THE QUEEN'S ACCOMPLICE takes Maggie Hope into dark territory

JUNGLE REDS: Today we’re celebrating Susan Elia MacNeal’s new (#6!) Maggie Hope novel, THE QUEEN’S ACCOMPLICE. The minute it came out it hit USA Today's and Publisher's Weekly's best-seller lists—and is now a Goodreads semifinalist in the mystery/thriller catagory, up against heavy-sitters like Stephen King and David Baldacci. (And it's the last day to vote, which you can do here!) Hurray!

Maggie Hope is everyone’s favorite whip-smart secretary who defies expectations to become England’s most daring spy. It’s historical mystery at its best.. RT Book Reviews has called the series “as addictive as a BBC miniseries, with the added attraction of a well-paced thriller.” Oprah calls the series “compulsively readable.”

In THE QUEEN'S ACCOMPLICE, Maggie returns to war-weary London in 1942. The Nazis’ relentless Blitz may have paused, but London’s nightly blackouts continue. There she is thrust into the dangerous hunt for a monster. Under the cover of darkness, a madman is brutally killing and mutilating young women in eerie and exact re-creations of Jack the Ripper’s crimes. What’s more, he’s targeting women who are reporting for duty to be Winston Churchill’s spies and saboteurs abroad.

The officers at MI-5 quickly realize they need the help of special agent Maggie Hope to find the killer dubbed “the Blackout Beast.” A trap is set. But once the murderer has his sights on Maggie, not even Buckingham Palace can protect the resourceful spy from her fate.

Here’s a snippet from the opening, the moment that really kicks the story into gear:

Mark leaned on the edge of his desk and cleared his throat. “The particular young woman in question, SOE Agent 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 recreation, 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, swiftly piecing everything together, “there are missing SOE women. This particular murder scene had a message allegedly written by someone calling himself Jack, perhaps referring to the Ripper. 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.

You'll have to read the book to find out whether Maggie catches the new Jack the Ripper.


From Crimespree: "Elia MacNeal's meticulous research shines through on every page, and pays off with a war-time atmosphere that feels real.... But perhaps most strikingly, THE QUEEN’S ACCOMPLICE deals unflinchingly with issues of rape and objectification of women, and a toxic masculinity that is dangerous to the “modern” women of 1940’s England—issues that are still incredibly relevant today. Maggie’s experiences fending off unwanted advances and the twisted psychopathology behind the killer’s exploits rang frighteningly true, and ‘watching’ Maggie break the nose of an attempted rapist gave me no small amount of satisfaction. (I mean, damn did that feel good.)"

And  BREAKING NEWS: 

THE QUEEN'S ACCOMPLICE is also a semi-finalist for Goodreads' best mystery/thriller. The link for folks to go and vote is here. Please vote!

Susan is leaving Jungle Red Writers to concentrate on writing and family (being a working mom is hard!), but she assures us she’s finishing THE PARIS SPY (Maggie Hope #7) for publication in summer of '17,  and she's under contract for #8 and #9 in the Maggie Hope series. We wish her the best and endless happiness. You can follow her news and updates on Twitter at @susanmacneal here and on Facebook st Susan Elia MacNeal, Author here. She'd love to keep in touch!

We can't wait to have her back for guest visits—so we can all share and applaud her successes. 

Jungle Red Roll Call--Count Off Now!

Hank (taking photo) Rhys and Debs at Bouchercon!

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN: So. Bouchercon. All kinds of fun and friendship PILES of books. But the thing that touched me the most was how many people said to me--"Oh! I love Jungle Red. And read it very day."  Great, great, great, I'd say. But then the person would continue:  "But I never comment."

"Oh!" I said. "Please say hello! It makes such a difference to all of us that we know you are there". And it truly does.

A better shot--with Andrew Grant and Molly Weston

So today is Jungle Red roll call. Lurkers and listeners, no problem. Lurking and listening is a good thing. But today, just today, tell us who you are and where you are--and what you're reading. Or are about to read. Or just finished and love. Or what you're working on.

