The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(72)

Daphne turned her head toward them and gave a weak smile which seemed to come at great cost. Maggie could see Durgin hanging back. He’s letting me take the lead on this one, she realized. He thinks she’ll respond better to a woman.

Maggie poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the bedside table, held it to Daphne’s lips, and waited until she took a sip. Then, she steeled herself. “Do you remember anything at all about how you were abducted?”

“He…knew a lot about me.”

Maggie was careful to keep her voice mild. “Did you know him?”

“No….He wore a mask.”

A mask—good God. It must have been absolutely terrifying. “Do you remember anything about him? His hands? His hair? His scent, perhaps? Any small detail could be important.”

“He wore gloves,” the injured girl managed. “Black leather gloves.” She pulled the blanket even higher, as if to hide from the memory.

“Do you live here in London?”

“No, from Cornwall. Interview…” Daphne took a raspy gulp of air. “Special Operations Executive.”

“The SOE?” Maggie’s eyes met Durgin’s. He was thinking the exact same thing she was. “And where were you staying?”



“Some…hotel. Women’s hotel, near Baker Street—don’t remember the name. Oh, why didn’t he kill me?” she moaned.

“It wasn’t about you,” Maggie said, stroking the woman’s hair. “Whoever did this thinks only about power and hatred and control.” Then, “Did he speak to you at all?”

“I don’t remember—I’m…” She took a tremulous breath. “I tried to be strong. But I shut my eyes. I pretended it wasn’t happening. But now, when I shut my eyes, I see him. All I see is him….”

“Shhhh…” Maggie opened her handbag and took out a clean handkerchief. She used it to dab the tears away from Daphne’s cheeks. As the woman released her viselike grip on the blanket, it slipped to reveal indigo bruises on her neck. “Daphne, did the man in the mask try to choke you?”

“No. I was on a date, going out to dinner, before the man in the mask…There were Punch and Judy puppets and posters everywhere. We went somewhere in Covent Garden.”

Maggie’s heart skipped a beat. “Daphne, what was the name of the man you were with? Do you remember?”

“Max…Max something. Handsome man, but got a bit rough when I wouldn’t go to an air-raid shelter with him and—you know…”

Could Max be the Blackout Beast? He certainly had the temperament for it. “Could this Max be the man in the mask?”

The girl stared at her. Terror flared in her eyes. “I don’t know,” she said, her voice rising in pitch. “I remember he tried to choke me, but I got back to the hotel. I thought I was safe. I thought I was safe there. I thought I was safe! I thought I was safe!”

Durgin called into the hall. “Nurse!”

The nurse, in a white winged linen cap, held Daphne down while murmuring comforting words, then gave her an injection to calm her. When the girl quieted, she sank back into the pillow. Her eyes slipped shut.



“She’ll still have to wake up and deal with the trauma,” the nurse told them. “But for now she needs sleep.”

Maggie looked to Durgin. “This Max is a man named Max Thornton, who likes to take women to the Punch and Judy—I’m certain of it. He’s the one who gave me my souvenir.” She pointed to her neck.

“The little…” Durgin’s unspoken profanity hung in the air between them. “Well, then—let’s arrest him for assault. You know this Max Thornton? Who the devil is he?”

“He’s a private secretary for Mr. Churchill at Number Ten.”

“Well, I’m about to get a few officers, go cuff him, and bring him in. I don’t suppose you’d like to come and watch?”

Maggie thought of how deliciously satisfying it would be, to see the look on Max’s face as he was led off in handcuffs in front of David, Mr. Snodgrass, and Mrs. Tinsley—maybe even the P.M. himself—from Number 10 Downing Street. But she had something to do first.

“I’ll leave that task to you, Detective,” she said regretfully. “As I mentioned, there’s someone else here, another patient, I need to visit. I’ll meet you back at Mark’s office at MI-Five later. Happy hunting.”

—

Maggie knocked at Edmund Hope’s hospital room door. “Hello,” she called, always unsure of what to call him. Dad? Father? It was almost laughable. Edmund? Professor Hope? No.

He had gingery hair like Maggie’s, but dusted with gray. His skin was dull and papery. When he looked up from his book, she saw his eyes were threaded with red veins. “Margaret. You’re here.”



“I am.” There was an awkward silence as she tried not to look at the place on the bed where his legs would have been. “You’re looking well. I mean,” she said hurriedly, “your face has a bit more color, I think.”

Edmund blinked.

Well, this is going well, she thought. “So, how are you feeling?”

“Better now,” he said. “It was hard at first, but things are improving. And it’s been weeks since I had my last drink.”