rarely have those ironclad ones we mentioned, before.”
“You mean, it’s difficult to determine whether Larry Sullivan sneaked out of the Savoy and back in again? Too many exits?”
“Yes, and not enough doormen—only at the front and back. There are numerous side and rear ways out of the hotel. Most of the doors lock automatically, but one could arrange easily enough for a door not to shut entirely or place adhesive over a lock.”
She nodded to herself. “And Bertie and Irene’s, with their quiet evening at home, is also rather worthless, isn’t it?”
“Yes. One could be covering for the other. And your friend Stephen Glanville says he was home, alone, at his flat, which is where Janet Cummins spent the evening, as well.”
She knew the detective meant Janet had spent the evening in her own flat, and did not correct him.
“Men of mine,” he was saying, “attempted to find witnesses who might have seen Mr. Glanville or Mrs. Cummins exit their buildings, but without success.”
“And what about Mr. Cummins? Janet’s handsome cadet? Aren’t military men often the clients of these ‘good-time girls’?”
The inspector grunted. “He’s in the clear, too. I spoke to him at his quarters last night—he was on fire duty, as you may recall. He seems an intelligent, well-spoken lad.”
“He wasn’t acquainted with the late Mrs. Oatley, or should I say Miss Ward?”
“No. Cadet Cummins says he saw her only that once, on stage, trying out for the understudy part.”
“And what exactly puts him ‘in the clear’?”
“Our RAF cadet was in billets at the time of the two recent murders. The billet passbook confirms the times he came and went, and his roommates verified seeing him go to bed and get up in the morning.”
“I must say I’m relieved.”
“And why is that?”
“Well, I like the young man. He has excellent taste, you know.”
“Really? How do you know that, Agatha?”
“He’s a fan of my books.”
Inspector Greeno actually laughed; she had a feeling it might have been his first laugh of the day.
He said, “Frankly, Agatha, I don’t find it likely that one of your theatrical crowd is our Ripper… whether Jack or Jill. I find it marginally possible that one of them might have had reason to kill Miss Ward, or should I say Mrs. Oatley… but the other two murders? No.”
“And you find my notion of a murderer hiding his work amid another murderer’s tally… melodramatic. More suited to Hercule Poirot’s world than Ted Greeno’s.”
“I do,” he admitted. “Nonetheless, the Yard is… as I said… mobilizing all its top resources. And you are a top resource in my book, Mrs. Agatha Mallowan.”
“How can I be of help?”
“Stay with us, on the scent.”
“You think there will be more murders, then?”
“I’m surprised this morning’s phone hasn’t rung. I’m wondering if some poor girl is dead on her divan, right now… as yet undiscovered by a meter man or landlord.”
“Why are you so certain, Ted?”
“Two murders in two days… with the savagery of them mounting. This is a beast, Agatha. A beast on a killing spree. If you should want to bow out of it, I would not blame you. I would understand.”
“Oh, I do want to bow out of it.”
Surprise and disappointment colored the inspector’s voice. “You do?”
“I do… but I won’t.”
And they rang off; and both went off to work, on their respective murder cases.
FEBRUARY 12, 1942
HER MOTHER WAS EXPECTING HER.
That was what confused Mary Jane Lowe, who had taken the tube from Charing Cross station to meet her mother, Margaret, at the second-floor flat on Gosfield Street, a narrow side street just off Tottenham Court Road. Mary Jane was fourteen, a tall, dark, brown-eyed brunette with a blossoming figure the boys were noticing; right now she was boyishly dressed herself—navy blue coveralls and a matching corduroy jacket—partly because that was the style, but also due to the chill, snowy weather.
Mary Jane did not wear makeup—her mother didn’t approve—but her features were so pretty, her brown eyes so big and long-lashed, her smile so wide and white, her lips so full, she didn’t really need to. She was proud of her good looks, which she’d inherited from her mum, who had just enough Spanish blood in her to make both mother and daughter seem vaguely exotic.
Someday, perhaps, she would be as beautiful as her mother.
Before the war, Mary Jane’s mum had kept a boardinghouse in the coastal town of Southend, and the girl had fond, vivid memories of sunny blue-sky mornings and running along the sand with their Scottie terrier.