The Queen's Accomplice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  Daphne turned her head toward them and gave a weak smile which seemed to come at great cost. Maggie could see Durgin hanging back. He’s letting me take the lead on this one, she realized. He thinks she’ll respond better to a woman.

  Maggie poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table, held it to Daphne’s lips, and waited until she took a sip. Then, she steeled herself. “Do you remember anything at all about how you were abducted?”

  “He…knew a lot about me.”

  Maggie was careful to keep her voice mild. “Did you know him?”

  “No….He wore a mask.”

  A mask—good God. It must have been absolutely terrifying. “Do you remember anything about him? His hands? His hair? His scent, perhaps? Any small detail could be important.”

  “He wore gloves,” the injured girl managed. “Black leather gloves.” She pulled the blanket even higher, as if to hide from the memory.

  “Do you live here in London?”

  “No, from Cornwall. Interview…” Daphne took a raspy gulp of air. “Special Operations Executive.”

  “The SOE?” Maggie’s eyes met Durgin’s. He was thinking the exact same thing she was. “And where were you staying?”

  “Some…hotel. Women’s hotel, near Baker Street—don’t remember the name. Oh, why didn’t he kill me?” she moaned.

  “It wasn’t about you,” Maggie said, stroking the woman’s hair. “Whoever did this thinks only about power and hatred and control.” Then, “Did he speak to you at all?”

  “I don’t remember—I’m…” She took a tremulous breath. “I tried to be strong. But I shut my eyes. I pretended it wasn’t happening. But now, when I shut my eyes, I see him. All I see is him….”

  “Shhhh…” Maggie opened her handbag and took out a clean handkerchief. She used it to dab the tears away from Daphne’s cheeks. As the woman released her viselike grip on the blanket, it slipped to reveal indigo bruises on her neck. “Daphne, did the man in the mask try to choke you?”

  “No. I was on a date, going out to dinner, before the man in the mask…There were Punch and Judy puppets and posters everywhere. We went somewhere in Covent Garden.”

  Maggie’s heart skipped a beat. “Daphne, what was the name of the man you were with? Do you remember?”

  “Max…Max something. Handsome man, but got a bit rough when I wouldn’t go to an air-raid shelter with him and—you know…”

  Could Max be the Blackout Beast? He certainly had the temperament for it. “Could this Max be the man in the mask?”

  The girl stared at her. Terror flared in her eyes. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice rising in pitch. “I remember he tried to choke me, but I got back to the hotel. I thought I was safe. I thought I was safe there. I thought I was safe! I thought I was safe!”

  Durgin called into the hall. “Nurse!”

  The nurse, in a white winged linen cap, held Daphne down while murmuring comforting words, then gave her an injection to calm her. When the girl quieted, she sank back into the pillow. Her eyes slipped shut.

  “She’ll still have to wake up and deal with the trauma,” the nurse told them. “But for now she needs sleep.”

  Maggie looked to Durgin. “This Max is a man named Max Thornton, who likes to take women to the Punch and Judy—I’m certain of it. He’s the one who gave me my souvenir.” She pointed to her neck.

  “The little…” Durgin’s unspoken profanity hung in the air between them. “Well, then—let’s arrest him for assault. You know this Max Thornton? Who the devil is he?”

  “He’s a private secretary for Mr. Churchill at Number Ten.”

  “Well, I’m about to get a few officers, go cuff him, and bring him in. I don’t suppose you’d like to come and watch?”

  Maggie thought of how deliciously satisfying it would be, to see the look on Max’s face as he was led off in handcuffs in front of David, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mrs. Tinsley—maybe even the P.M. himself—from Number 10 Downing Street. But she had something to do first.

  “I’ll leave that task to you, Detective,” she said regretfully. “As I mentioned, there’s someone else here, another patient, I need to visit. I’ll meet you back at Mark’s office at MI-Five later. Happy hunting.”

  —

  Maggie knocked at Edmund Hope’s hospital room door. “Hello,” she called, always unsure of what to call him. Dad? Father? It was almost laughable. Edmund? Professor Hope? No.

