The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(90)
“But if you poke at a lion in a cage with a stick, over and over and over again, the lion is going to roar. No, that lion is going to bite. And once the lion realizes the cage is but imaginary, the lion is going to kill everyone who ever tried to poke him, ever.”
He leaned down to Brynn, his masked face close to her ear. “I’m not just Jack the Ripper, Miss Parry, or the so-called Blackout Beast—I’m a crusader. A crusader for the rights of the English gentleman, which have been trampled by you modern women. The female manipulation of males during the last decades—the feminized men in Britain and Europe. So I need to send a message.”
Brynn began to regain consciousness. She had been trained by the SOE to fight, using any and all weapons she had at her disposal, and instinctively, her eyes flicked around the room as he bound her hands and ankles to posts built into the table with leather shackles. In the shadows, she could just make out a grotesque contraption in the corner that appeared to be a medieval torture rack. There was a shelf of organs in formaldehyde, a medical cabinet full of amber bottles, and a steel tray displaying surgical instruments.
He noticed her eyes were open and finished binding her hands and feet. “I see my job, during this insane war, is to reestablish the patriarchy,” he continued. “How else can we win the war? And still keep our heads up when it’s over? It’s not your fault,” he continued, musing. “Women after you will see the bodies and they’ll be warned. Once again, they’ll know their place.”
She blinked and fought to escape the shackles. But she was still drugged, and the shackles were too strong.
He slapped her across the face, and she whimpered. “Look over there.” He seized her chin in one gloved hand and pointed her face toward the wall. “My kiln—made of firebrick. If I turn on an oil jet atomized with steam, the entire kiln’s filled with a flame so hot it can melt iron.” He laughed. “I told them it was because I was interested in researching glass bending. No one even questioned how large it was. But as soon as I get a body inside, close the door, and turn on both the oil and the steam—not even the bones remain.”
“Did you get it from Hitler and his camps?” she managed. “Is that what you’re going to do to me?” Her whole body felt stiff, anesthetized.
“No, Miss Parry,” he said, looking over his surgical instruments. “You are going to be immortalized as I am. You’re not Bronwyn Parry anymore. Tonight, you will be playing the role of Catherine Eddowes in my tribute to Jack the Ripper. Tonight we will be performing yet another act of a morality play I’ve created, to warn the whores of the world what’s to come if they don’t behave.
“It’s time,” he told her, his eyes gleaming behind the mask. “For your out-ing.”
She fought against the restraints.
“Be loud as you’d like, Miss Parry,” he urged, finally choosing a ten-inch scalpel. He turned back to her, blade in hand. “This cellar is soundproof. No one will hear you scream.”
Chapter Seventeen
“Thank you all for coming, especially on such short notice,” Durgin was saying from a podium set up in a large conference room in Scotland Yard’s offices. The windows offered a view of the slanting afternoon light over the gray-green Thames, but everyone’s attention remained focused intently on the Detective Chief Inspector, dressed in uniform. A forest of microphones poised to catch every word—BBC, CBC, and even a few from Australia and the United States—surrounded him. Photographers, with their heavy black cameras and huge flashbulbs, were standing close, ready to take aim. “But today we have breaking news in the search for the sequential murderer whom the press has dubbed the ‘Blackout Beast.’?”
A murmur rippled through the restless crowd. Flashbulbs popped and exploded. The unexpected bright lights made Maggie, standing behind Durgin with a few of the Scotland Yard officers, wince and shield her eyes. Blinking to dispel momentary blindness, she stared at the crowd, going over each individual man in turn. In their dark suits and ties, they all looked perfectly respectable—serious and sober, as befitted the situation. What did you expect, Hope? Devil’s horns? Glowing red eyes? Cloven hooves?
And what did the Beast expect from her?
Maggie wore a tweed suit with thick shoulder pads, a scarf to hide her fading bruises, her pearl earrings, and a fresh pair of silk stockings she’d bought in Washington. She’d dabbed on lipstick and her red hair was swept back into a tight bun. Her goal was to look professional. The sort of competent woman the Beast hated most.
“The Blackout Beast has been specifically targeting patriotic young women, working for the Government,” Durgin continued, leaving out any specific mention of SOE. “Three women have been killed and their bodies displayed in ways reminiscent of Jack the Ripper. But today, Scotland Yard has a new lead in the search for this killer.”
More flashbulbs popped.
Durgin gestured to Maggie to come forward. “Today, I have a colleague with me—Miss Margaret Hope. Miss Hope has been assisting us with the investigation.”
The crowd’s murmurs increased.
Maggie raised her head and pressed her lips together to disguise their trembling as she stepped toward the podium. When she reached the copse of microphones, Durgin shook her hand—a perfect photo opportunity. Another explosion of flashbulbs ignited, and she tried not to wince at the bright lights and dizzying cacophony.