The Queen's Accomplice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  Durgin walked her away from the grisly package and to the far sofa. “Where did you find it?”

  She turned her face from the package. “In my bedroom.”

  He perched on the sofa arm beside her. “Did you see who delivered it?”

  “No. My flatmate found the package on the doorstep and brought it upstairs.”

  “All right, I’m going to call the Yard and have someone investigate if there are any witnesses to who may have left it.” As he rose, he gave her shoulder an awkward pat. “And I’ll see where the blasted tea is….”

  As he went to the desk and made the telephone call, she picked at a loose thread on the cuff of her sweater, her heart drumming. Someone left me a kidney. Whose was it? Brynn’s? That of another woman working with SOE? One murdered by the Blackout Beast?

  She continued to pick at the fraying cuff as she listened to Durgin speak to an officer at the Yard, then place another call, this one within MI-5, requesting a photographer.

  When he was done, Maggie began speaking, the words pouring from her. “I have a friend who’s a mother staying with me, with her child. A baby! I can’t have”—she fumbled for a word—“offal delivered to my home! And the letter—”

  She put her hand to her mouth, covering it as though she could force the words back in; she couldn’t speak them aloud. If that’s her kidney, then where’s the rest of her? Oh, Brynn…She dropped her hands to her lap, and underneath the tabletop, curled them into fists, nails digging deep into her palms, making angry red crescents.

  “Miss Hope,” Durgin said, gently. “Maggie. I’m now going to ask you—with all due respect—to take a deep breath.”

  She did.

  The detective put on a pair of rubber gloves. He moved back to the package, lifting it from the pillowcase. “It’s addressed to you—by name.”

  Maggie nodded, mute with misery and fury. She watched as he parted the brown butcher’s paper. Using the tips of his fingers, he pulled out the note, then peered inside. “That’s half a kidney, all right,” he said as the unpleasant odor permeated the office. “Can’t tell if it’s human or not.” He looked over to her. “Please go into my bag and get my powder and brush. I’m going to dust for prints.”

  Maggie did as he asked.

  He dipped his brush into the powder. “Did you touch it?”

  “No. Of course not,” she snapped. “Oh, goodness—I touched the letter! I didn’t know what it was when I did—”

  “It’s all right,” Durgin allowed, unexpectedly gentle. After dusting the package, notes, and kidney itself, he picked something up with his tweezers. “What’s this?”

  “A hair?”

  “A cat hair,” Durgin specified. “Marmalade tabby, I’m guessing.”

  “It’s mine.” Maggie groaned and dropped her head into her hands. “I mean, it’s from my cat.”

  “It’s always best, on the whole, Miss Hope, not to allow animals to contaminate crime scenes. Whenever possible, of course.”

  Maggie’s head shot up. “Well, tell that to him, living on rationed cat food and smelling a nice raw kidney!”

  He gazed at her a moment before replying. “Well, we have no fingerprints, no insects, and no fibers—beyond the hair of one red tabby cat. But the letter…” He shook his head. “The letter gives us quite a lot of information on our Beast and the way he thinks.”

  An MI-5 agent came to the door with a heavy black camera, and Durgin waved him in. As the photographer, a walrus of a man with an elaborate white handlebar mustache, began snapping pictures from every conceivable angle, Maggie asked, “Do you really think the Beast ate the other half, the way Jack the Ripper allegedly did? We’re now dealing with cannibalism?”

  “Maggie, come walk with me.” Durgin picked up their coats. “Let’s let this man do his job.” He held Maggie’s for her as she put it on, then put on his own.

  Outside, the pavement was slick and wet, and more snow was falling. For the moment, the wind had died down. The perfect time to light up, Maggie thought, suddenly desperately craving a cigarette. “Do you smoke?”

  “No, I quit that habit, along with the whiskey, back in the day. You?”

  “I stopped, too. Bad for the lungs, I believe.”

  “Absolutely right—and I’ve seen enough autopsies on smokers’ lungs to know.”

  There was a low wooden bench outside a chemist’s shop, protected by a striped awning. Durgin stopped and took a seat. “Do you mind?” he asked, looking up at Maggie.

