The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(91)

Then she turned to face the crowd, straightening her shoulders and raising her chin. “Thank you, Detective Chief Inspector,” she said, unsmiling. She swept her gaze over the assembled men. “I can tell you the man we’re looking for, the so-called Blackout Beast, has a specific type of victim. His ideal is female, in her twenties, and involved with Government work. Typically she’s in London for only a short while, meeting with higher-ups before beginning her war-related job. Because she’s not from London, and may not have family and friends here, she may stay at a women’s residence hotel. These are women just like me,” she said, scanning the pale faces of the men in front of her, “young, professional, trying to serve our country as best we can. So, for me, his attacks are personal. As will be his capture.”



Gauntlet thrown! Maggie looked past the microphones, the cameras, and into the crowd. He was there, she knew it. A hot rush of anger quelled her nerves. “This killer drugs the women, so he can control them.” Maggie felt strength course through her, as she imagined the Beast taking in her words. “But now he’s beginning to slip up, to make mistakes. One of his victims, whose name we’re protecting for privacy, survived his attack. And she’s been able to give us details, crucial details—details that will ultimately lead to the Blackout Beast’s capture and arrest.”

Durgin joined her before the microphones. “We hope to bring this murderer to justice as soon as possible,” he said, wrapping things up. “Thank you for coming.”

Again, flashbulbs exploded as reporters shouted questions. Durgin and Maggie ignored them. Walking out of the room, Maggie decided it had gone fairly well, considering they hadn’t given any real news. Not that the press will complain. The press conference was merely like a javelin grazing the Beast’s side—enough to wound his pride, to rouse his bloodlust—to make her his primary target.

As she and Durgin walked together to a squad car in full view of the throng, she kept her spine ramrod straight. Follow me, you bastard. You know you want to. Follow me and tonight we’ll catch ourselves a beast.

“Excuse me, sir.” The voice came from an officer with white hair who’d cut his chin while shaving that morning, leaving an angry red mark. “But I’m afraid another body’s been found.”

—

When Maggie and Durgin reached the crime scene, again in Regent’s Park, dark clouds were rolling in. The wind had picked up, and branches of the oak, ash, and beech trees were black against the overcast sky and the snow-covered ground. The police were putting up another tent, so the Yard’s staff could keep out both drifting snow and interlopers as the doctor worked. Entering the tent, Maggie flinched. It stank of blood, now an all-too-familiar scent. Mrs. Vera Baines, with her silver-handled walking stick, sat in one dim corner, arms wrapped tightly around herself as though to keep pieces from flying off.



Maggie took a deep breath and looked to the body laid out on the tarp. She started when she saw the young woman’s face.

Brynn.

The dead girl was Brynn.

She swallowed hard as she blinked back scalding tears.

“Just like Catherine Eddowes,” she could hear the doctor saying to Durgin, as though underwater. “The report shows the details.”

“She was your friend, wasn’t she?” Durgin said to Maggie, his voice gentle. “The one you asked after?”

“Yes,” Maggie managed. She flipped up the collar of her coat. “Excuse me, I need some air.”

She left, walking a few paces away from the tent, then sagged against the brick wall enclosing the misty park. The afternoon was oddly quiet. All she could hear was the occasional distant hum of a car engine, the rattle of bare branches in the frosty east wind.

Brynn was dead, slaughtered the same way Jack the Ripper’s victim Catherine Eddowes had been. Another brave woman of the SOE, dead before she could even begin her mission. Before she could even begin her life.

Maggie felt rage rising inside of her. There was one murder left—the doppelg?nger of redheaded Mary Jane Kelly—one more chance to stop the Blackout Beast. I’m going to catch you, you monster. And I’m going to stop you. You’ll never do this to any of us, ever again.



She unpinned her hat and shook out her hair from its tortoiseshell clip, so it swirled around her shoulders and down her back. It was red, like Red Riding Hood’s cloak. Red as any matador’s cape. Tonight I’ll be playing the role of my fellow redhead Mary Jane Kelly, Maggie thought. Between the press conference and the hair, I should be damn well irresistible.

As she looked around the ghostly park, wondering if he was there, she thought, Come on, you bastard, you son of a bitch. Come at me, then—like the Minotaur you are, coming for the maiden in the labyrinth.

Come on, you Devil—I dare you.

—

The man with the smudged green sunglasses smiled as he tracked Maggie and Durgin from the Scotland Yard press conference to where he’d dumped the body in Regent’s Park. He watched from his usual bench, throwing crumbs for a few pigeons into the snow. He watched as Maggie left the tent, looking queasy. Would she vomit? No—too bad. She saw him then, saw him and held his gaze, watching him watch her. He couldn’t move. And then she unpinned her red hair, shaking it down to her shoulders, eyes flashing.

Very well then, Miss Hope. Challenge accepted.