  He had gingery hair like Maggie’s, but dusted with gray. His skin was dull and papery. When he looked up from his book, she saw his eyes were threaded with red veins. “Margaret. You’re here.”

  “I am.” There was an awkward silence as she tried not to look at the place on the bed where his legs would have been. “You’re looking well. I mean,” she said hurriedly, “your face has a bit more color, I think.”

  Edmund blinked.

  Well, this is going well, she thought. “So, how are you feeling?”

  “Better now,” he said. “It was hard at first, but things are improving. And it’s been weeks since I had my last drink.”

  Maggie perched on the visitor’s chair. “I have a colleague who stopped drinking. He takes a lot of tea now. Seems to work for him.”

  The awkward silence returned. “What are you reading?” Maggie asked, desperate to fill it.

  He held up the book, its cover featuring a figure caught in transition between man and beast. “The Werewolf of Paris. Guy Endore.”

  “Don’t know it, I’m afraid.”

  “It’s set in the nineteenth century—the story of a woman who’s raped by a priest and then delivers the baby, named Bertrand, on Christmas Eve. He’s a werewolf—born with two souls, one of a man and one of a beast. And, occasionally, the beast’s soul takes over and turns him into a wolf, on the prowl for blood.”

  Inside, Maggie grimaced. The novel seemed to parallel her father’s own eerie behavior of the past winter—two souls. “Do you think maybe it’s a bit much? I could bring you something lighter? Blithe Spirit, perhaps?”

  “Life can’t be fixed with a book. Or even a play.”

  “No, I suppose not.”

  “And, as we get older, making amends isn’t so simple, either.”

  “True,” Maggie said carefully, knowing they were on thin ice. Whatever he wanted to say, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear it.

  “I’ve realized you can’t merely say things—you have to mean them. When we met back in the summer of ’forty, I made a lot of promises to you, and I didn’t keep them—”

  “Well, as they say, ‘There’s a war on, you know.’ ”

  “But sometimes there’s just too much damage,” Edmund pressed. “I know early on in your life I abandoned you. I thought at the time it was for good reasons, or at least important reasons, but now as I look back”—his eyes dropped to the book in his hands—“I have my doubts. I was young and heartbroken and completely unprepared to take care of a child—and so I abdicated my responsibility to Edith. But it wasn’t right, Margaret. And you suffered for my passivity and cowardice.”

  Pain pierced her heart, but Maggie ignored it. “You, er, had a lot going on in your life.”

  “Yes, but then when you came to London as an adult, we had a second chance. And once again I’ve disappointed you, let you down.”

  Maggie was not able to absorb the words, true as they were. “It’s—you know—the war. Things are complicated.”

  “Your Aunt Edith did her best, I know.”

  “I mentioned I saw her in Washington in December. Do you remember that? You were on some pretty powerful drugs at the time. She’s well and sends her regards, too.”

  “I’ve caught bits and pieces of your conversations, here and there. I’m glad to hear Edith’s well.” Edmund looked up to the ceiling fan. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I hope you’ll give me the opportunity to prove myself.”

  “Er, thank you.” Maggie rose, feeling flustered and confused. Who was this man, rea
lly? And how much did she owe him? “I really have to get back to the office now. Big case to solve. Interrogation to get to. Oh, I forgot—Peter Frain sends his regards. By the way, I’m not sure if you know, but Elise is coming to London.”

  “Elise?” he asked, momentarily confused.

  “Clara Hess’s daughter with Miles Hess. My younger half sister.”

  “Ah.” A shadow crossed his face.

  All Maggie wanted to do was leave. “Well, congratulations again on your sobriety,” she said. “Good luck!” she called, forcing her mouth into a smile and trying to sound enthused.

  He raised one hand from the book as she left. “Good luck to you, too, Margaret.”

  —

  When the nurse’s aide came in, Edmund barely glanced at her, immersed once again in his book. She was wearing the uniform of a volunteer—a light blue dress with a white cap and apron, each with a thick red cross. They were often in and out of his room. “And how are you doing, Mr. Hope?” came a resonant and smoky voice. “Do you need an extra pillow?”