I'm Hank Phillippi Ryan. It's really Harriet, okay? And I like it. (Now, at least.) I live in Boston, and am the investigative reporter for Boston's NBC affiliate. I've been a reporter for 40 years now! I'm in the midst of writing my 10th thriller, an untitled (as yet, and I'm sure you'll hear more about this) standalone, and am 74,000 words in. About 50,000 of those words are great. Plus, I've gotta hurry since it's due January 1. La dee dah.

 My newest thriller SAY NO MORE comes out November 1-- to amazing reviews!  (Ah. No pressure, it's just my career. And see below to win an ARC!)

I am in LOVE with the book I'm reading, called THE LAST DAYS OF NIGHT by Graham Moore--a historical thriller about the rivalry between Thomas Edison (my hero but I fear he's going to be the bad guy) and George Westinghouse. It is terrific.

I'm also about to start FORGOTTEN CITY by the brilliant Carrie White. She is amazing and her writing is,too.  (I found her via Robin Agnew of Aunt Agatha's.) 

And for inspiration, the brilliant REACHER SAID NOTHING, the hilarious and thoughtful Andy Martin's Boswellian chronicle of Lee Child. Highly recommended. 

 How about you? Lurkers, please! Chime in, if only just this once! 

DEBORAH CROMBIE: I'm Deborah Crombie (Deb or Debs to my friends, but NOT Debbie!) and I live in north Texas but I write British crime novels featuring Metropolitan Police detectives Duncan Kincaid and Gemma James. The 17th series novel, GARDEN OF LAMENTATIONS, is out February 17th (that's a nice coincidence) and I can't wait! In the meantime, I'm starting #18.

And I'm reading one of my Bouchercon giveaways, THE COLD, COLD GROUND, by Adrian McKinty, which is fabulous. McKinty has been on my to-read list for a good while, in part because Gerard Doyle, who reads my audio books, also reads McKinty and highly recommended him. Now I can see why. And I'm dying to read Andy Martin's REACHER SAID NOTHING. I heard so many good things about it at Bouchercon.

HALLIE EPHRON: I'm Hallie (not short for anything) Ephron and I live in suburb south of Boston and I write creepy suspense novels, standalones. I've set them in my hometown (NEVER TELL A LIE; COME AND FIND ME), in the Bronx (THERE WAS AN OLD WOMAN), and in Beverly Hills where I grew up (NIGHT NIGHT, SLEEP TIGHT.) I'm waiting for my new novel (working title: YOU'LL NEVER KNOW, DEAR), which is set in South Carolina, to come back with copyedits. And I have only the slimmest glimmer of what I'm going to write next an panicking because I need to get it started. 

I teach writing at writing conferences, and right now I'm putting together materials for workshops I'll be giving at Surrey International Writers Conference (Vancouver, BC), a one-day for Mad Anthony Writers in Hamilton, Ohio, and the New England Crime Bake which is practically in my backyard.

I just finished reading Thomas Harris' Silence of the Lambs, which somehow I missed it. Brilliant brilliant plotting, writing that's nearly invisible and you get lost in it immediately, and Juliet Blackwell's LETTERS FROM PARIS which is a delicious romance wrapped in a historical mystery. And my TBR pile is tall and topped right now with Susan's THE QUEEN'S ACCOMPLICE.

SUSAN ELIA MACNEAL: Aw, thanks, Hallie! I'm usually just Susan, Susan MacNeal, or "Mom! MOM! MOOOOOOOOM!" I write the Maggie Hope series of New York Times-bestselling mysteries, set during World War II, which began with MR. CHURCHILL'S SECRETARY. The sixth book in the series, THE QUEEN'S ACCOMPLICE, is coming out October 4 and I'm hard at work on the next, THE PARIS SPY, which will be published in hardcover. I live with my husband and eleven-year-old son in Park Slope, Brooklyn. Right now I'm in serious deadline mode, but when the new book's in, I'm keen on reading the new Flavia De Luce, THRICE THE

BRINDED CAT HATH MEW'D by Alan Bradley, as well as the new Sherlock Holmes-inspired short story collection, ECHOES OF SHERLOCK HOLMES, edited by Laurie R. King and Leslie S. Klinger (and featuring three of the Reds!).  

