“You’re not going to find it in books, Miss Tiger.”
Maggie was undeterred. “But you see, our killer is using the same Ripper story we have here. But maybe there are more victims? There are the canonical Ripper murders, but what about the noncanonical victims—Martha Tabram, Annie Millwood, and Ada Wilson? We can look up those women, then check the morgues to see if any murder victims match the descriptions. And we’ll need to check the hospitals, too—it’s always possible our Ripper went after women inspired by the noncanonical murders. Maybe one or more of the present-day women survived.”
Durgin jiggled his knee. “But there’s a reason those particular murders are considered noncanonical—because Jack the Ripper didn’t commit them.”
“What you, or I, or the author of this book, or Jack the Ripper himself thinks—the only thing that matters is whether our Blackout Beast thinks Jack did them or not. And if the Beast does think Jack committed the noncanonical murders, and if he began this rampage with victims who match the noncanonical victims, as a sort of practice run, it would give us more data to work with.”
“Martha Tabram may have been the Ripper’s first victim. But she’s not considered part of the canon because her throat wasn’t cut. The murder of Martha Tabram doesn’t fit the pattern,” Mark told them.
“Patterns change,” Maggie mused. “Evolve. Just as in nature. It’s practically Darwinian. There would be practice victims, honing the craft, a development of technique. The murders our monster’s taking credit for, they are what he considers his statement. But what if he had a few dress rehearsals? Or even more than a few?”
She picked up one of the dusty books on Mark’s desk and paged through it. “Martha Tabram’s throat wasn’t cut, but she was stabbed thirty-nine times in her abdomen and neck. It’s the kind of injury that would be relatively easy to track down.”
Durgin exhaled. “All right, I’ll see what I can do—call the Yard, check the hospitals and morgues.” He looked up at the clock. “See if anyone has injuries matching those descriptions.”
Mark sniffed. “Use the telephone in the office next door if you’d like.”
As Durgin left, Maggie said, “I’ll need a map of the area. I want to plot the points where the victims’ bodies were left.”
Mark rifled through his drawer and came up with a folded London map. “Perfect.” Maggie pinned it to the corkboard, then pulled out two bright red tacks. “Joanna’s body was left here,” she said, piercing the map with one at Regent Park’s Outer Circle, near the entrance to the Queen Mary Garden. “And Doreen’s body here,” she added, “at the intersection of Harley and New Cavendish streets.”
“What does that tell us?”
“Well,” Maggie admitted, “not much. Yet. But mathematics is the science of patterns. Plot the data and we just may learn something. Do you have another map? I’d like to keep one in my handbag as well.”
As Mark handed her another, smaller map, she rolled her eyes heavenward. “His gut, can you believe it?” she murmured, tucking the map away in her purse. “As if his innards could speak. As if we were studying haruspicy, and could figure everything from the position of the liver. And people think women are erratic and emotional….Mark?”
“What? Er, sorry.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” It was late and Maggie suddenly realized she was exhausted. “I’ve never dealt with a serial killer before, of course—unless you count the Nazis, that is. There’s a definite parallel with our Jack and the Nazis’ need for domination, fear, and control by intimidation and violence—as well as issues with women. But what I do know is we need more data.”
“Serial killer—”
Durgin called from the office next door: “?‘Sequential murderer’ is what we call it at Scotland Yard!”
“These are killings in a series,” Maggie called back. “Therefore, he is a ‘serial killer’!”
Durgin’s voice rang out. “Sequential! Murderer!”
“Is that what your gut said to call them? ‘Sequential murderer’—fine,” she muttered at Mark, who grimaced in reply.
Putting the map of London in her handbag reminded Maggie of the envelope Peter Frain had given her. She pulled it out. It was plain brown, and simply addressed. Inside was yet another envelope, this one ivory-colored, sealed with crimson wax. Maggie flipped it over, noting the embossed golden lion-and-unicorn insignia. “Do you have a letter opener?”
Mark handed her one that looked like an ancient dagger, and she slit open the envelope and pulled out the heavy cream card inside. It was engraved:
Her Majesty Queen Elizabeth
Requests the pleasure of the company of
Margaret Hope
At an Afternoon Tea Party for Women in the Services
On Monday, 30 of March 1942 from 15h30 to 17h30
Buckingham Palace
London
Dress: uniform / day dress
This Invitation Will Be Requested Upon Arrival
Tomorrow, Maggie realized. Of course, it’s taken a while to get the invitation….
Durgin returned with a notepad, pencil behind one ear. “What’s that?” he asked, taking in the fancy card.
Maggie smiled, dropping it back in her handbag. “Tea with the Queen, if you please.”
“Oh, of course, Miss Tiger—or should it be Lady Tiger now? There’s a Scottish tiger cat, you know—looks like a fluffy housecat, that is, until you get too close—then the claws come out.” He blinked grayish eyes. “If you don’t want to tell me, just say so. Besides, I have news—at the London Clinic, we have a female victim named Gladys Chorley, age twenty-two, with a massive lump on her head and thirty-nine—yes, exactly thirty-nine—stab wounds.”
Maggie inhaled sharply. “We need to talk to her!”
“Now, hold on a tick, Lady Tiger—she’s in a coma.”
“We can talk to her doctor—”
“And he’ll be in tomorrow morning at eight. We can all meet up at the hospital, in the lobby, at quarter to.” Durgin was already on his way out the door.
He stopped and turned back, face serious. “By the way, I asked after your friend,” he said to Maggie. “Bronwyn Parry.”
Maggie’s heart beat faster. “Yes?”
“No one with her name or fitting her description in any of the hospitals or morgues.”
Maggie felt relief mixed with even sharper fear. “So, she might still be out there. He could have her—”
“Look, maybe she got cold feet is all,” Durgin interrupted. “Maybe she missed her mum and went back home, or ran off with a particularly handsome Yank to Palm Beach, Florida.” He shrugged and began to walk down the hall.
“Maybe.” Maggie considered the tall figure walking away from her. “And what does your oracle-speaking gut tell you about her?” she called.
Durgin didn’t turn around. “That she’s still alive and she’s out there. And that we’d damn well better find her.”
—
The first night Brynn spent conscious in her underground cell, she lived through a wild, panicked fear. As she lay awake in the flickering candlelight, she tried to distract herself by studying the strangeness of her surroundings. Her bed was hard, and each time she turned over, she realized she could hear scratches and rustles through the walls, the occasional squeak.
Brynn had grown up with three older brothers, who teased her mercilessly, and she’d always refused to cry back then. Now she dropped her head on her arms and struggled not to burst into tears. Crying was useless. Her throat constricted, as it always did at such moments, before she told herself sternly, Be strong. She started counting in her head, as she’d been taught at Beaulieu, to slow her breathing and heart rate. She needed a chance to think clearly. She was absolutely certain her life depended on it.