The Queen's Accomplice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

Maggie smiled at the use of Elizabeth’s childhood nickname. “That was a long time ago,” she said, remembering how Hugh had once taken a bullet to the leg to save the Princess from a kidnapper.

  Lady Westfield put the card down. “The Lovers card also represents choices on a grand scale. A dilemma may be presented to you in the near future that demands an action or a decision—and you’ll need to make the right choice.”

  Lady Westfield gazed at Maggie. “Something is going to happen, something big, that will change the course of your experience—something that may seem negative at first, but will later prove to be a blessing in disguise.

  “If you find yourself at a crossroads where you must choose between taking the moral high ground or low, then you need to consider all consequences before acting. The Lovers card tells you your own values will be challenged, and you must make a definite decision.”

  “All right, then!” Maggie said with a breeziness she didn’t quite feel. Nothing more than a parlor game…

  Lady Westfield looked concerned. “Are you all right, Miss Hope? Would you like me to stop?”

  “No, no—go on. Please.”

  The second card Lady Westfield turned over was the Priestess. The illustration was of a seated woman in midnight-blue robes, her feet resting on a golden crescent, a smaller crescent adorning her brow, and a silver cross at her throat. She was sitting in front of a tree, holding a book in her hands.

  The card was upside down.

  “Interesting,” Lady Westfield mused. “The reverse Priestess. The High Priestess sits at the gate of great Mystery, as indicated by the Tree of Life. She sits between the darkness and the light, represented by the pillars of Solomon’s temple, which suggests she will mediate a passage between life and death. In her lap, she holds the half-revealed and half-concealed Torah, representative of the exoteric and the esoteric teachings and higher knowledge. The moon under her left foot shows her dominion over pure intuition.”

  “Why is she upside down?” Maggie asked, trying not to let her voice betray her growing apprehension. “What does that mean?”

  “The High Priestess reversed can signify you don’t hear your inner voice. Your intuition’s calling out to you, but for some reason you won’t listen. You may be a highly intuitive person, but also someone who’s lost the connection at some point.” Her eyes met Maggie’s. “You need to get that connection back.”

  “I told you,” Durgin said, leaning back behind Princess Margaret to whisper in her ear, “you have to pay attention to the gut.”

  “Oh, please,” Maggie protested, but she didn’t pull away from him. She tried to brush off the feeling that, somehow, Lady Westfield might be right.

  Lady Westfield turned over the third card. It was the Devil.

  The illustration showed the Devil with the face and torso of a man, but the horns of a goat and the legs of a bull. The Blackout Beast, Maggie thought. The feelings of comfort she’d felt in the protection of Buckingham Palace vanished. She had a sudden vision of Brynn dancing with the Beast.

  As Princess Margaret gasped, a tree branch banged at the glass of the window and they all froze. Lilibet gave a small laugh, then put a hand over her mouth.

  Lady Westfield was undisturbed. “If you notice, the Devil has the wings of a vampire bat, an animal that sucks the lifeblood out of its prey. Above him is an inverted pentagram, signifying the darker side of magic and occultism.

  “At the foot of the Devil stand a man and a woman, both naked and chained to the podium on which the Devil sits. They appear to be held here, against their will, but closer observation reveals that the chains around their necks are loose and could be easily removed. The dark and doorless cave implies the Devil dwells in the most inaccessible realm of the unconscious, and only crisis can break through the walls. There’s a great confrontation coming—”

  Elizabeth noticed Maggie’s pallor. She poked at her sister’s shoulder. “Margaret, why don’t we do our pantomime scene for the guests? That might be fun.”

  “Oh, Lilibet, I don’t want to—I want to know more about this Devil! I don’t even remember all my lines—”

  “We’ll do Sleeping Beauty then. You’re sleeping the whole scene and don’t have any lines. Come.” Princess Elizabeth’s voice was commanding.

  As the young royals performed their scene, Durgin slid over to sit closer to Maggie. “Are you all right?”

  “Of course,” she whispered back, her knee brushing his. “It’s all superstitious nonsense.”