  At the sound of the voice, Edmund looked up in shock. The nurse had dull brown hair pulled back in a tight bun, not cascades of glossy blond waves. And instead of the fashionable made-up look befitting a German opera diva, her face was bare. And she looked older, with lines around her mouth, and a deep slash between her eyebrows.

  But he’d know that voice anywhere. It haunted his dreams. “Clara,” he whispered, putting up his hands, as though for protection.

  “Our daughter’s looking well,” she said matter-of-factly, nodding in the direction Maggie had exited. “She’s the one thing you ever got right.”

  “Clara…”

  “If she’s yours, of course. I have my doubts.” She closed the door and locked it. “You tried to kill me, Edmund,” she said sweetly, walking over to his bedside. “But, as usual, you bungled it. Just like you always bungled everything. Apparently, nothing changes. Not even after twenty-seven years.”

  “Who told you?” he said, eyes wild. “Peter? Peter Frain? How did you survive the fire? How did you get here?”

  Clara leaned over him with the pillow, looking deep into his eyes and baring even white teeth in a smile before covering his face with it. She pressed it down, hard, making sure he couldn’t breathe. “You never wanted me to sing, Edmund,” she said as he struggled. “Do you know how gorgeous my voice is? In Europe, the elite threw me bouquets. But you didn’t even like me to sing to the wireless around the house.

  “Goodbye, Edmund.”

  When at last his body stilled, and she was certain he was dead, she straightened and tucked the pillow back under her arm. With her free hand, she smoothed back wisps of brown hair that had come free. “See you in hell, darling.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Elise met Fausten at the Ufa-Palast am Zoo on Auguste-Viktoria-Platz in Charlottenburg. He was standing in front of the enormous classical theater, redesigned by Albert Speer. Passersby gave him and his uniform anxious looks. “I didn’t think you’d come,” he said, as she approached.

  “I didn’t think so either. But here I am.”

  He nodded and opened the door for her, handing their tickets to the usherette.

  Inside the cavernous theater, the plush velvet seats smelled of cigarette smoke and wet wool. It was frigid. The newsreel was playing the Ufa-Tonwoche, the propaganda short that always ran before the main film.

  Elise and Fausten slid into their seats by the flickering light of the glowing screen. Silver light shimmered through the darkness as the film Jud Süß, about Karl Alexander, the Duke of Württemberg, who borrows money from a Jew, ruining his city, his court, and ultimately himself, began.

  “The Jews are coming into town,” the narrator’s voice, a deep booming bass, intoned. “They cross our land like snails. Keep in mind, dear Christian, a real Jew is your worst enemy.”

  Elise pulled her coat tighter around her.

  “I advise you to burn their synagogues and schools,” the voice continued. “Get rid of their teachings, which are full of lies. Pray to your God….”

  Elise stood. “I’m leaving.”

  “It’s just started…” Fausten whispered.

  “I’m not going to sit through this—” she said, making her way up the aisle.

  Fausten followed, took her arm and steered her to the door to the lobby. “Shhhh…” he warned.

  “—cheap propaganda,” she finished on the frost-covered pavement outside.

  “Cheap?” Fausten retorted. “That film cost two million Reichsmarks!”

  Ignoring him, Elise began to walk.

  “Veit Harlan really is an excellent director,” Fausten added, catching up with her.

  “But have you read Lion Feuchtwanger? This film is nothing like the book. Jews have been persecuted throughout history! And this is thousands of years of anti-Semitism distilled into pure…hatred. But I have a few other, more pungent words in mind.”

  Fausten shook his head. “No, the Jews have brought misfortune upon themselves.”

  “No! That’s stupid, lying propaganda—teaching us all to think of them as animals or lower—as things—to kill them more easily.”

  “It is true! And a lesson for us all.”

  “Not the Jews I know. Knew.”

  Fausten sighed. “Yes, there is always one good Jew, isn’t there? And even this one didn’t seem so bad, at first—but then look what happened….”

