The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(60)

“Fish and chips!” a gentleman in suspenders chortled as his three darts hit the 20, 1, and 5 for a total of 26. The rest of the group raised their glasses to him as he gave a toothy grin and took a deep bow. His friends applauded.

The dartboard reminded Maggie of the map they had at Mark’s office with its red pushpins. In darts, each player’s trying to hit the bull’s-eye or come as close as possible, she mused. But the Blackout Beast wanted to get the bodies as far away as possible from where the murders took place. He wouldn’t leave a body too near the scene of the crime and/or his residence.

Maggie watched as another man with wispy white hair and rolled-up checked shirtsleeves shot his three darts. They fell on the outer ring, and his friends taunted him with a chant of “Fish, fish! Fish!”

She chewed her lip, deep in thought. While the dart player’s goal is to hit the center, the serial—sequential murderer’s is to create a protective zone. When the Blackout Beast dumps the bodies, he’s going to want it to seem random—no evidence too close to him. But when someone’s trying to do something at random, and not make a pattern—there’s always an unconscious inherent design to it.

A jolt of realization shot through her. Could one create a formula that would point to where the killer was located, based on where the bodies are found?

Max returned from the bar with two whiskeys. He sat in the chair opposite Maggie and put a glass in front of her while raising his own in a jocular salute.

“Thank you,” she said, eyeing the whiskey, wishing for pen and paper to write down her dart-inspired revelation. “But I asked for tea.”



“They’re out of tea.”

Maggie didn’t believe him. As she left her drink untouched, she watched Max drain his glass in one thirsty gulp. He rolled the tumbler between his palms and held Maggie’s eyes with his. She found his gaze disconcerting and looked back to the darts game.

“You know, I loved Punch and Judy as a child,” he said, gesturing to a framed red-and-white striped poster on the wall near them, an enraged, hook-nosed Punch beating Judy over her head with his stick.

Maggie studied one of the Punch puppets above the bar: This one had a papier-maché head with a red face, a sugarloaf hat, and a hunchbacked body clad in scarlet jester’s motley with a tassel on his cap. He carried a huge black stick. “I didn’t grow up with Punch and Judy.” She imagined the beatings the Judy puppet must have endured over the years. “The show’s not as popular in the States.”

“Have you ever even seen a Punch show?”

“In passing, in the parks. It’s a bit violent for my taste.”

“Nonsense! It’s great fun! Covent Garden is where it all started, you know.”

“You seem to know a lot about it.”

“I admit I had puppets when I was a child—and used to put on my own little shows. I had a pretty good swazzle, if I do say so myself—that’s Punch’s traditional voice.” He cleared his throat. “Hullo, Judy my girl. I want a little dance. What do you mean, you don’t want to dance? I’ll beat you silly and throw the baby out the window! What a piece of work about nothing!” He smirked like a Cheshire cat. “I played a passable Devil, too.”

“I don’t like how Mr. Punch treats his wife.” In most of the performances Maggie had seen, Judy had been bludgeoned to death, to the cheers of the audience.



“Oh, it’s all in good fun. Besides, Judy’s no angel herself. She has it coming, really.” Max laughed. “Why don’t I get us some food,” he declared, more of a statement than a question.

“No.” Maggie had lost her appetite. I need to get home and work on the formula….“I need to get home.”

“Oh! Want to go somewhere quieter? More private? Do you know anywhere around here where we can go? Air-raid shelter, perhaps?” he added with a suggestive leer.

Maggie stood. “I’m leaving now.”

“Are you a naughty girl?” he asked, mimicking Mr. Punch’s shrill tones. The effect was unsettling.

“No, I’m not. And stop using that ridiculous voice.”

Max pulled out his wallet and opened it. He continued, still as Punch, “I have plenty of money, you know. Let me show you something.” He flashed a thick wad of bills.

“Put that away,” Maggie hissed. “You’ll be pickpocketed.”

“I have about fifty pounds.”

“Good for you,” Maggie said. “I encourage you to use it to see a psychoanalyst.” She headed for the coat check and then the exit without a backward glance into the windy darkness.

“Look,” he called after her, following. “If you’d be kind enough to have dinner with me, I promise I’ll show you a good time.” He stepped in front of her. “Please.”

“No.”

“Let me at least get you home safely. It can be dangerous for young ladies out there in the dark. I insist.”

People were staring. Maggie saw no way of getting rid of him without making a scene. “Fine.”

They walked side by side toward the Tube station. Beyond the blacked-out windows and blank fa?ades, people’s voices could be heard, enjoying the evening. Happy noise in the darkness of the blackout always struck a strange chord with Maggie, the disembodied voices seeming somehow macabre. After turning down James Street, Max said to her, “Do you know I’ve had my Mr. Punch moments, too? I hit a girl once. Knocked her out.”