David can be quite candid when he has had a few drinks. “Never you mind.”
Maggie and Mark had returned to MI-5 and gone up to Mark’s office, eating pickled beet and margarine sandwiches, and sipping tea Frain’s secretary had provided for them. A large clock ticked the seconds loudly.
Mark was pinning up what information and photographs he had on the corkboard along one wall. “Well, regardless of what you may or may not know about homosexuals, you realize Fishman wouldn’t have been as forthcoming with a lady in the room, yes?”
Maggie arched an eyebrow. “I doubt it was Fishman’s sensibilities we were sparing.”
“Well, then next time, show a little leg.”
“What?”
“A little more leg and unbutton a few more blouse buttons. That should do the trick.” Then, “Joking! I’m just joking!”
“Mark! Really now.” Maggie wanted nothing more than to change the subject. “How’s your family? Your wife? Let’s see, your daughter must be—what—two now? Two and a half? And didn’t you say up in Edinburgh last fall there’s another baby on the way?”
Mark didn’t turn from the corkboard. “Frain didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
“Bastard.” When he spun on his heel to face her, Maggie could see the bleakness in his eyes. “They’re dead. My wife and my daughter and my unborn child are all dead. They were killed in one of the bombing raids—while you and I were off chasing murderers in Scotland. They didn’t tell me until I’d wrapped the case because, well, there was nothing to be done. They didn’t want me—distracted.”
“Mark!” Maggie was speechless from shock. Then, “Oh, Mark. I’m—I’m sorry. So very, very sorry for your loss.”
In the corridor, someone paced by with a heavy tread.
“Do you—do you have a place to live?” she ventured. “You can always stay with me, if you need to. The place is big enough, and of course you’re welcome….”
“I’m staying in Hugh’s flat while he’s…away.”
Maggie felt terrible. She’d never met Mark’s wife and daughter, but she’d seen pictures and heard him speak proudly of the baby on the way. And now, dead. Those lives, that life—snuffed out. She stepped toward him.
He turned away. “I thank you for your offer,” Mark managed in a strained voice. “But quite frankly, this subject is the last thing I want to talk about. In fact”—his eyes once again met hers, and she flinched at the shadows she saw in them—“while we’re working together on this case, I’d prefer if you didn’t mention it again.”
There was a sharp rap at the door, then Durgin let himself in. “Hope I’m not interrupting anything,” he said with his mad grin, shrugging off his coat and tossing it down. “Oh, tea!” he crowed, rubbing his hands together. “Is it still hot? Goody, goody, goody—let’s get started then.”
He flung himself down next to Maggie and crossed his legs, revealing brilliantly colored argyle socks. “Fancy digs,” he allowed, taking in Mark’s office while bouncing one knee. “Well, I have good news and bad news. While my men were able to pick up Mr. Fishman’s, er, ‘dance partner’—the posh fella in question swears he didn’t see anything related to the disposal of a corpse, either. I didn’t book either of them—we have their names and addresses, in case we need to question them again.”
Maggie pushed away her sandwich; after Mark’s revelation, she found it impossible to eat. She focused her attention back on the case. “In other words, a dead end.”
“Lots of dead ends in this job, Miss Tiger. You may not know it from your cushy offices here, but at the Yard, we’ve been dealing with disappearing women for quite a while. There are women all over London who’ve gone missing in the chaos of the Blitz. Do you know how many letters from parents we’ve received, how many visits from private detectives we’ve had over the past year and a half? In case you’re wondering why I’ve been assigned to this case, it’s because at one point, half of London’s detective force was investigating the disappearances of women. So the Chief formed a separate bureau, Mysterious Disappearances Department.” He made a toast with his teacup. “And I’m the head.”
Maggie was frowning. “So, many women have disappeared, but only two bodies have been found? Why the change now? Why the tribute to Jack the Ripper? Maybe he’s keeping them. The girls, that is.” The thought made Maggie’s skin crawl. “You know, until he’s ready. They could still be alive.”
Durgin tapped his chin with one finger. “It’s possible, of course. Anything’s possible.”
Two women had died in terrible, brutal circumstances. Maggie peered at Mark’s and Durgin’s faces. And yet, they seemed unconcerned. Didn’t these men care? It wasn’t just a case to be solved, the intellectual puzzle of a Ripper copycat. A knife and a madman had reduced at least two girls to standins for other murdered women, separated by half a century. Was she the only person to remember these women had been living, breathing, vibrant women? Her stomach lurched as she realized she’d never heard back from Brynn. Where was she now? Was she all right?
“I have a friend,” she said to Durgin, swallowing down dread. “Bronwyn Parry. She’s from Wales, twenty-two, new to London, in town for a few formalities before taking on official duties. She was planning on staying at a women’s hotel in the Baker Street area last night. And she didn’t show up for her interview this morning at one of the SOE offices.”
Durgin’s face creased into a frown. “She fits the criteria.”
“You don’t think…”
Durgin took a slurp of tea. “I can check for you.”
“Thank you,” she managed. “Now back to our victims. The dates…” She gestured to the board of photos.
“The Blackout Beast’s dates don’t match the original’s dates,” Mark stated. “Nor do they match the amount of time in between killings.”
“This is what you two boffins have been working on while I was out? A time line?”
“Yes, we’re working on a time line,” Maggie explained, “comparing the so-called Blackout Beast’s murders with the original Jack the Ripper killings.” She pulled out index cards with names she’d written in thick blue ink and went to the corkboard.
1942. She pinned up the names Joanna Metcalf and Doreen Leighton.
And then, directly below and in parallel, 1888. Mary Ann Nichols and Annie Chapman.
Then, in a neat row, the rest of the Ripper’s victims: Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes, and Mary Jane Kelly. She then ran a line of brown string between the Blackout Beast’s victims, and red connecting the original Jack the Ripper’s murders. So far, Joanna Metcalf lined up with Mary Ann Nichols and Doreen Leighton lined up with Annie Chapman.
The rest of the line was ominously blank. Three to go. Brynn…
She turned to the chalkboard and wrote: SIMILARITIES AND DISSIMILARITIES OF VICTIMS, then made two columns.
“Both Jack the Ripper’s and the Beast’s victims are female,” Mark said.
Durgin grimaced. “Thanks for the obvious.”
“And the Ripper’s victims were murdered over a period of twelve weeks,” Maggie said. “The Beast’s murders are much closer together.”
“Usually there’s what we call a ‘cooling-off’ period between murders.” Durgin scowled at the chalkboard. “But if he wants the attention of the press…or his urge for killing is that strong…Usually these sorts of murderers stick to a longer pattern. If he’s killing at short intervals, there might be something going on in his life, something new.”
Maggie wrote, New precipitating stressor?
“And, the Ripper’s victims were murdered outdoors, while ours were murdered inside, then moved,” Mark offered.
Maggie wrote it all down on the board, chalk squeaking. “And don’t forget the smell of gas on the victims’ clothes.”
Mark scratched his head. “Jack the Ripper’s victims were prostitutes, while the Beast’s are not.”
“Not prostitutes, but professionals,” Maggie clarified. “Independent women—with jobs outside the home. ATS, both of them.”
Durgin groaned. “God help us all.”