  “You don’t have to be like this, you know.” Elise kept walking. “I know you don’t really believe all of these lies. You don’t have to be one of them.”

  “And yet I do, as I’m quite fond of this thing we call life. And I must advise you to be a good Aryan woman now as well. The brutal reality is if you don’t denounce Father Licht by the end of your leave, you’ll be sent back to the camp.”

  “I know.” The words and their meaning hung in the air.

  “So,” Fausten said, “what are you going to do?”

  A long black saloon car pulled up, then stopped short with a squeal of brakes.

  The back door swung open. “Get in the car,” came a man’s voice from the shadows inside.

  “What?” Elise looked confused.

  “Get in,” the man in the car repeated.

  “Now, see here—” Fausten began.

  There was the click of a gun’s safety catch. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll let her go, Nazi pig.”

  Then, in a lower voice, “We’re with the Resistance, Elise. We’re helping you escape, don’t you see? We’re getting you out of here. But first you must get in the car.”

  “No!” Elise cried. “No, I can’t!”

  The man in the shadows of the car’s interior sighed. “This is not the time to be a hero.”

  “This is exactly the time to be a hero,” Elise turned to Fausten. “Aren’t you going to do anything? Arrest them?”

  Fausten looked at her, eyes grave. “I think you should go with them,” he said slowly. “Leave here.”

  “What?”

  “Go. You are too good for this part of the world.”

  “And that’s why I need to go back to Ravensbrück!”

  “No, you would be wasted there. You would die.”

  Fausten’s eyes locked with those of the man in the car. Without another word, he took Elise’s arm and guided her inside.

  “No!” she cried, shaking him off. She tried to run, but she slipped and fell on one knee, crying out as the pain ricocheted through her body. Fausten caught up with her easily as the car inched forward; he clamped his hand over her mouth while the man in the car grabbed at her waist and pulled her in.

  “No!” Elise cried after Fausten. “Come on, arrest me! Arrest me, you Nazi bastard! If you let me escape, they’ll send you to the Eastern Front!”

  Fausten turned on the heel of his gleaming black boot and stalked away, a black figure against the dazzling snow.

  “Let me go,” Elise sobbed. “I need to go back. Do you know wh
at they’ll do to my father if I go missing?”

  Her captor was silent a moment, as if considering how much to tell her. “We’re working with your father. He was instrumental in setting up this escape.”

  “What? They’ll kill him!”

  “They might,” the man agreed bluntly. “Then again, they might send him to a camp. Or perhaps they’ll leave him be. As Hitler’s favorite conductor, he still wields power.” He clamped a wet handkerchief over her mouth and nose. She fought for a moment, then slumped down in the seat, eyes closed, breathing deep, still at last.

  “Good God, who is this girl?” demanded the man behind the wheel. “And why’s she so fucking important?”

  The man in back shrugged. “I don’t know, but the orders for her come from London—and they’re straight from the Prime Minister himself.”

  —

  Brynn was groggy, but she was sure she had heard something—and cracked open her eyes to see the door close; then she heard the sound of it being locked from the outside.

  She tried to move, but her limbs resisted. She’d been drugged again. That must be it. Her heart was racing; she could hear her pulse drum in her ears.

  Every sense alert, she stayed perfectly still, waiting. When her heart had stopped pounding, she sat up, carefully, slowly. Everything ached. Her head throbbed. She could swear there was some sort of smell in the room—a lingering odor she half-recognized.

  Brynn looked around, not knowing if it was morning, noon, or night. The chamber pot had been replaced by a clean one. The candle had been lit.

  She made her way over to the dressing table, the stone floor damp under her bare feet. On it was a tray with a pot of tea, a mug, and a plate of cold toast. Well, at least I won’t starve. And if it’s drugged, at least I won’t die hungry. She drank the tea straight from the pot. It was lukewarm and dribbled down her chin, but she didn’t care. When she had drunk her fill, she crammed toast into her mouth, margarine smeared across her lips.

  Only when she was sated did she realize there was a note underneath the tray. She plucked at it with trembling hands. It was typed.