The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(36)

“I’m Detective Chief Inspector Durgin and this is MI-Five Agent Standish. Please state your name and your date of birth.”

“Billy Fishman,” the man said in a low rumble. “Born six of February, eighteen ninety-nine.”

“Where were you last night, Mr. Fishman?” Mark asked, as he leafed through the file.

There was only silence and the creak of the chairs. It was cold in the room and Mark’s nose began to drip. He pulled out a handkerchief and blew hard.

Detective Durgin took the file from him and flipped through it, pen in hand. “We have a witness who says she saw you coming out of Regent’s Park at one A.M. She said you got into a van. Mr. Fishman, what were you doing in Regent’s Park in the dead of night?”

Fishman looked straight into the mirrored window with flat, expressionless eyes; Maggie could feel her skin crawl. “I was takin’ a piss.”

“When you were arrested,” Durgin continued, still looking at the file, “our officer reports you had blood on your hands. Underneath your fingernails.”



Fishman glared. “I work with meat.”

“What do you do?” Mark asked. “Are you a butcher?”

“No,” the man snapped. “I transport the meat from the slaughterhouses to the shops. That’s why I got me a van.”

Durgin finally looked up. “Do you often urinate in Regent’s Park?”

The man shrugged powerful shoulders. “Sometimes.”

“And where did you go exactly?”

“I dunno. The Queen Mary Garden, maybe.”

“Ah,” Durgin mused, as though trying to picture it. “You stopped your van, and you went all the way into the park, at night, to take a piss in the Queen Mary Garden? May I ask why the wall wasn’t good enough for you?”

Silence.

Mark leaned in. “A girl was murdered and her body was dumped in the park last night. What do you know about it?”

“Nothing! I don’t know nothing about no girl!”

“Wait—who do you know, then?” Durgin appraised him from beneath his eyebrows. “Come on, tell the truth and shame the devil.”

Agitated now, Fishman shook his head. “Can’t tell you—but I didn’t kill no girl. Didn’t even see no girl.”

Durgin rose, walked to the door, and opened it. “Guards!” he thundered.

Fishman’s heavy-lidded eyes widened. “Wait!”

The detective waved the guards off. He closed the door, turning back to the suspect.

Fishman looked down at the metal table. “There weren’t no girl—but there was a—well, a man.”



Durgin leaned back against the wall, waiting. He folded his arms theatrically.

“Men—men like me—we go in the park at night. Hoping to…you know…find a bloke.” Fishman glared up at them. “You gonna arrest me now?”

“Who’s the bloke?” Mark asked impassively, making notes.

“Hell if I know! We didn’t exactly go courtin’.”

“What did this man you met look like?”

“Small—’bout five foot six, thin, posh. Maybe sixty. Wearing a real nice coat. Tweed. A toff.”

Durgin banged on the door. “Let him go,” he ordered the guards. “And check out his story about meeting up with a man—small, thin, upper-crust.”

“Are you going to arrest him?” Fishman grumbled. “You never arrest the posh fellas.”

“We’ll bring him in for questioning, too. Unlike most of my fellow officers, I don’t give a damn what you do, or when, or with whom. But I do care about murder.” Durgin locked eyes with the manacled man. “And if you’re holding anything back about that, I swear to you, there’s going to be hell to pay.”

—

Philby, Sarah, and Hugh entered the tiny cottage, Hugh ducking to get through the front door. The main room had a low ceiling with rough-hewn beams, an open stone fireplace, worn but clean wide-plank floors covered with colorful braided rugs, and plain, sturdy furniture. A few framed pictures and a shelf of books gave the place a homey air.

“There’s a bedroom upstairs,” Philby explained.

“I’ll sleep on the sofa down here,” Hugh said, while Sarah suppressed a smile.



“Let’s sit down first,” Philby suggested, and they did, in overstuffed armchairs. “Your new identities.” He opened his briefcase and handed each agent a thick file. “I want you to memorize these and then burn them.” Philby looked first to Hugh, speaking in perfect French, “From now on, you will be known as Hubert Taillier. And you will speak only French.”

He fixed his eyes on Sarah. “And your new identity is Sabine Severin.”

“Yes, sir,” she replied in Parisian-accented French.

Philby contemplated the duo. “Hubert Taillier and Sabine Severin,” he intoned, “I now pronounce you man and wife.”

Sarah and Hugh gave each other shy smiles.

“Let me clarify,” Philby stated. “Your mission is to go to Paris. You will pose as a married couple. We’ve been working on your cover story for quite some time. Madame Severin—yes, you use your stage name, not your married name—you are a French ballerina who’s been dancing in Monte Carlo. There will be an opening at the Paris Opéra Ballet, and you will join the company.”