LUCY BURDETTE: I'm Lucy, aka Roberta Isleib, who was responsible for both the golf lovers and the advice column mystery series. For the last few years, I’ve been writing the Key West food critic mystery series as Lucy Burdette. The seventh book in that series featuring food critic Hayley Snow came out in April (KILLER TAKEOUT.) This series is set in Key West, Florida, a place I love dearly and live in for more than half the year. I always say if you can’t find characters and plot ideas in Key West, you’re not looking very hard.

I'm working on something new, but way too superstitious to tell you about it. Please all keep your fingers and toes crossed that it sells soon? And I'm reading Rhys Bowen's latest Georgie book, CROWNED AND DANGEROUS. It's funny and clever and falls for me in the category of "comfort reading," because I know the characters and it feels like visiting old friends. I also read LETTERS FROM PARIS, Hallie--great fun for francophiles! And just finished a book of essays about psychotherapy, that you'll hear more about week after next.

JULIA SPENCER-FLEMING: My name is Julia Spencer-Fleming, which is actually my maiden name and believe it or not, my husband also has a hyphenated last name. I live in the countryside near Portland, Maine, in a 200-year-old house that always needs work. I have three kids: The Smithie, looking for that career-starting job after getting her MLIS degree; The Sailor (formerly The Boy) at A School in Naval Station Great Lakes, and Youngest, a junior in high school. I also have one dog, two cats, and I occasionally find time to work on writing the 9th book in my Clare Fergusson/Russ Van Alstyne mystery series.

I recently read THE SUMMER BEFORE THE WAR by Helen Simonson, who authored the amazing MAJOR PETTIGREW'S LAST STAND. The new novel isn't as absorbing as PETTIGREW, and becomes much darker than I expected from the blurb, but it was full of perfectly realized, engaging characters, and I can recommend it to you all.

The next book up I haven't started yet: Curtis Sittenfeld's AMERICAN WIFE. I didn't read it when it came out because it didn't sound like my thing - a roman-a-clef about Laura Bush? - but I so enjoyed ELIGIBLE, I thought I'd give the earlier novel a try.

RHYS BOWEN:  My name is Rhys Bowen, which as some of you know is my grandfather’s name, taken as a pen name when I started writing mysteries (and I really prefer it to my given name!) I am a transplanted Brit who divides her time between California and Arizona. I currently write two historical mystery series: The Molly Murphy novels, set in New York City at the turn of the Twentieth Century and the lighter Royal Spyness books. But I have been working on something quite different so please look out for a big book announcement in the upcoming weeks. Very exciting and game changing for me!
As for reading: I read The Secrets of Wishtide by Kate Saunders on the plane coming home from Bouchercon. Victorian melodrama and I loved it. Next up, if I get time between juggling book deadlines, is Louise Penny’s latest The Great Deliverance.

HANK:  And we at Jungle Red send our most heartfelt condolences to Louise Penny on the death of her beloved (to all!) husband Michael. He was a joy.

And after today--my already towering TBR pile is about to go to critical mass. Julia, I LOVED Eligible! So glad someone else did. 

But Red and Readers--time for you to join the roll call! Regulars and lurkers, tell us about yourself and where you are and what you're reading and writing!  And one lucky commenter wins an advance copy of SAY NO MORE!


And coming up this week! Tomorrow, a famous new YA author looks back at some classics--with surprising results! (Truly, you won't believe it.) And later in the week--Gigi Pandian's best birthday gift EVER (we hope you get one, too); then a brilliant publicist gives the keys to success.  (Whoa.)  And more!

Olympic Dreams

RHYS BOWEN: Did you all watch the opening ceremony on Friday? I'm always so amused the way each country tries to outdo the previous games.  I expect I'll be glued to the telly for the next two weeks. Actually I've been getting an overdose of sports viewing ever since Wimbledon. I have been watching, in horrified fascination, American Ninja Warrior, Spartan races, Olympic trials in swimming, gymnastics and track and field. Frankly I'm absolutely exhausted. And as for those athletes--how do they do it?

