The Queen's Accomplice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  Elise summoned every shred of her remaining strength, took her suitcase, and walked from the train to the platform. Swarming everywhere were men in uniform, infinite variations on brown, gray, and black. The crumpled front page of the Völkischer Beobachter blew by; if her feet hadn’t hurt so much, she would have stomped on it.

  Outside, she made her way to the S-Bahn. A long black Opel Admiral, with curving fenders, chrome headlights, and stiff Nazi flags on the hood glided in front of her, blocking her path. The passenger door opened, and a man in a black SS uniform got out. He was young, certainly not older than thirty, with light brown hair, hazel eyes, and the short but powerful build of a wrestler. He was carrying a bouquet of forced narcissus blooms.

  Elise tried to step around him.

  To her astonishment, he snapped the heels of his polished black leather boots together and bowed. “Fräulein Hess? Fräulein Elise Hess?”

  Elise was wary. “…Yes.”

  “My name is Captain Alexander Fausten,” he told her, trying to hand her the flowers. “I am to be your liaison here in Berlin. I am to escort you to the Adlon Hotel, where your father is waiting for you.”

  Else waved away the blooms. She wanted nothing from anyone in a Nazi uniform. And she certainly didn’t want to get into a Nazi car. Where would it take her? What horrors awaited? She clenched her jaw and started to walk. “I can get there myself, thank you.”

  He stepped in front of her. “Please, Fräulein, get in the car.” His face was serious, but not cruel.

  “No.” Elise walked past him, through the dirty slush around the car. The cold wet seeped into her slippers. Her feet burned.

  He followed with long steps. “Fräulein Hess, if you don’t come with me”—he stepped ahead of her and into her way once again—“I’m afraid my superiors will send me to Russia. And I hear it’s very cold there, this winter.” He gave a winning grin. “You wouldn’t want my frostbitten toes on your conscience, would you?”

  As if I care.

  But she was exhausted. Her feet were numb. Was there any use in arguing? She was in Berlin. She turned and limped back to the car.

  He savored his victory with a smile, then took the suitcase from her hand.

  Elise gasped with pain as the weight was removed. Fausten looked down at her hands, and his face paled. “I’ll have a doctor come and look at you.”

  “No!” Elise wanted nothing to do with Nazi doctors. Then, in a softer tone, “No, thank you. I’m a nurse. I can take care of myself.”

  The driver opened the trunk. Fausten put in the suitcase, along with the flowers, then turned back to Elise.

  “You’ll see—this is much nicer than the S-Bahn,” he said, motioning her inside, where it smelled like leather and pipe tobacco. When they were settled in the luxurious, plush warmth, the driver pulled away.

  Elise had a moment of panic as she looked out the window. No one on the streets bothered to look up, let alone meet her gaze. Anything could happen in here, she realized. Of course, anything could happen out there, too—and no one would lift a finger, either.

  “Welcome back to Berlin, Fräulein Hess. You will meet with me tomorrow, nine A.M., at the Gestapo headquarters.” It was not a request. “There is paperwork to be done.”

  Elise stared straight ahead. In front of her, the driver’s thick neck looked like a raw red sausage. “My paperwork is in order, Captain Fausten.”

  He smiled once again. “I’m afraid I must insist.”

  Elise closed her eyes and gave a quiet sigh.

  The sleek black car drove through Berlin, past grim-faced pedestrians who hid their eyes under hats and huddled into their coats, stalled cars giving off noxious exhaust fumes, rusty bicycles, and the occasional horse-drawn cart. It was, perhaps, not the most beautiful city in the world, especially now—but it was hers.

  But Berlin had altered since she’d seen it last. In only a few months, old men were selling matchsticks on street corners. Gaunt women were searching the gutters for cigarette butts. In the Tiergarten, covered in dirty snow, shanties made from cardboard boxes shivered in the icy wind. Sullen women with too much makeup and hollow-eyed young boys beckoned from windows and alleys.

  There was fear, too—Elise could smell it, metallic. It hung in the air like poisonous gas. No one met anyone else’s gaze. Everyone walked as fast as he could. They all practiced the “Berlin look”—glancing to check each way before they entered and exited their apartment buildings.