  “Thank you,” she said, realizing why he’d brought her out. “The fresh air is helping.”

  “Well, it’s not every day you get home delivery from the so-called Blackout Beast. Along with a manifesto of hatred.”

  They sat, watching the snow spiral down, the white flakes melting on the black, wet street, the sky overhead a milky gray. Their arms brushed and both stiffened and drew apart.

  “How did you meet Frain?” he asked. “What’s your connection with MI-Five?”

  “Frain?” Maggie was desperately glad to talk about anything but the package. “Peter Frain and I worked together on a case when the war had just started and I was working as Mr. Churchill’s secretary. He found I was good at codes and things, and then he recruited me. Even though I’m technically with the ATS and employed by the SOE, I do the odd job for MI-Five, too.” She gave a harsh laugh. “Which, I suppose, is what makes me one of those ‘professional women’ our Beast hates so much.”

  “We’re up to his penultimate victim now. If he follows the pace he’s set, it won’t be long.”

  “I know.” Maggie knew all too well what victim they were up to—Catherine Eddowes, victim number four. If they didn’t catch the Blackout Beast, he’d not only kill doppelgängers of Catherine Eddowes and then Mary Jane Kelly but, just as Jack the Ripper had, never be caught, never pay for his crimes. Like the original Jack, he’d vanish, leaving London in confusion and terror.

  “Come, let’s get you that cup of tea.”

  “I’d rather have a medicinal brandy, if you please.”

  “Not sure if there’s any left in the city, but we can try.”

  They walked to the nearest pub, the Golden Dragon, where Maggie sat and Durgin ordered for them at the bar. He returned with a mug of tea and a small glass filled with amber liquid. “They didn’t have any brandy—this is fairly ancient sherry, but I didn’t think you’d mind.”

  Maggie sipped the sweet liquid gratefully. It stung her lips and felt hot going down her throat. As she sipped, Durgin watched her face with concern.

  Maggie finished her sherry without speaking, then put down her glass. There was nothing to say. She had been sent half a kidney by a sequential murderer, as a warning. It was all so horrific, so shocking, that silence seemed the only sane option.

  And so they sat, until Durgin’s tea turned cold. “Do you want me to take you home?” he asked finally.

  Her head snapped up. “Certainly not!” Then, “I’m not going to be frightened off.”

  “Maggie, this is no time for false bravado. Whoever our Beast is, he’s telling us he knows a lot about you—he knows your name and where you live.”

  “Do you really think my going home will keep me safer than working at MI-Five? My home is where he delivered the package, after all!”

  “I’ve assigned plainclothes officers to keep a twenty-four-hour watch on your house,” Durgin countered.

  “I’m staying,” Maggie said. The set of her jaw made it clear there would be no argument. “Brynn is…well, I hope she’s still out there. And I’m not going to rest until we find her.”

  “Well, then—are you ready to question Max Thornton? I think we’ve let him sulk behind bars long enough.”

  Maggie stood, still shaky. But she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Why, James Durgin—what a delightful way to spend the evening.”

  —

  “My name is Hubert Taillier,” Hugh was saying once again in French, scowling down at his snarled t
ie. “We met in Monte Carlo, at the ballet. I was playing cello in the orchestra and you were performing your first Les Sylphides.”

  Sarah peered over his shoulder in the bathroom mirror and dabbed on the last of a well-worn pink lipstick, then she turned and expertly tied his tie. “We married in the south of France, Côte d’Azur, after a whirlwind courtship.”

  “At the church of Saint Jean-Baptiste, in a small ceremony. I wore a blue suit—”

  “—and carried pink silk roses—”

  “—that I’d sprayed with perfume!”

  “And made me sneeze all through the ceremony!”

  Sarah and Hugh had been practicing their background as diligently as they’d been studying spycraft, ballet, and cello at the SOE’s Finishing School at Beaulieu.

  “You look beautiful, darling,” Hugh said to her, unable to tear his gaze away from Sarah in her plum-colored silk dress.

  “And you look handsome as well,” she replied, her eyes locked on his.

  “Shall we go?” He offered his arm. “One last dance before the madness begins in earnest?”

