The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(80)

“We’re up to his penultimate victim now. If he follows the pace he’s set, it won’t be long.”

“I know.” Maggie knew all too well what victim they were up to—Catherine Eddowes, victim number four. If they didn’t catch the Blackout Beast, he’d not only kill doppelg?ngers of Catherine Eddowes and then Mary Jane Kelly but, just as Jack the Ripper had, never be caught, never pay for his crimes. Like the original Jack, he’d vanish, leaving London in confusion and terror.

“Come, let’s get you that cup of tea.”

“I’d rather have a medicinal brandy, if you please.”

“Not sure if there’s any left in the city, but we can try.”

They walked to the nearest pub, the Golden Dragon, where Maggie sat and Durgin ordered for them at the bar. He returned with a mug of tea and a small glass filled with amber liquid. “They didn’t have any brandy—this is fairly ancient sherry, but I didn’t think you’d mind.”



Maggie sipped the sweet liquid gratefully. It stung her lips and felt hot going down her throat. As she sipped, Durgin watched her face with concern.

Maggie finished her sherry without speaking, then put down her glass. There was nothing to say. She had been sent half a kidney by a sequential murderer, as a warning. It was all so horrific, so shocking, that silence seemed the only sane option.

And so they sat, until Durgin’s tea turned cold. “Do you want me to take you home?” he asked finally.

Her head snapped up. “Certainly not!” Then, “I’m not going to be frightened off.”

“Maggie, this is no time for false bravado. Whoever our Beast is, he’s telling us he knows a lot about you—he knows your name and where you live.”

“Do you really think my going home will keep me safer than working at MI-Five? My home is where he delivered the package, after all!”

“I’ve assigned plainclothes officers to keep a twenty-four-hour watch on your house,” Durgin countered.

“I’m staying,” Maggie said. The set of her jaw made it clear there would be no argument. “Brynn is…well, I hope she’s still out there. And I’m not going to rest until we find her.”

“Well, then—are you ready to question Max Thornton? I think we’ve let him sulk behind bars long enough.”

Maggie stood, still shaky. But she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Why, James Durgin—what a delightful way to spend the evening.”

—



“My name is Hubert Taillier,” Hugh was saying once again in French, scowling down at his snarled tie. “We met in Monte Carlo, at the ballet. I was playing cello in the orchestra and you were performing your first Les Sylphides.”

Sarah peered over his shoulder in the bathroom mirror and dabbed on the last of a well-worn pink lipstick, then she turned and expertly tied his tie. “We married in the south of France, C?te d’Azur, after a whirlwind courtship.”

“At the church of Saint Jean-Baptiste, in a small ceremony. I wore a blue suit—”

“—and carried pink silk roses—”

“—that I’d sprayed with perfume!”

“And made me sneeze all through the ceremony!”

Sarah and Hugh had been practicing their background as diligently as they’d been studying spycraft, ballet, and cello at the SOE’s Finishing School at Beaulieu.

“You look beautiful, darling,” Hugh said to her, unable to tear his gaze away from Sarah in her plum-colored silk dress.

“And you look handsome as well,” she replied, her eyes locked on his.

“Shall we go?” He offered his arm. “One last dance before the madness begins in earnest?”

Together, they walked in the twilight, their hands brushing, then their fingers entwining.

“I just learned a great French expression,” Sarah told him. “Mi chien mi loup, which means dusk, but literally translates to ‘between dog and wolf.’?” She squeezed his hand. “Shall we continue our stories again?”

Hugh began. “Of course we have no children—”

“Because of my career.”

This time, Hugh squeezed her hand. “No children yet, anyway.”



“Oooh, I do think we finally found something to argue about, darling.”

As they walked closer to the imposing gray-stone Abbey, they could hear the band playing jazz. “After you,” Hugh said, opening the heavy wooden door for Sarah, who glowed.

Hugh and Sarah had rehearsed in the Domus of Beaulieu’s Abbey, and it had always been empty, an almost mystical place. Now the ancient lay brothers’ dormitory was full of men and women jitterbugging to Tubby Jackson and the Jackson Band, as a banner hung over the stage pronounced. Several of the musicians playing were colored, and Sarah was surprised to see one of the trombone players was a colored woman, somewhere in her twenties, wearing a shimmering evening gown and pearls.

Against one ancient stone wall was a table with several punch bowls and tiny cups, and plates piled high with sandwiches. The air was hot from the press of bodies and smelled of perfume, brilliantine, and cigarette smoke. Sarah heard a young man next to her say, “Look at the blackbird up there—she’s not too bad, really.”