The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(43)

“At the Yard, we don’t catch killers by reading books,” Durgin stated, pouring himself more tea.

“Ah yes, you use the ‘tummy tingles.’?”

“I told you—the gut. Don’t disrespect the gut.”

“Forget the gut—what we have now is a lack of data. We need more evidence.”

“You’re not going to find it in books, Miss Tiger.”

Maggie was undeterred. “But you see, our killer is using the same Ripper story we have here. But maybe there are more victims? There are the canonical Ripper murders, but what about the noncanonical victims—Martha Tabram, Annie Millwood, and Ada Wilson? We can look up those women, then check the morgues to see if any murder victims match the descriptions. And we’ll need to check the hospitals, too—it’s always possible our Ripper went after women inspired by the noncanonical murders. Maybe one or more of the present-day women survived.”

Durgin jiggled his knee. “But there’s a reason those particular murders are considered noncanonical—because Jack the Ripper didn’t commit them.”

“What you, or I, or the author of this book, or Jack the Ripper himself thinks—the only thing that matters is whether our Blackout Beast thinks Jack did them or not. And if the Beast does think Jack committed the noncanonical murders, and if he began this rampage with victims who match the noncanonical victims, as a sort of practice run, it would give us more data to work with.”



“Martha Tabram may have been the Ripper’s first victim. But she’s not considered part of the canon because her throat wasn’t cut. The murder of Martha Tabram doesn’t fit the pattern,” Mark told them.

“Patterns change,” Maggie mused. “Evolve. Just as in nature. It’s practically Darwinian. There would be practice victims, honing the craft, a development of technique. The murders our monster’s taking credit for, they are what he considers his statement. But what if he had a few dress rehearsals? Or even more than a few?”

She picked up one of the dusty books on Mark’s desk and paged through it. “Martha Tabram’s throat wasn’t cut, but she was stabbed thirty-nine times in her abdomen and neck. It’s the kind of injury that would be relatively easy to track down.”

Durgin exhaled. “All right, I’ll see what I can do—call the Yard, check the hospitals and morgues.” He looked up at the clock. “See if anyone has injuries matching those descriptions.”

Mark sniffed. “Use the telephone in the office next door if you’d like.”

As Durgin left, Maggie said, “I’ll need a map of the area. I want to plot the points where the victims’ bodies were left.”

Mark rifled through his drawer and came up with a folded London map. “Perfect.” Maggie pinned it to the corkboard, then pulled out two bright red tacks. “Joanna’s body was left here,” she said, piercing the map with one at Regent Park’s Outer Circle, near the entrance to the Queen Mary Garden. “And Doreen’s body here,” she added, “at the intersection of Harley and New Cavendish streets.”



“What does that tell us?”

“Well,” Maggie admitted, “not much. Yet. But mathematics is the science of patterns. Plot the data and we just may learn something. Do you have another map? I’d like to keep one in my handbag as well.”

As Mark handed her another, smaller map, she rolled her eyes heavenward. “His gut, can you believe it?” she murmured, tucking the map away in her purse. “As if his innards could speak. As if we were studying haruspicy, and could figure everything from the position of the liver. And people think women are erratic and emotional….Mark?”

“What? Er, sorry.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” It was late and Maggie suddenly realized she was exhausted. “I’ve never dealt with a serial killer before, of course—unless you count the Nazis, that is. There’s a definite parallel with our Jack and the Nazis’ need for domination, fear, and control by intimidation and violence—as well as issues with women. But what I do know is we need more data.”

“Serial killer—”

Durgin called from the office next door: “?‘Sequential murderer’ is what we call it at Scotland Yard!”

“These are killings in a series,” Maggie called back. “Therefore, he is a ‘serial killer’!”

Durgin’s voice rang out. “Sequential! Murderer!”

“Is that what your gut said to call them? ‘Sequential murderer’—fine,” she muttered at Mark, who grimaced in reply.

Putting the map of London in her handbag reminded Maggie of the envelope Peter Frain had given her. She pulled it out. It was plain brown, and simply addressed. Inside was yet another envelope, this one ivory-colored, sealed with crimson wax. Maggie flipped it over, noting the embossed golden lion-and-unicorn insignia. “Do you have a letter opener?”



Mark handed her one that looked like an ancient dagger, and she slit open the envelope and pulled out the heavy cream card inside. It was engraved:

Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth

Requests the pleasure of the company of

Margaret Hope

At an Afternoon Tea Party for Women in the Services

On Monday, 30 of March 1942 from 15h30 to 17h30