The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(95)

“Women,” he stated, his eyes rolling like a rearing warhorse’s, “should not be going off to war. Should not be doing a man’s job. That’s the problem. Why won’t you understand? Can’t you see what a laughingstock we Englishmen will be if anyone finds out? ‘Oh, the British men can’t do it themselves, have to get a bunch of girls to step in….’?”

The word laughingstock rang in Maggie’s ears. Laughingstock, she thought. You’re terrified of being a laughingstock, she realized. Not of being attacked or raped or murdered as we women are, but of being laughed at, found wanting. Terrified of being laughed at. How droll, she thought. And how drolly horrible and horribly droll. The revelation cleared her head.

“What happened to you?” she asked, as he picked up a ball of twine for wrapping packages, then sliced it with a letter opener. “What happened when you were a little boy?”

“Shut up,” he snarled.

Despite the headache piercing her skull, the throbbing in her ankle, and the blood dripping down her shin, she persisted. “What you’re doing”—she shrugged—“it’s just misogyny, age-old male violence against women. There’s nothing heroic about it—it’s not some noble crusade. You’re not Jack the Ripper. Not even a Blackout Beast. You’re a terrified young man, scared of being sent off to war, with a horrible bedtime story you want to tell.”



“Women’s place is in the home, yes. Mothers are the angels of the hearth.” His pupils were pinpoints of concentrated hatred. “For years, I’ve been treated like a mouse, not a man. Now I’m a god and you women are the animals. And I’ll slaughter you all like animals—a god exacting my retribution. For the crime of living a better life than I can have. If I can’t stop you, I’ll destroy you.”

His voice was rising in volume, and his tongue flicked out like a snake’s. “You denied me happiness, and so now I’ll deny you life—it’s only fair. And when I’m finished, there will be mountains of skulls and rivers of blood—and rightfully so. You all deserve to be annihilated. I’ll give you whores exactly what you deserve—eradication.”

Despite her fear, her gut was telling her things. Interesting things. “Your mother—” Maggie managed. What had Durgin said about the Blackout Beast after Doreen Leighton’s murder? Something about the murderer’s mother. Abandonment. That’s it. “Did she die? Or did she leave you?” His breath caught and she knew she was on to something. “How old were you?”

He didn’t answer. In a flash of empathy, his childhood torment raged through her, terrifying and bitterly cold.

“I’m sorry,” she said, as he twisted the length of twine, binding her hands together. “I’m sorry you didn’t have parents who cared for you and protected you. I’m sorry you didn’t have a mother—for whatever reason.”

He didn’t stop.

“It wasn’t fair for you—you were just a child,” she persisted, “and I’m so sorry. I wish things could have been different for you. Mothers are not supposed to cause pain, they’re supposed to love you and defend you. And fathers are supposed to protect you—not attack you.” The ironic parallels to the relationships in her own life weren’t lost on her.



“But you can’t take away your pain by blaming someone else. You can’t blame this generation of women. You can’t take away the pain by hurting us. It makes you as bad and as hurtful as your own parents were.”

Something flickered in the depths of his eyes, something nasty. “Shut. Up. You. Ungrateful. Bitch!” The blow to her face sent the room spinning.

Maggie pulled herself together through sheer force of will. “You have a choice. You can stop this madness.”

He slapped her across the face again. Harder this time. “Shut up!!” he roared. His eyes were red and bestial. And when he leaned into her, she used the opportunity to slam her forehead into his. As he staggered back in shock, she shook off the twine and ran.

All she could see were sparks and shooting stars. A door. She pulled hard on the knob. It wouldn’t open.

She was sure she could hear footsteps behind her, although she couldn’t see anything in the darkness. She twisted frantically at the doorknob, slamming her shoulder into the door. There was a ping of metal as the dead bolt snapped and fell to the floor. When the door opened, she fell into another room. Where am I? The drugs…is this how Brynn felt?

The library. There were large plate-glass windows, all obscured by blackout curtains. On her hands and knees, she crawled to them, ripping the heavy black fabric down. Then she flipped on every switch and lit every lamp she could see, dragging them into the windows. Light, she thought. Light will save me.

Then the world kaleidoscoped, patterns swirling. She spun and tumbled helplessly into the darkness. When she recovered, she saw ancient stone walls. A maze, she realized. The labyrinth.

That’s when she heard Brynn’s voice. “I met the Beast in the labyrinth, too. I tried to get away, but he killed me.” Brynn walked to Maggie.



“What?” Maggie couldn’t process what was happening. “Brynn?”

“Before the first village was built on the marshes of the Thames, there was a labyrinth here. And a Beast. There’s always been a Beast here.”