When I was young I was quite athletic. I played tennis quite well. I represented my college in tennis and table tennis and netball.But our training was at most running around the field once before we started playing. Nothing like these supermen and women these days. Those ninjas who can hang on by their fingertips, those Spartans who drag one another up walls, and tiny Simone Biles who can fly through the air as if weightless. How do they do it?

 And then I realize that they spend their whole life doing it. We had tennis practice probably twice a week. No weight training, no distance training, no therapists or ice baths or anything like that. We got on a bus, drove to another school and after five minutes warm-up we played.

Now I have two granddaughters who are water polo players and swimmers. They have to be at school at 5:45 a.m. for weight training. They work out year round for their sport with land exercises, push ups as well as heaven knows how many yards swum in the pool. So it looks as if we're growing a generation of super heroes, doesn't it.

And I'm feeling very inadequate. I belong to a health club. I go and swim a bit every day. I sometimes work on the weight machines--rather gently. I hike with friends when I can. John and I walk (or rather stroll) every evening. But I watch the Olympics and think I SHOULD BE DOING MORE.

So, dear Reds and readers, do you still work out? How fit are you? Do you wish you could do more? Are we too obsessed with fitness these days?

SUSAN ELIA MACNEAL: I was a figure skater when I was younger (it's cold in Buffalo — everyone skates and/or skis) and had dreams of Olympic glory — until I broke a leg and then an arm in quick succession and discovered musical theater (and boys!) in high school. It's amazing how far the sport of figure skating has come —when I was watching, it was a big deal if a woman could do a double axel and then the first triple. Now triples are the norm for women and quads for guys.

Meanwhile, Noel and Kiddo do Hapkido (a Korean martial art form) and sometimes we go to the gym together as a family. Kiddo is really into riding these days, too. I love to watch him on horseback — so thrilling!

These days I'm at the gym at least three times a week (elliptical, stationary bike, and weights) and take a weekly yoga class I love, too. After a difficult pregnancy, multiple surgeries, illnesses, and several bouts with anemia, it feels good to be in somewhat decent shape again. And I don't ever take it for granted!

HALLIE EPHRON: I don't want to talk about this. Because I am throwing away money every month on a gym membership I don't use. My exercise at this time of year is gardening (clipping bushes and pulling weeds) and walking. Not enough, I know. I promise myself, when I turn in my manuscript... You guys are making me feel like a wimp.

DEBORAH CROMBIE: Hallie, I beat you, ha ha!! I'm a bigger wimp. I was never athletic at all. I did love to swim as a kid, but not in any competitive way. Horrible at sports, etc., etc. I've given up on gym memberships--I just won't do it. I do, however, love to walk, but I'm even slacking on that right now because it's too HOT. By the time I get up and do an hour's worth of watering, I just want to go in and cool off. Maybe next week...

My Fitbit does tell me that I do miles every day just on all my inside and outside chores, so I am at least burning some calories!!!

HANK PHILLIPPI RYAN:  Hey, I took beginning tennis (a one semester course) in college for THREE YEARS because I was so terrible. I had no depth perception AT ALL so any kind of sports was demoralizing and impossible.

 I ran for about a year, then my knees gave out. I took aerobic dancing, and got a stress fracture. I can kind of ice skate--but I had on music headphones and decided, inspired by hearing O Fortuna, that I could do a backwards jump. I could not. End of story.

 I don't like to go to the gym because it is too complicated--go in, change clothes, hang stuff up in a tiny locker, do something that's not fun, shower in a yucky place, have wet hair, get dressed again. I mean--why? We have a treadmill and a Nordic track in our exercise room  (spare bedroom) and I love them.  (I worry about upper body strength, though..)

 But now--I am devoted to my Fitbit, and love it, and swear by the walking exercise.

This is the last extant photo of me doing anything physical. I think I had just nailed the 200 meter butterfly. Or something.