  They drove down Pariser Platz and under the Brandenburg Gate, covered in red Nazi flags and crowned by the triumphant Quadriga sculpture, which looked to Elise more like the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse than the symbol of victory. As the Opel pulled up to the Adlon, a doorman in gold epaulets and white gloves opened the door. Another went to retrieve Elise’s suitcase.

  Fausten put a hand on Elise’s arm. She started at the touch. “Fräulein Hess, I have read your files. I can see you’re a good girl,” he said. “A good German. An Aryan woman of the finest blood. I will do everything I can to help you.”

  Elise shook him off and got out of the car, waiting for the driver to bring her suitcase. Without warning, two Brownshirts in an alley across the street forced an old man into the back of an unmarked car behind them, its exhaust pipe choking out thick smoke as it sped away.

  She stared at Fausten, who had rolled down the car window. “And I will pray for you,” she told him.

  Now the smile was gone. “Tomorrow. Nine A.M. Don’t be late.”

  Elise passed through the entrance of the hotel and into the lobby, a bellhop following with her suitcase. It was like entering a dreamworld. With its palm court, fountain, and leather club chairs, the marble space was soaring and grand. Huge cut-glass vases of red roses and edelweiss—known to be the Führer’s favorite flowers—adorned every gleaming surface. A harpist in the corner played over the genteel murmurings of the staff and guests.

  Her father stood waiting for her in the petal-scented lobby. “Engel,” Miles Hess cried, opening his arms, oblivious to the stares of the other patrons.

  Elise ran to him. “Papa,” she gasped, burrowing her shorn head into his chest.

  —

  “Not too fast, Engel,” Miles Hess warned as she inhaled cheeses, meats, seeded bread with honey, and hard-boiled eggs. Elise hunched over, eating with her hands, like an animal.

  Her father stared, then looked away. “Slowly, darling. I don’t want you to get sick.”

  “I don’t care,” Elise mumbled through a swig of hot coffee—real coffee—still chewing. “I don’t think I’ll ever be full again.” She smeared bread with gooseberry jam before stuffing it into her mouth. She wrapped up all the food left in her napkin and hid it on her lap under the table when she was done. Her father pretended not to notice.

  “I still can’t get over how you look….”

  “I heard about Mutti.” She took a gulp of coffee. “They told me at the camp.”

  Miles sat down next to her. Gently, he asked, “What did they tell you?”

  “That she was killed defending the glory and honor of Nazi Germany.” Elise gave a twisted smile. “My mother died a ‘hero.’ ”

  “Your mother…” Miles began. Then he put up one hand. “Wait.”

  He rose and walked over to a table with a Victrola and selected a record—a version of Mozart’s Don Giovanni he himself had conducted. He turned up the volume, then came back to the table. He whispered into her ear, “Your mother isn’t dead.”

  “What?” Elise’s brain began to spin. She knew her mother had disappeared in the chaos, along with her half sister.

  Miles put a finger to his lips to silence her. “She turned herself over to the British authorities. She’s probably working with them as we speak, providing them with information only she knows from the Abwehr.”

  Elise tried to follow what her father was saying, but she was tired, she was so weary….Once again the objects around her seemed unreal. Bread, she reminded herself of t
he words. Knife. Cup.

  “Of course, the official Party line is she died in a great act of patriotism. We will, at some point, need to be photographed leaving flowers on her grave at Friedhof Heerstraße, in order to keep up the charade.”

  “But Mutti was a Nazi—she, she believed in all of their insanity!”

  Miles gave her a warning look. Elise realized he was cautioning her—even with the loud music, the hotel suite was surely bugged. She needed to be extremely careful of what she said.

  “And Margareta? Margaret Hope? My half sister?” Elise managed. She had not forgotten how she’d witnessed Maggie shooting the young German guard. And Maggie’s using her and her connections for whatever undercover British mission she was on. Maggie had lied to her. All the while pretending to be her friend.

  “She’s back in Britain as well, as far as I know.”

  “I see.” Elise felt nothing but disgust for her half sister.

  “There will be a memorial service. We both must be there.”