  Together, they walked in the twilight, their hands brushing, then their fingers entwining.

  “I just learned a great French expression,” Sarah told him. “Mi chien mi loup, which means dusk, but literally translates to ‘between dog and wolf.’ ” She squeezed his hand. “Shall we continue our stories again?”

  Hugh began. “Of course we have no children—”

  “Because of my career.”

  This time, Hugh squeezed her hand. “No children yet, anyway.”

  “Oooh, I do think we finally found something to argue about, darling.”

  As they walked closer to the imposing gray-stone Abbey, they could hear the band playing jazz. “After you,” Hugh said, opening the heavy wooden door for Sarah, who glowed.

  Hugh and Sarah had rehearsed in the Domus of Beaulieu’s Abbey, and it had always been empty, an almost mystical place. Now the ancient lay brothers’ dormitory was full of men and women jitterbugging to Tubby Jackson and the Jackson Band, as a banner hung over the stage pronounced. Several of the musicians playing were colored, and Sarah was surprised to see one of the trombone players was a colored woman, somewhere in her twenties, wearing a shimmering evening gown and pearls.

  Against one ancient stone wall was a table with several punch bowls and tiny cups, and plates piled high with sandwiches. The air was hot from the press of bodies and smelled of perfume, brilliantine, and cigarette smoke. Sarah heard a young man next to her say, “Look at the blackbird up there—she’s not too bad, really.”

  “Especially not with her lips around that horn,” his friend replied. “Oh, the things I can picture her doing….”

  A third behind them added: “Why is it, outside of a few sepia females, there are aren’t women musicians capable of ‘sending’ anyone—at least sending them farther than the nearest exit?”

  The first sniffed. “Only God can make a tree, and only men can play jazz, what ho?”

  But before Sarah could say anything, she and Hugh were swept up into the crowd of their fellow agents-in-training, Lindy-hopping to one of their favorites, “Eight to the Bar.” When it was over, everyone in the high-ceilinged room was struggling for breath. They laughed and clapped, kissing cheeks.

  “Miss Lynd!” Sarah called, waving to a blonde in a corner. “Bonne soir!”

  “Madame,” Miss Lynd answered as they walked over, hand in hand. “Monsieur.” She gave a rare smile as she ladled out punch. “I hope you’re having fun,” she said in French, pressing glasses into their hands. “Cheers!”

  “Miss Lynd—” Hugh put down his glass and offered his hand. “Would you like to dance?”

  But as the band segued into the slow and dreamy “I’ll Be Seeing You,” and the lights dimmed, Miss Lynd gave a cryptic smile. “Actually, Monsieur Taillier,” she suggested, “why don’t you dance with your wife?”

  Hugh offered Sarah his arm, and she took it. He led her to the middle of the dance floor. Onstage, a woman with glowing ebony skin in a fuchsia satin dress and rhinestone earrings that shone and sparkled under the stage lights took a deep breath and began to sing in a resonant alto.

  Sarah and Hugh danced together well, as if they really had been married for years. “What we do for the war effort,” Sarah complained softly into Hugh’s ear.

  “Even if all of this is pretend,” Hugh replied, spinning her around and then holding her in close, “that doesn’t mean my feelings for you aren’t real.”

  They danced until they were the last couple on the stone floor. When it was finally time to go, Hugh snagged one of the bottles that had been brought up from Beaulieu’s cellars.

  “Nettle wine,” Sarah exclaimed, stumbling in her high heels on the flagstone path, “oooh la la.” She lifted the bottle and took a sip.

  “Easy there,” Hugh warned, taking the bottle back. “Don’t twist an ankle now. We’ve come too far.”

  She giggled and clutched his arm. “Heaven forbid.”

  At their storybook cottage, they both stumbled in the door, laughing. “I must take these heels off, darling Hubert—my feet are killing me.” She limped to the sofa and began to undo first one tiny buckle, then the other, slipping her feet out and wiggling her toes with a noisy sigh of relief.

  Hugh shrugged off his jacket and sat next to her. “That was fun.”

  “Yes, it really was.”

  “We’re going to Paris.”

