The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(53)

Mark peered into the office. “You don’t have a receptionist?”

“I like to keep things simple—no receptionist, no bookkeeper. Usually my daughter keeps my appointments.”

“Where is she today?”

“Are you checking in?” Frank asked. “I can help you. My daughter—who also works as a part-time receptionist—has taken today off, I’m afraid,” he told them, extending a fleshy hand. There was a gold signet ring on his pinkie finger. “I have a medical office here and own the building, and a few others in the neighborhood.”



“No, we’re not checking in,” Maggie replied. “But we would like to speak with you. I’m Maggie Hope. And this is Special Agent Standish from MI-Five.”

“Please come in.”

His office was a mess, with papers and books everywhere, framed medical diplomas including a doctorate of psychiatry askew on the walls. The heavy velvet curtains were drawn, and the fire had burned down to red embers. His enormous desk was overflowing with yellowing newspapers, dirty mugs, an ashtray full of butts. Papers spilled out of the trash bin.

When the doctor saw Maggie’s look, he grimaced. “So sorry. Again, usually my daughter keeps me on a tight leash, but—” He shrugged and picked stacks of books off the chairs. “Please, sit down.”

Mark took off his hat, but they kept their coats on. Upstairs, pounding and hammering began.

“Just some post-Blitz repairs.” Dr. Frank smiled. “Now, how can I help you two?”

“Do you remember a woman named Joanna Metcalf, who may have stayed here in late March? And another young woman named Doreen Leighton? She might have checked in around the same time, maybe a day or two later?”

Dr. Frank shrugged. “I’m afraid I’m not on a first-name basis with all my guests.”

“Miss Metcalf was found murdered on the twenty-seventh,” Maggie said flatly. “And Miss Leighton on the twenty-ninth.”

“Oh, dear, how terrible,” Dr. Frank murmured, rubbing soft hands together.

“We want to confirm if either of them was staying here—and if and when they checked out,” said Mark. “We’re also interested in another possible guest, a Miss Gladys Chorley.”

“And Brynn,” Maggie added. “That is, Miss Bronwyn Parry.”



“Oh, how I wish May were here,” Dr. Frank complained. “She’s the one who checks everyone in and out—plus she has a keen eye for detail.”

“May we see the hotel’s guestbook?”

“Of course!” Dr. Frank answered, rising. He went to the reception desk and took out a worn black leather volume. “Here we are,” he said as he walked back, handing it to Maggie.

She paged through the entries. “Look, here’s G. Chorley, signing in on March twentieth and then signing out again on the twenty-first. But the entries are in different handwriting.”

“My daughter might have signed one or the other.”

Maggie ran her gloved finger down the entries, not caring about ink stains. “Here’s Joanna Metcalf, who signed in but not out. Same with Doreen Leighton.” When she reached a particular line, she shivered with dread. “Brynn Parry also checked in on the twenty-eighth, but according to this, she never checked out.”

“I must say,” the doctor confided, leaning toward them, “I’m awfully glad you’re here and asking about these matters. I can’t tell you how many letters from parents I’ve received since this awful war started, asking if I know the whereabouts of their daughters. And every once in a while, a private investigator shows up.” His fingers plucked at his tie, as if it were suddenly too tight. “Of course I’m happy to help them as best I can.”

“Of course,” Maggie agreed, although still shaken. “What sorts of questions do they ask?”

“They want information—the names of friends, forwarding addresses, suggestions on where to look next, that sort of thing. Sometimes May can tell them a little something about the girls.”

“We’ll need to cross-reference your guestbook with our missing persons list and list of the dead.”

“Of course, of course, Miss Hope.” Dr. Frank dipped his head. “It’s grieves me, truly grieves me, to hear these young women have gone missing. I often think of the parents and say a little prayer they’ve found their girls safe and sound. Maybe they’ve simply eloped. Or joined the women’s services?”



Neither Maggie nor Mark responded; instead, Mark passed Frank his card. “If anything else should come to light, call us. We may need to bring you in for additional questioning.”

“If I hear anything, anything at all, of course I’ll let you know at once.”

Maggie rose and went to look at his desk. There was a silver-framed photo of a woman in a smart hat with a young man—slight, with mousey hair and eyes. “Oh, that’s my daughter, May, and her fiancé, Nicholas Reitter,” Dr. Frank told her proudly. “He recently graduated with degrees in engineering and architecture. He’s going to be surveying and making maps in the Middle East soon. We’re lucky to have him—Nick’s helped us out with a few repairs and some remodeling. He’s fantastic not just with architecture, but the real mechanics of running a building as well, including the water and gas lines.”