man you met look like?”

  “Small—’bout five foot six, thin, posh. Maybe sixty. Wearing a real nice coat. Tweed. A toff.”

  Durgin banged on the door. “Let him go,” he ordered the guards. “And check out his story about meeting up with a man—small, thin, upper-crust.”

  “Are you going to arrest him?” Fishman grumbled. “You never arrest the posh fellas.”

  “We’ll bring him in for questioning, too. Unlike most of my fellow officers, I don’t give a damn what you do, or when, or with whom. But I do care about murder.” Durgin locked eyes with the manacled man. “And if you’re holding anything back about that, I swear to you, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

  —

  Philby, Sarah, and Hugh entered the tiny cottage, Hugh ducking to get through the front door. The main room had a low ceiling with rough-hewn beams, an open stone fireplace, worn but clean wide-plank floors covered with colorful braided rugs, and plain, sturdy furniture. A few framed pictures and a shelf of books gave the place a homey air.

  “There’s a bedroom upstairs,” Philby explained.

  “I’ll sleep on the sofa down here,” Hugh said, while Sarah suppressed a smile.

  “Let’s sit down first,” Philby suggested, and they did, in overstuffed armchairs. “Your new identities.” He opened his briefcase and handed each agent a thick file. “I want you to memorize these and then burn them.” Philby looked first to Hugh, speaking in perfect French, “From now on, you will be known as Hubert Taillier. And you will speak only French.”

  He fixed his eyes on Sarah. “And your new identity is Sabine Severin.”

  “Yes, sir,” she replied in Parisian-accented French.

  Philby contemplated the duo. “Hubert Taillier and Sabine Severin,” he intoned, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

  Sarah and Hugh gave each other shy smiles.

  “Let me clarify,” Philby stated. “Your mission is to go to Paris. You will pose as a married couple. We’ve been working on your cover story for quite some time. Madame Severin—yes, you use your stage name, not your married name—you are a French ballerina who’s been dancing in Monte Carlo. There will be an opening at the Paris Opéra Ballet, and you will join the company.”

  “There will ‘happen’ to be an opening?” Sarah asked.

  Philby raised a hand. “Let us worry about that part. And Monsieur Taillier—you are Madame’s husband, a cellist, exempt
from military service because of a heart defect. You will play the cello in the Opéra’s orchestra. You are both noted Nazi sympathizers.”

  “But the dance world is small.” Sarah knit her brows. “Whether it’s Britain or France. They’d know us, know of us—at least by reputation.”

  Hugh nodded. “The music world is small, too. If we’re supposed to be good enough to perform with the Paris Opéra Ballet, they would at least have heard of us already.”

  “We’re taking care of this. Our contact at the Opéra is Émile Charron. He’s been talking you both up to the artistic directors and the management. We’ve created some false newspaper reviews of your performances from Monte Carlo, so he can show them your photographs and your reviews. We’ll take care of all the details.”

  “Except—I haven’t been practicing,” Sarah admitted. “I haven’t been dancing. Running, jumping, shooting, throwing hand grenades, yes—ballet, no.”

  Philby leaned back in his chair and eyed her. “Isn’t it like riding a bicycle?”

  “There’s a saying in ballet—Miss one class, you know. Miss two classes, your fellow dancers know. Miss three classes, the audience knows.” She sighed. “And I have missed months and months of class.”

  Hugh looked down at his hands. “And I haven’t played the cello seriously in years.”

  Philby quirked an eyebrow. “Then I suggest you both get to work.”

  As Hugh blanched, Sarah asked, “And, once we’re there, in Paris?”

  “We will let you know your mission when we’re sure you’re going. Oh, and there’s one more thing.”

  They waited.

  “Remember, you’re a married couple—you’re going to have to practice relating as man and wife as well. You must be convincing.”

  Sarah and Hugh looked to each other, then both dropped their eyes. Hugh flushed.

  “How much time do we have?” Sarah asked.

  “We’ll let you know,” Philby replied, handing Hugh a heavy iron key. “In the meantime, I’ll let you two lovebirds settle in.”

  —

  Elise reached Berlin, the train’s brakes screeching and steam hissing. It was still daylight, and weak winter sun shone through the arched glass skylights of the terminal’s roof.