  Elise tried to picture her mother in London, working against the Nazis, and came up blank.

  “And you?” Elise looked around her. The suite was sumptuous. “You seem to be doing well.”

  “Well, they seized the house in Grunewald—for the Party’s use, of course—but put me up here.” Miles attempted a smile. “It’s still advantageous to be a famous conductor. They can’t kill me so easily or have me ‘disappear’ without an explanation. So they have created the public image of me as a bereaved widower, mourning for my beautiful patriot wife, who sacrificed herself in the line of duty. I bury my sorrow by conducting Wagner for Hitler.

  “But let’s concentrate on the good,” Miles urged, taking Elise’s thin hand and pressing it to his lips. “I have my beloved daughter back.”

  “For now.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “This isn’t a release—I’m on a nine-day leave.”

  “What?” Miles was incensed. “A leave? That is not my arrangement with Himmler—”

  “I need to report to Gestapo headquarters at nine tomorrow,” Elise told him, her voice low and even. “I believe my permanent release is contingent on my disavowing Father Licht, and recanting all the things we said publicly about the murder of children—the so-called compassionate death program.”

  “Which you will, of course. You will do exactly what you need to, in order to stay out of that place.” Miles stared into his daughter’s face, eyes dark. “In order to stay alive.”

  Elise gave a ghost of a smile. “I’ll see what they want, first.” She yawned, a huge gape she didn’t bother to cover. “But first, bed.”

  —

  When Philby left, Sarah and Hugh regarded each other. Hugh broke their gaze first and looked to the split logs in a rush basket by the fireplace. “I’ll start a fire.”

  “Are you hungry? I can see what there is.” Sarah went through an archway to the small kitchen and peered inside the icebox. “Two eggs, a little butter, some onions and potatoes, and a few shriveled little apples—I’ll make an omelet. Oh, look, and they left us a loaf of bread and a bottle of cider!”

  While Hugh built up the fire, Sarah made eggs, then brought plates, silverware, and glasses to the dining table.

  “Looks lovely!”

  “I’m no cook,” Sarah confessed. “I can make the odd egg dish, but I’m not one of those domestic women. And—let me make this clear right now—Sabine isn’t, either.”

  “Your French accent,” Hugh said. “It’s so patrician.”

  “While my English accent…is not?” Through her years in London, Sarah had kept her working-class Liverpudlian accent.

  “Both of your accents are charming.”

  “All right, my husband—let’s stay in character,” Sarah admonished.

  Hugh grinned. “Oui, ma chéri.”

  After they’d finished their meal, Sarah washed and dried the dishes while Hugh put on his coat and gloves and brought in more logs for the fire. Sarah threw on her coat, and together they went out the back door to the small garden, where a weathered wooden bench looked over the lake. The air was clear and crisp, the wind ruffling waves across the glassy slate surface of the water. As the pink and gold sunset faded, reflected by the lake, the three bright stars of Orion’s belt rose in the sky.

  Sarah leaned back and their knees touched. “All right, really now—just between you and me—how do you really know Maggie? Were you in love with her?”

  In the violet dusk, Hugh put his arm around Sarah’s shoulders. “Maggie? Who’s Maggie?”

  In the darkness, Sarah gave a catlike, satisfied smile. Together, they sat in a charged silence as more and more stars appeared, glittering like crushed diamonds in the night sky.

  Chapter Seven

  “I could have been in there with you two, you know,” Maggie stated, setting her teacup down with a clink. “I know about ‘cottaging.’ The way pocket squares are folded, foot positions in the loo, so-called glory holes—all those sorts of things.”

  Mark’s jaw dropped. “How the hell—I mean, how would a young lady like you know of such a thing?”

  David can be quite candid when he has had a few drinks. “Never you mind.”

  Maggie and Mark had returned to MI-5 and gone up to Mark’s office, eating pickled beet and margarine sandwiches, and sipping tea Frain’s secretary had provided for them. A large clock ticked the seconds loudly.

  Mark was pinning up what information and photographs he had on the corkboard along one wall. “Well, regardless of what you may or may not know about homosexuals, you realize Fishman wouldn’t have been as forthcoming with a lady in the room, yes?”

