The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(89)

“And?”

“And,” Maggie continued, animated by the thrilling new use of math, “we can use it to our advantage. We use the press to taunt him, to draw him out of the underbrush where he’s hiding.”

“That’s a terrible idea,” Durgin said, biting into a crumbly gray biscuit. “We can’t risk a possible victim.”

“But he’s going to choose a victim anyway. So, this time, let’s help him choose.” Maggie sat down on the sofa with her cup and saucer. “We mock the killer about the kidney. Or, rather, I do. At a press conference. I’ve already thought it out.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“I speak at the press conference, identify myself as someone working on the case, and then leave myself open, as bait. I can check in to the Castle Hotel, just like the other victims. Meanwhile, you and the rest of your men move in for the capture.”

“Are ye daft, woman?” Durgin exploded. “That’s the looniest idea I’ve ever heard of! We don’t use humans as live bait! This isn’t some Highland huntin’ party!”

Maggie suddenly remembered a snippet from her dream. Am I the hunter? Or the hunted? she’d asked. Both, apparently. “We’re nearly up to Jack the Ripper’s last victim, Mary Ann Kelly. Between my being a ‘working woman’ and the red hair…”

Durgin considered. “If we hold a press conference—”

“When we hold a press conference—” She tucked her feet under her. “We taunt him with the ultimate next victim—me.”

“It’s not a bad idea,” he relented. “But I’ll have every man at my disposal watching over you. The bastard won’t touch a hair on yer wee pretty head….”



They stared at each other for a heartbeat.

“You’re sounding most Scottish tonight,” Maggie said finally, breaking the silence.

“It happens when I get angry. The idea of you in danger makes me livid.”

“The song you sang was beautiful. You have a remarkable voice.”

“My Gaelic heritage.” He looked around the room, then sighed. “Never thought I’d sleep in Buckingham Palace.”

“It’s my first time, too. Here, at least. I’ve stayed at Windsor, as the girls told you.” Only the dancing orange blaze illuminated the room. She gave a wide fake yawn and rose to her feet. “I’m exhausted.”

Durgin put down his cup and stood as well. “I still don’t like the idea of this press conference,” he said, taking a step toward her. “I don’t like the idea of your speaking publicly as a way to lure this bastard closer.”

Just like in North and South, when the heroine speaks in public, in front of an angry mob, only to be struck by a stone. “You don’t have to like it.”

Another step. “I’d never forgive myself if anything happened to you.”

Maggie’s heart skipped a beat. Then she said, “I’m sure you say that to all your colleagues. Mr. Collins from the morgue, especially.”

Durgin took her hand, and interlaced his fingers in hers. “Collins especially, yes.”

As their fingers entwined, Maggie felt a fierce and giddy joy in her chest. Impulsively, she leaned forward and kissed him on his stern mouth.



When they both finally drew back, Durgin pushed her tumbled hair from her eyes. “When this is all over, and we’re not working together anymore, I’d like to do this properly. Ask you to dinner and a film, that sort of thing.”

“I’d like that.”

“In the meantime, since I’ve agreed to this press conference idea, I’ll take the couch. You take the bed. Be gracious in victory, lass.”

Maggie made her way to the bed as Durgin tried his best to settle in on the sofa. “I do try.”

—

“Bronwyn Parry,” the voice droned as the door swung open. “Miss Parry! It’s time!”

A man stepped into the room. He was wearing a black Victorian costume, complete with vest, cloak, jabot, and gloves. He had a silk top hat under one arm, and his face was hidden by a white mask with holes cut for the eyes and mouth.

Brynn was already awake and alert, unaffected by the stupor-inducing gas since she’d plugged the copper pipe. Every fiber of her being was focused on the man standing in front of her. Her captor. Her jailer. Her killer.

“I know what you did with the pipe, Miss Parry,” he purred. “Naughty, naughty, naughty! A naughty girl. None of the others thought of that.”

“H-how do you know?”

“Peepholes!” he said with glee. “But that’s unimportant. This is a special evening. A date, if you will—or an outing, you might say.” Behind the mask, he chuckled. “?‘Out’-ing? Good, isn’t it? Do you catch it? No? Well, you will soon.”

He dove at her, his gloved hand pressing over her mouth and nose, his weight forcing her into the corner, pinning her down.



She struggled to stay clear and focused. Think, Brynn, think! She realized the glove was damp, with that same familiar odor. It squeezed against her face, suffocating her.

When he saw her eyes close, the man swept her into his arms and carried her to the main room of the stone-walled cellar. It was cavernous, windowless, and dank. “I’m not a violent man,” he said to himself in a mild voice as he set Brynn’s limp body down on an operating table in the center of the room. “Not by nature, at least.