LUCY BURDETTE: I am still annoyed that title nine came long after my time. In high school, very few girls played actual sports. We wanted to be cheerleaders! When I wasn't selected for that, I had a short stint as a highlander dancer for our schools all girl bagpipe band. I exercised on and off through my 20s, with little periods of running and lots of Jane Fonda tapes (remember those?)Then in my 30s, I decided to take tennis lessons with a friend who was also single. I caught the bug and got good enough to play USTA tennis. I also found John at a singles tennis event. Here's a photo of us before we even started dating.

Then I took up golf because he loved it, and and skiing because he and his kids loved it. I did not love it – too cold, too much clunky equipment, too high, too scary, too icy. And I hurt my knee. To this day, John insists that was my best sport!

These days I think it's super important to stay strong as we get older. So I walk (having a dog helps a lot), go to Pilates class, and go to a personal trainer for weight training. With someone else cracking the whip, I am pushed in ways I simply wouldn't do on my own. But I don't want to end up as one of those old ladies who can't get up from the toilet LOL.

RHYS: Okay, confess... who is still super fit and what fun activities can you suggest for the rest of us?

Susan on What We’re Writing and an ARC Giveaway of THE QUEEN’S ACCOMPLICE

SUSAN ELIA MACNEAL: It’s summer, and I’m desperately trying to balance family time and working on THE PARIS SPY (Maggie Hope #7). This basically consists of taking my computer on our family vacations to Hudson, NY and Providence, RI. 

So far I’ve worked — and missed going on a water park adventure, a hike, to a horse show, and a barbecue.

And I've also played hookey from work (don’t tell my editor!) — to go to the horse stables to watch kiddo, have a lunch date at an amazing French place with my husband, and go swimming with all the kids and then take a nap in a hammock.

I think the solution is to be fully present in whatever mode I’m in — family or work— but it’s hard. This summer, especially, I seem to be struggling. Whenever I’m doing one, I’m worrying about what I’m missing on the other side. There’s just always this feeling of not having enough time.

Right now we’re driving from Hudson, NY to Providence and I’m writing this blog post from the backseat of the car, with my computer propped up on my travel bag, while kibitzing on the conversation going on right now: “Why Aren’t Eleven-Year-Olds Allowed to Drive?” (Kiddo is saying that they should; Daddy is providing the counter argument.)

I don’t know that there’s a solution to this work/life dilemma. But I have been lucky enough to have a loyal writing buddy, Zola, on this leg of the vacation. She’s an elderly black lab mix who likes to curl up and sleep near me as type. When her family's around, she loves them. And when they're gone, she naps (her "work"). I love her. “Be like Zola” is perhaps the wisest thing I’ve come up with so far. It's my new mantra.

Hey, we’re getting closer to the October 4 release of THE QUEEN'S ACCOMPLICE! Here’s the description from Penguin Random House:

Spy and code-breaker extraordinaire Maggie Hope returns to war-weary London, where she is thrust into the dangerous hunt for a monster, as the New York Times bestselling mystery series for fans of Jacqueline Winspear, Charles Todd, and Anne Perry continues.

England, 1942. The Nazis’ relentless Blitz may have paused, but  London’s nightly blackouts continue. Now, under the cover of darkness, a madman is brutally killing and mutilating young women in eerie and exact re-creations of Jack the Ripper’s crimes. What’s more, he’s targeting women who are reporting for duty to be Winston Churchill’s spies and saboteurs abroad. The officers at MI-5 quickly realize they need the help of special agent Maggie Hope to find the killer dubbed “the Blackout Beast.” A trap is set. But once the murderer has his sights on Maggie, not even Buckingham Palace can protect the resourceful spy from her fate.

 And the first review, from Kirkus, lauds THE QUEEN'S ACCOMPLICE: "Maggie ... is a thoughtful spy whose dangerous escapades never disappoint." Thank you! To celebrate, I’m giving away an autographed ARC to one lucky reader, who posts in the comments.

In the meantime, here's the prologue of THE QUEEN'S ACCOMPLICE. Enjoy!

The winds were changing.