  “Whatever you say.”

  When the Princesses were done, there was applause. The older woman with the heavy makeup went to the piano and began to play Purcell.

  Two of the officers ambled over and pretended to listen to the music. Then, “You’re not serving in the military?” one asked, taking in Durgin’s police uniform.

  “I was too old for the original call to arms—and I find more than enough battles to fight to keep people safe from harm here in London.”

  The first officer raised his eyebrows at Durgin’s accent, and the second leaned in. “But you have to admit, the Nazis are pure evil. What goes on in London can hardly compare.”

  Maggie could see a muscle in Durgin’s jaw begin to twitch. “Unfortunately, there’s plenty of malevolence thriving in London.”

  The first man reached over and, with fake joviality, clapped Durgin on the shoulder. “Why don’t you do something for us, Detective? Can you play the piano? Recite a poem?”

  Maggie hated, truly hated, the English aristocracy in that moment. “You don’t have to—” she began.

  “Oh no. I’m delighted,” Durgin said in a tone that sounded anything but.

  When he walked to the fireplace and turned to face his audience, there was silence. He swallowed. Then, taking a deep breath, he began to sing in a rich baritone:

  “Oh, the summertime is coming

  And the trees are sweetly blooming

  And the wild mountain thyme

  Grows around the blooming heather

  Will ye go, lassie, go?

  “And we’ll all go together

  To pluck wild mountain thyme

  All around the blooming heather

  Will ye go, lassie, go?”

  As he sang, the Queen, originally from Angus in Scotland, leaned forward, her eyes shining. When he began to sing the refrain, she joined him, her voice silvery but strong:

  “Oh, the summertime is coming

  And the trees are sweetly blooming

  And the wild mountain thyme

  Grows around the blooming heather

  Will ye go, lassie, go?”

  There was silence, then enthusiastic applause. The Queen walked over to Durgin to thank him for the song. “That was my favorite when I was younger,” she told him. “And a perfect song for a winter night such as tonight. Thank you, Detective Chief Inspector, for the gift of your beautiful voice.”

  Durgin gave a shy smile. “Thank you, Your Majesty. Er, ma’am.”

  Once again, a branch thumped at the window and a stiff wind rattled the panes. The Queen moved to the blackout curtains and peeked out. “Why, it’s a blizzard out there!” she exclaimed. “There’s no visibility whatsoever!”

  The King cleared his throat. “A b-b-blizzard in a b-blackout!”

  The Queen put a dainty hand to her ample, jewel-covered bosom. “The King’s right,” she said. “London in both a storm and the blackout will be a veritable labyrinth. You all must stay. I insist.” She walked to her husband and took his hand. “We insist.”

  “Huzzah!” cried Margaret. “Miss Hope will stay!”

  “Really,” Maggie demurred, “I don’t live that far….”

  “And then there’s that Blackout Beast we’ve all been reading about in the papers,” one of the officers said. “Nasty bit of work.”

  “We’ve heard of him,” Durgin said drily.

  “And of course we have plenty of bedchambers,” said the Queen. “Fifty-two, I believe. I’ll have the s
ervants make up rooms.” As she yanked on a needlepoint pull, she said with a smile, “You must stay. After all, it’s a royal decree!”

  —

  The room Maggie was given was decorated in soothing tones of rose and fawn, with a large canopied bed and a small sitting area with a wide, long damask sofa and two wing chairs in front of a recently lit fire. The room was still freezing, and Maggie was grateful when there was a knock at the door and a maid stood there, offering a hot water bottle. “Please let me know if you need anything else, miss. The pull’s on the right-hand side of the bed.”

  “Thank you,” Maggie replied, wrapping her hands around the heat of the rubber bottle covered in soft wool. “Good night!”

  As she explored the suite, she was amused to see a five-inch water line in the bathtub. Even in Buckingham Palace…she thought. There was also a lace nightgown and peignoir in dark blue velvet lined in silk and quilted satin slippers laid out on the bench at the foot of the bed.

