The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(65)
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The New Scotland Yard, on the Victoria Embankment, was housed in respectable-looking large red-brick Romanesque-style buildings, slashed by thick horizontal bands of white Portland stone. As Durgin led Maggie through a maze of poorly lit corridors inside, she couldn’t help but wonder: How many murders had he worked since the outbreak of war? Too many, probably—and how sad and ironic. How many air raids had the people survived? How many nights had they been dragged from the warmth of their beds by the wailing of sirens? To survive the Luftwaffe bombs—only to be murdered by a fellow Briton…She shuddered.
“The governing principle of forensic science, as laid down by Edmond Locard at the beginning of the last century, is ‘every contact leaves a trace.’?” Durgin was speaking as swiftly as he walked. The peeling painted walls they passed bore posters: DO YOU KNOW THIS MAN? City of London Police—Murder of Police Officers—REWARD! And ENLIST NOW—YOUR KING NEEDS YOU. “There are eight basic fingerprint patterns of arches, loops, and whorls. And every human finger fits into one of these categories in its own unique way.”
Maggie nodded, listening intently. This was a science she didn’t know—it was intriguing.
They reached a door marked EVIDENCE ROOM. Durgin opened it and led them in. The room was large, with towering pigeonhole cabinets lining all four walls. “We have about ninety thousand finger-and thumbprints on file here,” Durgin said, going to a cabinet and pulling down binders. The middle of the room was stacked with boxes upon boxes, marked ROPE AND TWINE BINDINGS, TORN AND STAINED CLOTHING, and DEATHBED SHEETS. Maggie walked around them. Exactly what horrific tale had each box to tell, what mysteries could each solve—if only there were enough time and manpower to devote to them all?
Durgin gestured for her to follow him. “Now we have to see if our Blackout Beast’s prints match any we have here.” They reached a large room of desks, and Durgin went to one by a large window overlooking the Thames. The river glimmered coppery green in the gray light, and curved like a snake. “Have a seat,” he said as he put down the books of prints. “I’ll get us some tea and then we’ll begin.”
Tea? Made for me? Maggie tried not to smile as she took off her coat and sat opposite his desk. It was chilly in the vast room, despite a few portable radiators glowing orange dotting the perimeter, and she left her gloves on. Stacked around each desk were boxes and boxes of files, again marked EVIDENCE. It would take an army to get through them all in any sort of timely way, and even so, more and more cases were pouring in. The staggering amount of information, each box representing a dead person, made her head spin.
“He doesn’t have to work these cases, you know.” At the desk next to Durgin’s, a broad man with carroty hair streaked with white looked over as Maggie arranged her scarf to make sure it covered her bruised neck. His nameplate read GEORGE STAUNTON. “He’s of senior rank, but he insists on working murder scenes himself.”
“Really?” Maggie realized how little she knew of the DCI.
“Oh, Durgin’s probably sent—let’s see now—hundreds of murderers to the gallows over the years. He’s too modest to say, but he’s our own Sherlock Holmes, he is. He hates that it’s on the wall, but you should read it.” Staunton jerked a thumb at a framed Time magazine cover that read HIS MAJESTY’S GOVERNMENT’S REAL-LIFE SHERLOCK HOLMES, with a picture of a younger Durgin with his magnifying glass.
He was handsome, Maggie thought. Still is, really.
She walked over to read the smaller print. The caption said: Detective James Durgin is far more human than the great fictional sleuth, and the cases he handles are of a bloodier nature.
“I framed it for him, just to tick him off—he hates it. He hates any kind of publicity. But he’d be a fool not to take on the Beast,” the orange-haired Staunton continued. “It’s a career maker, it is. Did you see this morning’s latest?” He handed a newspaper to Maggie. The headline screamed, HUNT IS ON FOR THE BLACKOUT BEAST!
The article described the gruesome slayings and Scotland Yard’s search for a maniac, written with lavish speculation and very little accuracy. Well, if our Blackout Beast is looking for attention, he’s certainly got it now, she thought grimly.
Maggie looked over Durgin’s desk. No photographs. No books. Nothing personal at all, except for his nameplate and, tucked in one corner, a worn postcard of Simberg’s Wounded Angel.
Durgin returned and set down the tea tray on the desk. “Grand, just grand,” he groaned, seeing the headline.
“Do you want me to be mother?” Maggie asked, out of habit.
“No, you’re our guest. I’ll pour.”
Well, this is getting better and better.
Durgin grimaced. “Afraid the milk’s powdered.”
“I simply adore powdered milk. It’s what the Queen serves at Buckingham Palace, I’ll have you know.”
Staunton glanced over. “I wouldn’t mind a cuppa, old man.”
“Well, get your lazy arse up and get your own mug, you sorry blighter!”
Maggie hid a giggle behind one hand.
“Er, sorry, Miss Hope,” Durgin said. “We’re a bit informal here. Not used to ladies around.”
“It’s fine. Comradely, in fact.”