The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(55)

“And, as I’ve said before, there are facts he might not disclose in the presence of a young woman.”

There were bigger battles to fight. “Fine.”

—



In the interrogation room, Leonard Roth sat at a wooden table, drumming his fingers.

“I’d like to lodge a complaint against the agents who came for me at the BBC,” he began in plummy tones. “Not only did they manhandle me, but they caused me undue embarrassment. How I’m going to explain this to my producer—”

“Looks like you enjoy a bit of manhandling,” Durgin interrupted. He took the seat across from Roth. “Or is it that you like to do the manhandling yourself?”

“What the devil?” Roth exclaimed.

Mark took the charcoal sketches of the girls in various stages of undress from his briefcase. He set them on the table, fanning the papers out like a deck of cards. “How well did you know these women?”

Roth looked down at the drawings, then gave a short, strangled laugh. “This is a simple misunderstanding—I don’t know them at all.”

“You seem to know them quite…intimately,” Durgin insisted.

Roth crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. “Well, it’s not my fault the girls don’t close their blinds, now, is it?”

Mark leaned in. “It’s not as if they’re expecting someone across the way to have a bloody telescope!”

“If you ask me, if they left their curtains open, they wanted to be seen.” Roth shrugged. “Probably enjoyed it.”

“Where did you take them?” Durgin pressed. “When you met with these girls—where did you go?”

“I never met these girls—I never even spoke to them!” He tugged at his tie. “I know it might not look like it with everything you’ve seen in my room—but everything I do is, er, solo.”



“Where were you on the nights of March twentieth, twenty-seventh, and twenty-ninth?”

There was a pause as Roth searched his memory. “I was at the studio,” he managed. “I was on the air, live! I daresay you won’t find a more airtight alibi than that.”

“You could have recorded your voice and snuck out while it was playing.”

“Gentlemen, I have a team of sound engineers, writers, and producers, as well as scores of adoring fans. Believe me, if I’d left the studio, it would have been noted!”

Durgin turned to Mark. “Confirm his story with the appropriate people at the BBC.” He turned back to Roth. “We’re releasing you,” he told him, standing. “For now. Don’t leave London.”

—

The two men met Maggie back in the observation room.

“Well, so much for that,” she said, disappointed. “Just because he’s a Peeping Tom with distinctive taste in literature doesn’t make him our murderer.”

“Do you want to go with me to the BBC?” Mark asked. “Verify his alibi?”

“I told you yesterday,” she chided, giving them both a mysterious smile. “This afternoon I have an appointment—tea with the Queen. But first I need to change.”

—

“And how’s your day going, young sir?” Maggie asked Griffin. From his bassinet fashioned from a dresser drawer lined with blankets on the kitchen table, the baby waved his chubby fists and drooled. “Ga!” he called.

“Yes, my sweet—‘ga,’?” Maggie answered, bending to kiss his head.



K rubbed his face against her ankles, and she reached down to pet him.

Chuck was heating up leftover Woolton pie. “Do you want some?”

“I’d love a piece,” Maggie replied. “Skipped breakfast.”

“From what I’m hearing,” Chuck said, taking out silverware, plates, and napkins, “the explosion was absolutely preventable.” Maggie noticed her hands were trembling. “The police found evidence someone was tapping the building’s gas main—stealing it. Whoever did it used a hose attached to the gas line, to siphon it off.” She set two places, keeping everything out of Griffin’s reach. “Thank goodness most people were at work, but two mothers and three small children died. I only knew them by sight, but—” She faltered, unable to continue.

Oh, poor Chuck…Maggie got up and put her arms around her. “Shhhh…Now, why don’t you sit down and rest—and I’ll serve up that pie.”

Dazed, Chuck obeyed, sitting at the table and reaching out to hold on to Griffin’s bouncing foot. “We’re lucky this little man didn’t want to take his nap. And I was so angry, Maggie! You should have heard all I was saying as I packed him up in his pram. I was tired and just wanted a lie-down myself. The last thing I wanted to do was go to the park.” She looked down at her gurgling baby in awe. “But he saved both of our lives.”

“Thank goodness,” Maggie said, using pot holders to take the pie out of the oven. “Will there be any funerals? Memorial services?”

“Yes,” Chuck said. “Of course we’re going.” She rubbed at her eyes. “But I don’t want to dwell on it. Tell me about you—what’s going on in your life?”

“Oh, work,” Maggie said, dishing up the pie, steam rising in curls. “Just paperwork, you know—answering the telephones and filing—boring things like that.” She brought two plates over to the table.