The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(26)
Frain nodded. “That’s the piece we need to figure out.”
There was a rap at the door. “Excuse me, Mr. Frain,” the secretary said, ducking her head in, “but Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin from Scotland Yard’s on the line. They’ve found another body. In Regent’s Park. And, yes, he’s keeping the press away—so far, at least.”
The three exchanged grim looks.
Maggie was first to stand, smoothing down her skirt. “Well, what are we waiting for, gentlemen? Let’s go and catch ourselves a Blackout Beast.”
—
The black metal gates of Regent’s Park had been removed and melted down for munitions, but John Nash’s graceful rolling greens and bench-lined gravel paths remained. Still, it felt all too open and exposed, the thick grass covered in frost and speckled with dead leaves. While slanting sunlight pierced through the thick clouds, birds—sparrows, crows, ravens—chirped warnings of squalls to come, and pairs of black and white swans glided across the lake. The day was wintry and raw, and the air smelled of ozone and approaching storms. A bitterly cold east wind whispered its way through bare tree branches, making them shiver.
There were people walking the gravel paths: a few Polish soldiers on leave, a thickly mustached businessman in a black bowler hat, and women—everywhere women. Women in ATS uniforms, WAAF uniforms, FANY uniforms. Women in the uniforms of bus conductors, crossing guards, and shop assistants. Women in trousers on their way to their shifts at factory jobs, their hair pulled back in head scarves, swinging tin lunch pails as they walked. Women clutching their handbags, gas masks, and hats against the wind.
Maggie was amused to see people in matching uniforms keeping to their own, just like the park’s pigeons, ducks, and geese. Under an ancient oak tree in the distance, a busking violinist played the melody of Berlioz’s Symphonie fantastique, while a man being pushed in a wheelchair by a nurse tossed coins into his case.
“Ah, there he is,” Frain said, catching sight of a man in a gray mackintosh pacing the walk near the park’s entrance, causing a flock of strutting pigeons to scatter. “Detective!” he called. Then, to Maggie and Mark, “Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin, to be precise.”
The detective whirled, then strode toward them in thick-soled shoes, pigeons startling and taking flight in his wake. Durgin was tall and lean, like a distance runner, Maggie thought, and his gray-blue eyes burned with an intense, almost maniacal energy. His full curly brown hair was clipped, his eyebrows were bushy, and the diagonals of his widow’s peak only emphasized the severe lines of his forehead and sharp cheekbones. Maggie guessed he was in his mid to late thirties. He was certainly not the reedy, tweedy, upper-class sort of man, such as those in Mr. Churchill’s office, whom she was used to.
“He’s a pioneer in fingerprinting,” Frain continued over the flaps of pigeon wings. “A legend at the Yard. You’ll learn a lot from him.”
Durgin called, “Glad you could join us, Director General,” in a thick Glasgow burr. He took in Frain’s and Mark’s polished shoes and camel-hair coats, and Maggie’s handbag and pumps with a withering squint. “This is your crack team—here to save the day?”
But Frain was unflappable. “This is Mr. Standish, one of MI-Five’s senior agents,” he replied, introducing Mark, “and our associate, Miss Hope, who will be…consulting.”
Durgin didn’t greet them. Instead, the policeman turned on his heel and walked at a terrific pace down one of the paths, past a red-and-white proscenium for a Punch and Judy show, past an empty band shell, and a row of box-trimmed holly bushes. “I’ve told you how I feel about this, Frain,” Durgin threw over his shoulder. “I’m not pleased, not pleased at all. This case should be the Yard’s—”
“It’s sensitive,” Frain countered easily, matching the detective’s stride, while Maggie and Mark hastened to keep up.
“Just because we don’t all wear Cleverley shoes—” Durgin shot back.
“I understand, Detective, and I respect your and your department’s expertise. However—”
“I know, I know—‘there’s a war on, you know.’?” The Detective Chief Inspector gave Frain a piercing glance from beneath his remarkable eyebrows. “Believe me, I know. Thing is, you think the war started in ’thirty-nine—whereas we at the Yard know the war never, ever begins or ends.”
As they walked farther into the park, the hum of traffic faded and the birds’ chirping grew louder. On the battered grass near one of the lakes was a cordoned-off area with a canvas tent where bobbies in uniform were turning away gawkers. One officer strong-armed a journalist, pinning his arms behind him and cuffing him, while another smashed his camera.
Detective Durgin stopped, turned, and shot them a warning glare. “Prepare yourself.” He gave Maggie a particularly hard stare. “And absolutely no vomiting on my crime scene, young lady. I must insist.”
“No, sir,” Maggie replied. “No vomiting. Of course not, sir.”
As they walked past more officers and then ducked into the tent, Durgin closed his eyes and made the sign of the cross. Then he gestured to a woman’s prone body, lying on a makeshift cot and splattered with dried blood. The victim was a slender woman in her twenties, with black hair and high cheekbones. She wore a gray flannel skirt, blouse, and Fair Isle sweater. Her head was turned to the left, her colorful scarf lying loosely around her slashed throat. In the shadows of the tent, Maggie could see not only was the woman’s abdomen ripped open but her intestines had been deliberately placed over her right shoulder.