The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(29)

As the man in the green sunglasses gnawed at his fingertips, he thought with joy of Brynn Parry—the animal still down in the basement, awaiting him. One of the police officers nodded to him as he passed. With a thrill of adrenaline, the man realized he could sit on his bench and feed the pigeons as long as he wanted, and no one would suspect a thing. He liked that. He liked feeling powerful, being the man who knew the most. He was the hunter, lying in wait.

He recognized Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin as he strode up the path, as well as MI-5’s Peter Frain, from the newspapers. But who was the man with the white streak in his hair? And who was the redheaded girl? His eyes narrowed. That hair! Even in the overcast, the slut’s coppery hair glowed like Little Red Riding Hood’s cape, like a matador’s mantle, like fresh red blood. His lip curled. The arrogant whore must like the attention her hair brought her or she’d cover it up or cut it off. Flaunting it, that’s what she was doing. Flaunting.

Things must be pretty dire if MI-5 and Scotland Yard were letting girls play in their sandbox. Another woman, stealing a job away from a man. It wasn’t fair, he thought, muscles bunching under his jaw. It just wasn’t fair.

As she passed him, she looked at him directly. As if she could look right through him, despite the glasses. Disconcerted, he looked away, then tossed more crumbs to the birds, pitiful creatures with molting feathers who fought over the meager morsels. But in his peripheral vision, he followed her movements. He waited, feeding the pigeons and biding his time. And when the whore left with Durgin and the other man, he rose, the collar of his coat hiding the ghost of a smile. She could be my redheaded Mary Kelly, my last victim in tribute to Jack, he decided, bringing his gloved finger back to his lips and worrying once again at the dried blood on the tip. But later.



Now it’s time to hunt.

—

Hugh and Sarah left the Baker Street office to take the Tube to Waterloo, where they caught the train back to Brockenhurst. As the train pulled out from the station, heading south with a shrieking whistle and clouds of steam, Sarah sank back in her seat with a sigh of relief. The air inside was stuffy, but at least they had the carriage to themselves.

“Not a big fan of London?” Hugh asked, putting their suitcases in the overhead rack.

“Love London.” Sarah smoothed her gloves and settled her handbag in her lap. “Adore London. But I just want to get on with it—whatever ‘it’ is.” She was excited, a little scared, but altogether eager to begin whatever it was they’d been training for.

“Agreed. Remember how they’d say it in Scotland? Jess get oan wea it!”

“And I suppose we should now say, Juste passer à autre chose!”

It was an overcast afternoon, the grass green laced with snow, the sky heavy and leaden. Sarah and Hugh sat opposite each other on the worn seats and looked out silently as the train sped past fences and haystacks and horses munching away at rough patches of grass. Sarah struggled to open the dirty window to let in some fresh air. As Hugh reached over to help her, their hands touched and they both burst out laughing.



“There will always be an England….” Hugh sang in a decent tenor.

Sarah poked his arm. “I was thinking that, too!”

The two smiled, then became solemn as they remembered what they had pledged to do for their country, what they might be called on to sacrifice. Even though they didn’t know the particulars yet, there was no question their mission would be dangerous.

On and on the train sped, past glossy black crows on telephone lines and small villages where little boys ran alongside the carriages for as long as their legs could hold out, waving their caps gleefully at the passengers. Sarah and Hugh bought tea from a plump young girl with a heart-shaped locket around her neck, wheeling a cart. They drank it and shared a cheese and apple sandwich, then did the Times crossword puzzle together.

“So really,” Sarah said, “how do you know Maggie?”

“We worked together.” A shadow passed over Hugh’s face. “A long time ago.”

“Just work?”

“You’re observant,” he noted. “You’ll make a good spy.”

“Oh, ha ha—hilarious. But I notice you didn’t answer my question.”

“We were…involved…for a time, you might say.” Hugh tugged at his Tattersall collar, as if it were suddenly too tight.

“And you ended it with her?”

“She ended it with me.”

“And broke your heart. Are you over her?”

“Are we ever over the people we’ve loved?”

“End of the line!” the conductor bellowed as the train slowed and lurched into the Brockenhurst station, its whistle piercing the air. Hugh reached for Sarah’s suitcase.

“I can get my bag,” she said.



“No, really,” he insisted, smiling, swinging it down easily. “I’ve got it.”

Stepping off the train into the fresh country air, they were met on the platform by a man in a gray suit with a dark red tie and pocket square. “Ah! Mr. Philby!” Hugh called, recognizing the man who had recruited him.

“Hello, Hugh, good to see you again!” The man in the red tie raised a hand in greeting. “And it’s Kim, remember? We don’t stand on ceremony here.” Walking closer, Kim Philby smiled. “And you must be Miss Sanderson.”