  Just as Maggie had finished washing up and changing, there was a knock at the door. She opened it. “Thank you, but I’m fine—” she began.

  But it wasn’t the maid, it was Durgin. “Don’t ever open a door without asking who it is!” he fumed.

  “Keep your voice down!” Maggie whispered. “Get in before someone sees you!”

  He was still in his uniform. Maggie flushed pink and pulled the belt of the robe tighter. “Well, what is it?”

  “There’s a maniac out there,” he said, locking and chaining the door. “I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

  “The snowstorm’s given us a bit of a reprieve.”

  Durgin roamed the room, checking the closets and the locks on the windows. “Nowhere is safe.”

  Maggie’s face darkened. “Not for Brynn, certainly.”

  “And since you received that package, not for you, either.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m serious, Maggie. I don’t think you’re safe here.”

  She gave a laugh halfway between a bark and a snort. “It’s Buckingham Palace, for heaven’s sake!”

  “They’ve learned to protect themselves against falling bombs, but not a serial killer.”

  She smiled. “Oh, and here I’d gotten used to ‘sequential murderer.’ ”

  “I’m staying,” he announced flatly. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”

  “It’s much, much too short for you. You take the bed, I’ll take the sofa.”

  “I won’t hear of it.”

  “Well, I’m not tired anyway. Look, they’ve left us an electric kettle. Would you like some tea? There are even biscuits—Scottish shortbread. Although judging by the gray appearance and the oil on the doily, made with national flour and margarine. We can work.”

  “Work?” Durgin sat gingerly on the edge of a pink silk wing chair.

  As Maggie bustled about, filling the kettle and plugging it in, she told him, “I’ve had a few ideas and I want to discuss them with you.”

  When the tea had been poured and shortbread laid out on the low table, Maggie went to her handbag and took out the map of London that Mark had given her. She’d kept track of all the places the women’s bodies had been left with dots of red ink. “Look,” she said, pushing it over to Durgin and sitting cross-legged on the carpet in front of the fire.

  “A map of London. With the body dump sites marked. Yes, we have the same map back at the office.”

  But Maggie was thinking. “I saw a darts game the other evening.”

  “Maggie, we have a murderer to catch,” he said gently. “Do you really have time for darts?”

  “No, listen to me,” she insisted. “You said that sequential murderers had certain patterns.”

  He took a sip of tea. “But yes, that’s the right idea. No murderer is going to leave a body too near the scene of the crime or their residence.”

  “So there’s a, a—let’s call it a defense area,” Maggie explained. “Now, when our Blackout Ripper dumps the bodies, he’s going to want it to seem random—no evidence too close to him or where he lives. But according to math, even when someone’s trying to do something at random and not make a pattern—there’s always an inherent subconscious design.”

  “Not sure I’m following you, Maggie.”

  She closed her eyes. Mathematics, cool and elegant, she thought. Math had always been her savior, her calm, her respite. Even her joy. Math would help. It always did. She took a deep sigh and tried to make sense of the patterns she was seeing emerge. “Look, the Ripper’s victim’s bodies are located at specific coordinates, around the defense area. We can express this in a formula. I need paper!”

  “Can’t help you, I’m afraid.”

  Maggie stood and went to a small desk. Inside was ivory letterhead engraved with BUCKINGHAM PALACE and matching envelopes. And several gold-capped Parker pens. She took an envelope back to the low table and sat down again in front of the crackling fire.

  She wrote out a formula with Xs and Ys, subscripts, brackets, and parentheses, and a variety of Greek letters and algebraic symbols.

  Durgin watched, eyebrows pulled together.

  “Look, the summation in the formula consists of two terms—the first describes the idea of decreasing probability with increasing distance. The second deals with the concept of a so-called shield area. The main idea of the formula is the probability of crimes first increases as one moves through the shield area, away from the place where the murders were committed, but then decreases.”

  Durgin set his cup down. “And if you’d say all that in the King’s English, I’d be most obliged.”

