The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(71)

Maggie put a hand to her scarf. She didn’t want to talk about it, certainly not with Durgin, who might start to worry for her safety and take her off the case. “It’s nothing. Really.”

The detective quirked an unruly eyebrow. “Do I need to take you to the interrogation room?” He smiled to let her know he was joking—mostly.

“Last night,” Maggie admitted, “after tea…with the Queen—I went to a pub with an acquaintance. He got a little…handsy on the walk home. So I had to put him in his place. He, I promise you, looks far worse than I do.”

“Really?” The detective’s stormy look brightened. “What did you do?”

“Broke his nose, I think.” Maggie tried not to look pleased and failed. “And knocked out a tooth. I’m sure he’ll have some explaining to do at work today.”

“Good girl!” The telephone on Durgin’s desk warbled, and he picked up the receiver. “Yes? Which hospital?” He scribbled on a scrap of paper, then hung up.

“Our Blackout Beast has claimed another, but not only did this girl survive—she’s awake and able to talk.”

—

Maggie and Detective Durgin caught a black cab to Fitzroy Square Hospital, where the latest Blackout Beast victim had been taken by ambulance.

With a jolt, Maggie realized the hospital was familiar—and not because of any of the Blackout Beast’s victims. “When we’re done,” she told Durgin, “there’s someone else I’d like to visit here.” Across the street, the cinema’s marquee announced the new film The Wolf Man in tall red capital letters. Rows of posters on each side showed actor Lon Chaney, Jr., made up with fangs and fur.



“Of course.”

“The Beast’s on a roll,” Maggie mused as they walked up the front steps of the hospital together, taking them two at a time.

“Almost through with his run, if he’s still following the Ripper murders. There’s still the double murder—Elizabeth Stride and Catherine Eddowes—and then the final murder—the most violent of them all—Mary Jane Kelly.”

“Then what?” Maggie’s voice was bleak, thinking of Brynn and the murdered women. “Will he keep on killing?”

“If we don’t catch him, he’s made his name for the history books, and most likely goes back to murdering women and disposing of their bodies in private. Or he keeps going as the Blackout Beast, charting new territory. He creates a new legend. Regardless…”

“Regardless, we need to catch him.”

They went to the reception desk and then sprinted up the stairs. Huge taped windows looked out over the street, while the stone faces of winged cherubs watched as the wind whipped through the naked branches, snowflakes spinning down from the sky.

As they traversed the shining floor of the corridor, Maggie’s heels clattered. A doctor, a stocky, graying man with a large watch and fat fingers—one encircled in a thick gold wedding band—looked up from a chart as they approached. “You must be Detective Chief Inspector Durgin.” He and Durgin shook hands. “Miss Plunket’s awake,” he told them, snapping the chart closed. “But she’s extremely fragile. She can’t talk for long.”

“What are her injuries?” Maggie asked. “How badly is she hurt?” She bit her lip, fearing the answer.



The doctor looked down his nose at Maggie, as if just noticing her presence. “And you are?”

“Waiting for your answer to her questions,” Durgin said. “As am I.”

The doctor shot him a look. “Her throat was cut, severing her left carotid artery. There were no other incisions or injuries.”

She looked to Durgin. “Just like Elizabeth Stride, Jack the Ripper’s third canonical victim.”

Durgin’s face was grim. “With all due respect, Doctor, we’re trying to save women’s lives. There’s a killer out there—the press is calling him the Blackout Beast. He might have gotten to Miss Plunket.”

“I’ve heard of this Beast, but I can give you five minutes only. She’s extremely weak. With all due respect, Detective, I’m trying to save a woman’s life.”

“Before we go in,” Maggie interjected, “what can you tell us about her? In Jack the Ripper’s day, his victim Elizabeth Stride died. What made the difference for Miss Plunket?”

“We were able to get to her before she bled out. And we now have better medical care than in the Victorian era.”

Durgin crossed himself. “Thank God.”

“You might want to thank modern medicine,” Maggie countered.

The doctor, leaving a trail of lime-scented cologne, led them to Daphne Plunket’s room and then left them. “Five minutes,” he admonished. “And then I’ll be back to throw you both out if you aren’t gone.”

A petite woman lay in a narrow bed. She looked out the window at the falling snow, her eyes unblinking, her fingers worrying at a blanket’s silk-covered hem, which was pulled up to her chin. She had unwashed wavy strawberry-blond hair that fell to her shoulders and acne scars on her sunken cheeks.



“Miss Plunket,” Maggie began gently, “I’m Maggie Hope and this is Detective Chief Inspector Durgin. We’re so glad to see you’re, well, awake now. We—we’d like to ask you some questions about what happened.” She shivered, wishing she could spare the blonde any further pain. But she had a job to do. “I know it might not be pleasant, but we’re trying to catch whoever did this to you—and stop him from doing it to anyone else. Whatever you can tell us is of utmost importance.”