  Maggie arched an eyebrow. “I doubt it was Fishman’s sensibilities we were sparing.”

  “Well, then next time, show a little leg.”

  “What?”

  “A little more leg and unbutton a few more blouse buttons. That should do the trick.” Then, “Joking! I’m just joking!”

  “Mark! Really now.” Maggie wanted nothing more than to change the subject. “How’s your family? Your wife? Let’s see, your daughter must be—what—two now? Two and a half? And didn’t you say up in Edinburgh last fall there’s another baby on the way?”

  Mark didn’t turn from the corkboard. “Frain didn’t tell you?”

  “Tell me what?”

  “Bastard.” When he spun on his heel to face her, Maggie could see the bleakness in his eyes. “They’re dead. My wife and my daughter and my unborn child are all dead. They were killed in one of the bombing raids—while you and I were off chasing murderers in Scotland. They didn’t tell me until I’d wrapped the case because, well, there was nothing to be done. They didn’t want me—distracted.”

  “Mark!” Maggie was speechless from shock. Then, “Oh, Mark. I’m—I’m sorry. So very, very sorry for your loss.”

  In the corridor, someone paced by with a heavy tread.

  “Do you—do you have a place to live?” she ventured. “You can always stay with me, if you need to. The place is big enough, and of course you’re welcome….”

  “I’m staying in Hugh’s flat while he’s…away.”

  Maggie felt terrible. She’d never met Mark’s wife and daughter, but she’d seen pictures and heard him speak proudly of the baby on the way. And now, dead. Those lives, that life—snuffed out. She stepped toward him.

  He turned away. “I thank you for your offer,” Mark managed in a strained voice. “But quite frankly, this subject is the last thing I want to talk about. In fact”—his eyes once again met hers, and she flinched at the shadows she saw in them—“while we’re working together on this case, I’d prefer if you didn’t mention it again.”

  There was a sharp rap at the door, then Durgin let himself in. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said with his mad grin, shrugging off his coat and tossing it down. “Oh, tea!” he crowed, rubbing his hands together. “Is it still hot? Goody, goody, goody—let’s get started then.”


  He flung himself down next to Maggie and crossed his legs, revealing brilliantly colored argyle socks. “Fancy digs,” he allowed, taking in Mark’s office while bouncing one knee. “Well, I have good news and bad news. While my men were able to pick up Mr. Fishman’s, er, ‘dance partner’—the posh fella in question swears he didn’t see anything related to the disposal of a corpse, either. I didn’t book either of them—we have their names and addresses, in case we need to question them again.”

  Maggie pushed away her sandwich; after Mark’s revelation, she found it impossible to eat. She focused her attention back on the case. “In other words, a dead end.”

  “Lots of dead ends in this job, Miss Tiger. You may not know it from your cushy offices here, but at the Yard, we’ve been dealing with disappearing women for quite a while. There are women all over London who’ve gone missing in the chaos of the Blitz. Do you know how many letters from parents we’ve received, how many visits from private detectives we’ve had over the past year and a half? In case you’re wondering why I’ve been assigned to this case, it’s because at one point, half of London’s detective force was investigating the disappearances of women. So the Chief formed a separate bureau, Mysterious Disappearances Department.” He made a toast with his teacup. “And I’m the head.”

  Maggie was frowning. “So, many women have disappeared, but only two bodies have been found? Why the change now? Why the tribute to Jack the Ripper? Maybe he’s keeping them. The girls, that is.” The thought made Maggie’s skin crawl. “You know, until he’s ready. They could still be alive.”

  Durgin tapped his chin with one finger. “It’s possible, of course. Anything’s possible.”

  Two women had died in terrible, brutal circumstances. Maggie peered at Mark’s and Durgin’s faces. And yet, they seemed unconcerned. Didn’t these men care? It wasn’t just a case to be solved, the intellectual puzzle of a Ripper copycat. A knife and a madman had reduced at least two girls to stand-ins for other murdered women, separated by half a century. Was she the only person to remember these women had been living, breathing, vibrant women? Her stomach lurched as she realized she’d never heard back from Brynn. Where was she now? Was she all right?