  Maggie sat back to look at the formula. “The idea is—the probability of crimes increases as one moves through the shield area, away from the murder area, but then decreases afterwards. And while the killer is trying to place the bodies randomly, he’s not. He doesn’t want them too far or too near to him, or to each other. Basically, what he’s doing is creating a circle around where the murders are taking place. It’s like a reverse bull’s-eye.”

  She realized he wasn’t following. “In other words, it’s a non-pattern that really is a pattern. I could work it out mathematically, with this formula, but we just don’t have the time or the manpower. Er, womanpower.”

  “I still don’t understand.”

  “It’s like…an accident of probability theory. With enough data points, patterns will emerge that point to the place where the murders took place.” She gave a maniacal grin that rivaled the best of Durgin’s. “The problem is that math is elegant and humans are…not. This is an ugly equation for ugly behavior.”

  He gave a crooked smile. “Are you telling me you have a gut feeling?”

  She took one last look at the formula, then looked at the map. “Absolutely not. My absolutely logic-based and mathematically worked out hypothesis is that our Beast is committing his murders right”—she made a black circle on the map, approximately in the middle of all the red marks—“here.”

  She leaned in and squinted, looking at the maze of crossing streets. Her eyes widened. “That’s practically Ash Street, the address of the Castle Hotel for Women—”

  “But we’ve always suspected the Castle Hotel.”

  “Suspected, yes—but now we have actual mathematical proof. There’s a connection between the murder of SOE women and the Castle Hotel for Women. Someone left the Castle’s cards there, to give to prospective agents….”

  “So we’re still where we started.”

  “Not entirely.” Maggie took a sip of cooling tea. “It occurred to me that we’ve all done a great job keeping the real details of the Blackout Beast case out of the papers,” she said, “but now I’m thinking—maybe we can use the press.”

  “How so?”

  “You said our Beast is young and arrogant. Dangerously arrogant. Well, coverage in the press is only going to inflate his ego, yes? He must be following the story. How could he not?”

  “And?”

  “And,” Maggie continued, animated by the thr
illing new use of math, “we can use it to our advantage. We use the press to taunt him, to draw him out of the underbrush where he’s hiding.”

  “That’s a terrible idea,” Durgin said, biting into a crumbly gray biscuit. “We can’t risk a possible victim.”

  “But he’s going to choose a victim anyway. So, this time, let’s help him choose.” Maggie sat down on the sofa with her cup and saucer. “We mock the killer about the kidney. Or, rather, I do. At a press conference. I’ve already thought it out.”

  “No. Absolutely not.”

  “I speak at the press conference, identify myself as someone working on the case, and then leave myself open, as bait. I can check in to the Castle Hotel, just like the other victims. Meanwhile, you and the rest of your men move in for the capture.”

  “Are ye daft, woman?” Durgin exploded. “That’s the looniest idea I’ve ever heard of! We don’t use humans as live bait! This isn’t some Highland huntin’ party!”

  Maggie suddenly remembered a snippet from her dream. Am I the hunter? Or the hunted? she’d asked. Both, apparently. “We’re nearly up to Jack the Ripper’s last victim, Mary Ann Kelly. Between my being a ‘working woman’ and the red hair…”

  Durgin considered. “If we hold a press conference—”

  “When we hold a press conference—” She tucked her feet under her. “We taunt him with the ultimate next victim—me.”

  “It’s not a bad idea,” he relented. “But I’ll have every man at my disposal watching over you. The bastard won’t touch a hair on yer wee pretty head….”

  They stared at each other for a heartbeat.

  “You’re sounding most Scottish tonight,” Maggie said finally, breaking the silence.

  “It happens when I get angry. The idea of you in danger makes me livid.”

  “The song you sang was beautiful. You have a remarkable voice.”

  “My Gaelic heritage.” He looked around the room, then sighed. “Never thought I’d sleep in Buckingham Palace.”

  “It’s my first time, too. Here, at least. I’ve stayed at Windsor, as the girls told you.” Only the dancing orange blaze illuminated the room. She gave a wide fake yawn and rose to her feet. “I’m exhausted.”