  “Yes, we really are.”

  Suddenly, they were both serious. Then Sarah sighed again. She turned. Winding her arms around Hugh’s neck, she kissed him on the mouth, gently at first, then more passionately. They both wanted to stop thinking, to escape from the endless limbo before actually landing on French soil.

  Hugh wrestled off his tie. When he tried to unbutton his shirt, Sarah tore at it, buttons popping and rolling everywhere. Together they fell backward, entwined on the narrow sofa, desperate to free themselves from the tension of the last few months.

  Afterward, they lay back, panting and sweating.

  “Well, that was quite the send-off,” Hugh managed, trying to catch his breath.

  Sarah was still breathless, too. “I hope you don’t think I used you.”

  Hugh kissed the top of her head. “Anytime. I’m your husband, after all.”

  “I need to take my mind off of everything. I’m not scared exactly, but…”

  Hugh began to kiss her neck, working his way down. “Why, madame,” he murmured between nips, “I’m happy to distract you all night, if that’s what you desire.”

  —

  Maggie peered through the mirrored window at Max Thornton, sitting at the scarred wooden table, his hands cuffed in front of him, his nose covered in white gauze and surgical tape. When Durgin took in the state of Max’s face, he whistled. “You weren’t kidding about your skill set, Miss Hope.”

  Maggie shrugged, the image of the kidney before her again. She refused to dwell on it and refocused on Max. She was filled with a primitive and passionate hatred for him. He’d tried to strangle and rape her—just as he’d tried to strangle and rape Daphne Plunket. And who knew how many other women he’d preyed upon and victimized? He deserves his bloody nose—and so much more. But did he send the kidney? Is he responsible for murder?

  “So, I’ll wait here,” Maggie said, expecting the usual, “while you question him, right?”

  Durgin astonished her. “Actually, Miss Hope, if you’re up to it, you’re leading the interrogation today.” He handed her the case file.

  “I?” She was gobsmacked. “I’m definitely up to it—though I don’t know how objective I’ll be….” But she took the file.

  “Nonsense. You will be a consummate professional and rattle him hard enough to shake a confession out of him. Understand?” He walked to her and loosened her scarf, so the bruises on her neck were exposed. “Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”

  Maggie raised one hand and rubbed absentl
y at the purple marks. She was torn between her feelings—on the one hand, wanting to run and hide, and on the other, wanting to intimidate Max the way he’d attempted to terrify her. She decided cool professionalism was in everyone’s best interest, including her own.

  Maggie and Durgin entered together. Max looked up from the table. “You!” he rasped when he recognized Maggie. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, revealing a missing front tooth.

  “And imagine my surprise at finding you here, Mr. Thornton,” Maggie replied coolly as she took a seat. “But when we saw Miss Daphne Plunket’s injuries and she identified you as her attacker—after a drink at the Punch and Judy pub, of all places—I knew we had to ask you a few questions.” She opened the file. “For the record, I am Miss Margaret Hope, with MI-Five. My colleague is Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin, of Scotland Yard.”

  “You’re the lead on this, right?” Max looked to Durgin. “You’re the man, I can talk to you. You can tell her to leave, right?”

  “Oh no, Mr. Thornton,” Durgin answered placidly. “Perish the thought! I assure you Miss Hope is running this investigation.”

  Max tried to fold his hands, but couldn’t. They twitched in his lap. “I want my solicitor!”

  “I’m sure you do,” responded Durgin impassively.

  Maggie went through the file. “Daphne Plunket was choked and nearly raped—and has identified you as her attacker. What happened that night?”

  “We went out to a pub, then things got—a bit out of hand.” Max looked to Durgin, muttering, “You know how it goes. Women.”

  “Miss Plunket was nearly strangled, Mr. Thornton,” Maggie reminded him. “That’s not ‘out of hand,’ that’s assault and attempted murder.”

  “I want my solicitor,” he repeated.

  “And then she was nearly murdered, with her left carotid artery severed. Why did you try to kill her, Mr. Thornton?”

  His mouth gaped open in shock. “But I didn’t! She ran away and I went back to Number Ten. Mr. Greene was there. He’s my witness.”