“I stopped, too. Bad for the lungs, I believe.”
“Absolutely right—and I’ve seen enough autopsies on smokers’ lungs to know.”
There was a low wooden bench outside a chemist’s shop, protected by a striped awning. Durgin stopped and took a seat. “Do you mind?” he asked, looking up at Maggie.
“Thank you,” she said, realizing why he’d brought her out. “The fresh air is helping.”
“Well, it’s not every day you get home delivery from the so-called Blackout Beast. Along with a manifesto of hatred.”
They sat, watching the snow spiral down, the white flakes melting on the black, wet street, the sky overhead a milky gray. Their arms brushed and both stiffened and drew apart.
“How did you meet Frain?” he asked. “What’s your connection with MI-Five?”
“Frain?” Maggie was desperately glad to talk about anything but the package. “Peter Frain and I worked together on a case when the war had just started and I was working as Mr. Churchill’s secretary. He found I was good at codes and things, and then he recruited me. Even though I’m technically with the ATS and employed by the SOE, I do the odd job for MI-Five, too.” She gave a harsh laugh. “Which, I suppose, is what makes me one of those ‘professional women’ our Beast hates so much.”
“We’re up to his penultimate victim now. If he follows the pace he’s set, it won’t be long.”
“I know.” Maggie knew all too well what victim they were up to—Catherine Eddowes, victim number four. If they didn’t catch the Blackout Beast, he’d not only kill doppelg?ngers of Catherine Eddowes and then Mary Jane Kelly but, just as Jack the Ripper had, never be caught, never pay for his crimes. Like the original Jack, he’d vanish, leaving London in confusion and terror.
“Come, let’s get you that cup of tea.”
“I’d rather have a medicinal brandy, if you please.”
“Not sure if there’s any left in the city, but we can try.”
They walked to the nearest pub, the Golden Dragon, where Maggie sat and Durgin ordered for them at the bar. He returned with a mug of tea and a small glass filled with amber liquid. “They didn’t have any brandy—this is fairly ancient sherry, but I didn’t think you’d mind.”
Maggie sipped the sweet liquid gratefully. It stung her lips and felt hot going down her throat. As she sipped, Durgin watched her face with concern.
Maggie finished her sherry without speaking, then put down her glass. There was nothing to say. She had been sent half a kidney by a sequential murderer, as a warning. It was all so horrific, so shocking, that silence seemed the only sane option.
And so they sat, until Durgin’s tea turned cold. “Do you want me to take you home?” he asked finally.
Her head snapped up. “Certainly not!” Then, “I’m not going to be frightened off.”
“Maggie, this is no time for false bravado. Whoever our Beast is, he’s telling us he knows a lot about you—he knows your name and where you live.”
“Do you really think my going home will keep me safer than working at MI-Five? My home is where he delivered the package, after all!”
“I’ve assigned plainclothes officers to keep a twenty-four-hour watch on your house,” Durgin countered.
“I’m staying,” Maggie said. The set of her jaw made it clear there would be no argument. “Brynn is…well, I hope she’s still out there. And I’m not going to rest until we find her.”
“Well, then—are you ready to question Max Thornton? I think we’ve let him sulk behind bars long enough.”
Maggie stood, still shaky. But she squared her shoulders and lifted her chin. “Why, James Durgin—what a delightful way to spend the evening.”
—
“My name is Hubert Taillier,” Hugh was saying once again in French, scowling down at his snarled tie. “We met in Monte Carlo, at the ballet. I was playing cello in the orchestra and you were performing your first Les Sylphides.”
Sarah peered over his shoulder in the bathroom mirror and dabbed on the last of a well-worn pink lipstick, then she turned and expertly tied his tie. “We married in the south of France, C?te d’Azur, after a whirlwind courtship.”
“At the church of Saint Jean-Baptiste, in a small ceremony. I wore a blue suit—”
“—and carried pink silk roses—”
“—that I’d sprayed with perfume!”
“And made me sneeze all through the ceremony!”
Sarah and Hugh had been practicing their background as diligently as they’d been studying spycraft, ballet, and cello at the SOE’s Finishing School at Beaulieu.
“You look beautiful, darling,” Hugh said to her, unable to tear his gaze away from Sarah in her plum-colored silk dress.
“And you look handsome as well,” she replied, her eyes locked on his.
“Shall we go?” He offered his arm. “One last dance before the madness begins in earnest?”
Together, they walked in the twilight, their hands brushing, then their fingers entwining.
“I just learned a great French expression,” Sarah told him. “Mi chien mi loup, which means dusk, but literally translates to ‘between dog and wolf.’?” She squeezed his hand. “Shall we continue our stories again?”
Hugh began. “Of course we have no children—”
“Because of my career.”
This time, Hugh squeezed her hand. “No children yet, anyway.”
“Oooh, I do think we finally found something to argue about, darling.”
As they walked closer to the imposing gray-stone Abbey, they could hear the band playing jazz. “After you,” Hugh said, opening the heavy wooden door for Sarah, who glowed.
Hugh and Sarah had rehearsed in the Domus of Beaulieu’s Abbey, and it had always been empty, an almost mystical place. Now the ancient lay brothers’ dormitory was full of men and women jitterbugging to Tubby Jackson and the Jackson Band, as a banner hung over the stage pronounced. Several of the musicians playing were colored, and Sarah was surprised to see one of the trombone players was a colored woman, somewhere in her twenties, wearing a shimmering evening gown and pearls.
Against one ancient stone wall was a table with several punch bowls and tiny cups, and plates piled high with sandwiches. The air was hot from the press of bodies and smelled of perfume, brilliantine, and cigarette smoke. Sarah heard a young man next to her say, “Look at the blackbird up there—she’s not too bad, really.”
“Especially not with her lips around that horn,” his friend replied. “Oh, the things I can picture her doing….”
A third behind them added: “Why is it, outside of a few sepia females, there are aren’t women musicians capable of ‘sending’ anyone—at least sending them farther than the nearest exit?”
The first sniffed. “Only God can make a tree, and only men can play jazz, what ho?”
But before Sarah could say anything, she and Hugh were swept up into the crowd of their fellow agents-in-training, Lindy-hopping to one of their favorites, “Eight to the Bar.” When it was over, everyone in the high-ceilinged room was struggling for breath. They laughed and clapped, kissing cheeks.
“Miss Lynd!” Sarah called, waving to a blonde in a corner. “Bonne soir!”
“Madame,” Miss Lynd answered as they walked over, hand in hand. “Monsieur.” She gave a rare smile as she ladled out punch. “I hope you’re having fun,” she said in French, pressing glasses into their hands. “Cheers!”
“Miss Lynd—” Hugh put down his glass and offered his hand. “Would you like to dance?”
But as the band segued into the slow and dreamy “I’ll Be Seeing You,” and the lights dimmed, Miss Lynd gave a cryptic smile. “Actually, Monsieur Taillier,” she suggested, “why don’t you dance with your wife?”
Hugh offered Sarah his arm, and she took it. He led her to the middle of the dance floor. Onstage, a woman with glowing ebony skin in a fuchsia satin dress and rhinestone earrings that shone and sparkled under the stage lights took a deep breath and began to sing in a resonant alto.