The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(34)

Durgin didn’t stop his mad pace to sign in at the front desk; he merely glared at the elderly guard on duty from beneath his eyebrows.

“We’re, ah, with him,” Maggie told the half-asleep guard, a bald man with a barrel-shaped chest, who blinked heavy-lidded eyes at them before settling back into his reverie.

They trailed Durgin down a cement staircase to the building’s chilly basement, then down a long gray linoleum hall until they reached the morgue. “?‘Abandon all hope…’ Well, you posh types know the rest,” the detective muttered, holding the thick metal door open for Maggie and Mark.

Inside was a white-tiled room illuminated by fluorescent pendant lights, a room even colder than the hall. The floor was concrete, with a drain in the middle. A porcelain sink stood in one corner, while a human skeleton posed in another. On various shelves were scales, glass jars of organs, and containers of swabs and cotton balls.

A short, round man was working on a body, whistling the melody to “Heart and Soul.” Despite his small stature, his nose was long, his ears were long, and his eyes were wide, red, and drooping, giving the impression of an old hound dog. “Hmph,” he snorted, hands deep inside the abdomen of a dead body. “Imagine meeting you here.”



“Ah, Collins—light of my life.” Durgin spread his arms wide in abject surrender. “And where else would I be? I can’t seem to tear myself away from you and your odiferous basement.”

“You likes me for my corpses is all.” Collins flicked his eyes to Maggie and Mark. “Who’re they?”

“MI-Five,” Durgin replied, seating himself in a rolling chair. He pushed with his feet to glide across the rough floor, ending up next to Collins. He looked back to Maggie and Mark and gestured. “Mr. Standish and Miss Hope, this is Mr. Alfred Collins—best coroner in the business.”

Collins pulled out bloody gloved hands from the corpse. “Forgive me if I don’t shake.” He gave Mark the once-over, then looked to Maggie. His eyes lingered on her figure. “You don’t look like no agent I’ve ever met.”

“Perhaps, Mr. Collins,” Maggie proffered, “you might try expanding your horizons.”

They locked eyes for a moment, then all turned to the body. Maggie did her best not to gasp.

It lay on a white enamel autopsy table, nearly obscuring the drain grooves, which led to a circular hole drilled between the ankles for fluids. Next to the table was a steel tray, and on it was a leather instrument kit, lined in velvet, the ivory-handled instruments glinting in the overhead light.

Durgin stood and made the sign of the cross, then removed his magnifying glass from his jacket’s breast pocket and leaned in to peer at the corpse. “So, what do we have here?”

“Arrived just before you did—a Miss Doreen Leighton.” Collins jabbed a bloody thumb at a sheet-draped body on a table next to the one he was working on. “But here’s your first. Joanna Metcalf.”



Maggie cleared her throat. “Think it could be the work of a butcher?”

“Maybe,” Collins admitted. “Look here—cut all the way to the bone.”

Durgin turned his penetrating gaze to the body. “He certainly knows his way around the human body.”

“Any thoughts as to the weapon?” Mark asked.

Collins shrugged. “These cuts were all made with something extremely sharp—but it’s hard to know exactly what—hunting knife, a shoemaker’s knife, penknife, stiletto….But the cuts themselves are assured, confident. Our killer’s got style, the bastard does.”

“Long blade or short?” Mark asked.

“Can’t tell. Human flesh is soft—it keeps its secrets.”

“What’s this?” Maggie asked, going to a muslin bag on the counter.

“Her clothes,” Collins said. “Smell them.”

Maggie braced herself, then took a whiff. There was a strange smell, like a dentist’s office or an operating theater. “Nitrous oxide?”

“That—or ether or chloroform.”

“So”—Maggie pondered—“since she shows no signs of a struggle, it’s possible she was drugged, then killed. And then her body was moved.”

Durgin looked up, his blue-gray eye through the magnifying glass huge, almost surreal. “Not a bad hypothesis.”

No call for sarcasm, Detective.

Collins moved on to the body of the most recent victim, pulling off the sheet.



Durgin drummed his fingers on the table. “Well?”

An explosive exhale. “Jesus Christ.”

“Any fibers or hairs?”

“No. She’s clean. But—” Collins crooked a finger at Maggie; she approached warily. “Give ’er a sniff.”

Maggie mustered every ounce of self-control she had and forced herself to inhale. Beyond the coppery smell of blood, there was also the odor of gas. “It smells the same as Joanna Metcalf’s clothes. Some kind of drug?”

“I’m wagering yes.”

“I’ll check to see if she has family, then, if not, cross-check missing persons and SOE to identify the body, as well,” Maggie added. Our Jack is playing a game with us. She thought of her nightmare. You want to play? All right, then, Jack—let’s go.