“Borrow me, sir? For what?”
Frain chose a cup of tea and took a sip. “There have been a number of girls vanishing around London. With the Blitz, it’s been hard to keep track of the dead, of course, but it seems there’s a definite pattern emerging in the Marylebone area. There are too many young professional women disappearing for it to be only the bombings. Which have ceased for the moment in London, at any rate.”
Mark continued to stir his tea, his eyes not leaving the cup and saucer in his hand.
“Vanishing women?” Maggie asked, her thoughts instantly turning to Brynn Parry. “But that would be a case for Scotland Yard, surely. Why MI-Five?”
“Many of the missing young women were with the ATS and tapped for SOE duties. They were here for their interviews.”
Joanna Metcalf, she thought. Then, with a shudder, Brynn. “Someone’s targeting SOE agents?” she managed.
“It could be simple coincidence. Or it could be a Nazi plot to take our agents out before we can even get them off the ground. Or it could be something else entirely. The truth is we don’t know, but when there’s SOE involved, it makes sense for MI-Five to handle it. We’ll have a liaison with Scotland Yard, of course, but this investigation is top secret, and under my supervision.” Frain put down his cup and saucer with a clink. “I want you in particular on the case, Maggie, since it has to do with the murder of female SOE agents.”
Mark rose and handed her a thick manila accordion folder from his desk. Maggie thumbed through page after page of the files of young women missing and presumed dead. In addition to Joanna Metcalf, she recognized more names—women she’d either trained with back in the day or trained herself when she’d been an instructor at Arisaig. All fit the same profile—women in their late teens to early thirties wanting to “do their bit.” All from different corners of Britain. All social classes. All passing through London to interview with SOE. She felt sick.
“These are disappearances, sir. Are there any witnesses to these alleged abductions?”
Frain didn’t blink. “No.”
“And no one’s found any bodies?”
“No. That is—not until now. A woman, Joanna Metcalf, who fit the profile, was found murdered outside Regent’s Park—you might have read about it in the papers.”
Maggie glanced at the corkboard, with its array of gruesome photographs. She remembered Brody’s mentioning Joanna’s murder at the office, and then Max Thornton bringing it up at the party. “Yes, I did hear something about a so-called Jack the Ripper–inspired murder. Figured it was the London press gone mad, as usual. I hear they’ve dubbed him the Blackout Beast.”
“We’ve done our best to shut the whole thing down while we investigate,” Frain informed her. “The last thing we need now is a citywide panic.”
Mark leaned on the edge of his desk and cleared his throat. “The particular young woman in question, Joanna Metcalf, was set to leave for France during the next full moon. What we managed to keep out of the press was that her body was mutilated, in a manner reminiscent of Jack the Ripper’s murder of Mary Ann Nichols, his first victim. Not just reminiscent. A re-creation, down to the last detail.”
He handed Maggie another file. Her eyes widened when she saw photographs of the body, along with the painted statement on the brick wall, JACK IS BACK.
“Was she killed there, by the wall?”
“We don’t think so,” Mark explained. “We believe she was killed somewhere else. And the corpse was placed there afterward.”
“Any witnesses?”
“None. But we’re interviewing people who were in the area that night. We’ve put up signs—you know, ‘Did you see anything on the night of—call us’ sort of thing.”
Maggie went back to the report. “It says here the body was found by a Mrs. Vera Baines, the neighborhood’s ARP warden.”
“Yes, we’ve spoken to Mrs. Baines. She says she didn’t hear or see anything unusual that evening. Literally tripped over the body, wrapped in a blanket and placed by the wall, as the photographs show.”
“It also says here the cuts were made with surgical precision.” Maggie was frowning.
“Which means we’re looking for someone with skills. A doctor? A nurse? A veterinarian?” She tried not to wince. “A butcher?”
Mark crossed his arms. “The exact occupations the original Jack the Ripper was theorized to be.”
“Or someone with a lot of experience with murder,” Frain speculated.
Maggie flipped through to the last page. “There’s no mention of rape.”
“With the extensive injuries, it’s impossible to tell. However, the coroner found no evidence.”
“So,” Maggie said, “there are missing SOE women. This particular murder scene had a message allegedly written by someone calling himself Jack, perhaps referring to the Ripper. The method of killing is the same as with Mary Ann Nichols. But what is there to link Joanna Metcalf’s murder with the disappearances? And weren’t the historic Ripper’s victims all prostitutes? And from Whitechapel? These women aren’t.”
“Our Jack isn’t murdering prostitutes, but they are ‘working women,’ nonetheless,” Frain said. “The twentieth century’s working women—out in the public sphere, doing so-called men’s work, while the men are fighting overseas. The cuts to the lower abdomen show an intense anger toward women.”
“Of course…” Maggie murmured, flipping through the pages again. She could see a pattern. Young women from out of town. All in the Women’s Auxiliary services, all somehow connected to SOE. Women like Brynn. Like Sarah.
Like herself.
She shifted uncomfortably as she remembered her dream, the beast of crawling black flies.
“You fit the profile, Maggie,” Frain stated, seeming to read her mind. “And you have experience solving—shall we say—unusual cases. You’re also a female SOE agent—you have insider knowledge. Help us figure this out. We need to catch this monster before he kills again.”
“But why do you think the SOE women’s disappearances and Joanna Metcalf’s murder are connected? Women can go off—elope, decide to work in a factory instead of the WAAF, go to Scotland to be Land Girls….”
Frain nodded. “That’s the piece we need to figure out.”
There was a rap at the door. “Excuse me, Mr. Frain,” the secretary said, ducking her head in, “but Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin from Scotland Yard’s on the line. They’ve found another body. In Regent’s Park. And, yes, he’s keeping the press away—so far, at least.”
The three exchanged grim looks.
Maggie was first to stand, smoothing down her skirt. “Well, what are we waiting for, gentlemen? Let’s go and catch ourselves a Blackout Beast.”
—
The black metal gates of Regent’s Park had been removed and melted down for munitions, but John Nash’s graceful rolling greens and bench-lined gravel paths remained. Still, it felt all too open and exposed, the thick grass covered in frost and speckled with dead leaves. While slanting sunlight pierced through the thick clouds, birds—sparrows, crows, ravens—chirped warnings of squalls to come, and pairs of black and white swans glided across the lake. The day was wintry and raw, and the air smelled of ozone and approaching storms. A bitterly cold east wind whispered its way through bare tree branches, making them shiver.
There were people walking the gravel paths: a few Polish soldiers on leave, a thickly mustached businessman in a black bowler hat, and women—everywhere women. Women in ATS uniforms, WAAF uniforms, FANY uniforms. Women in the uniforms of bus conductors, crossing guards, and shop assistants. Women in trousers on their way to their shifts at factory jobs, their hair pulled back in head scarves, swinging tin lunch pails as they walked. Women clutching their handbags, gas masks, and hats against the wind.