They were blowing in from the east now, Vera Baines noted, from the East End. Even though the air raids had stopped for the moment in London—as Hitler turned his attentions toward Russia—the docks, railroads, and factories were still burning. Through her open bedroom window, she could smell cold wind scented with smoke and destruction. She watched as it ruffled the bare black branches of the trees of Regent’s Park, rustling dead ivy. 

Since the war had begun, the park had become a desolate expanse of meandering walkways, overgrown shrubbery, and long air-raid trenches—an ideal location for crime. But not on her watch.
As an ARP warden for her section in Marylebone, Vera Baines knew not only the winds but the intricacies of light and dark. Sunset in London in late March 1942 arrived after six, but the violet shadows began to lengthen at least an hour earlier. This evening’s sunset was extraordinary—bright red, with crepuscular rays piercing wispy clouds.

Despite barely clearing the five-foot mark and a slight figure, at eighty-three, Vera was a redoubtable woman. She was more wiry than frail, her energy giving the impression of her being much taller than she actually was. She had impeccable posture and moved with a force and confidence her friends and family hadn’t seen since her husband died ten years ago. And her face, with its high cheekbones and clear blue eyes that missed nothing, radiated strength.

Vera hated the war, hated the loss of innocent lives—but she couldn’t deny it had brought a certain clarity to her existence. As an ARP warden, she now felt she had a purpose: She would protect her own. As she surveyed the park’s deepening shadows from the window of her bone-colored Georgian terraced house, Vera felt responsibility, plus a fierce sense of love and pride. This was her London. These were her people. Nothing would happen to them on her sentry.

It was time to begin her shift. Vera took one last look at the fad- ing light, listening to the forlorn cries of the birds, then picked her way downstairs, leaning on the railing. At her door, she put on her ARP tin hat, dark blue wool overcoat, and gloves, and reached for her walking stick—with a silver British bulldog on the handle. Then she went down the outside stairs and onto the icy flagstone pavement, bracing herself against the wind. She paced the street with her usual vigor, the pale symmetrical Nash architecture reflecting the last light of the dying sunset. The temperature was dropping and the air smelled of imminent storms.

A passing white-haired man tipped his black bowler hat, and she nodded in return. “Oh, Mr. Saunders—” she called after him, her breath making clouds in the chill air.

The man stopped and turned. “Yes, Mrs. Baines?”

“I noticed a chink in your blackout curtain on the second floor last night. Please see to it no light is visible from now on.”

He took a few steps forward and frowned down at her. “We haven’t had an air raid in months, dearie.”

Vera was not deterred by his bulk, his height, or his condescending tone. “And the Luftwaffe might be choosing tonight for a return visit, Mr. Saunders. Let’s not give them any light to guide them to us, shall we?”

She strode on, chin high, taking her usual route past the charred remains of Regent’s Park’s brick wall. The last of the sun’s light melted away, but Vera didn’t mind the dark; she liked being out alone at night. Without electric lights to pierce the darkness, the nighttime took on a new beauty in the icy bright moonlight. Her shuttered flashlight illuminated the strips of white paint on the curbs and tree trunks, giving off a ghostly glow.

In the distance, she could hear the sounds of the city: the faint rumble of motor traffic, the clip-clop of horses’ hooves on cobble- stones, the screeches and flaps of bats off to their night’s hunt. The wind picked up once again, causing the ancient tree branches to sway and creak, the dead leaves and lipstick-stained cigarette butts in the gutters to dance.

Without artificial light, Regent’s Park at night could have been any era in London—from the time when ancient Britons painted themselves blue, to the reign of Queen Elizabeth I, to the period of Victoria and Albert. Even the clocks obliged: When the Nazi bombs exploded, all nearby timepieces ceased to function, paralyzed at whatever time they were at the instant of impact. These comatose clocks were another reason Vera could imagine time telescoping—the suspended present creating an atmosphere where time travel seemed no mere fantasy. Really, anything seemed possible, especially in the shadows of night. It even smelled as it could have hundreds of years ago—the same stink of urine against the crumbling brick walls as there would have been in Pepys’s day.

In the darkness, Vera tripped and nearly fell, saved only by her trusty walking stick. “What the—?” she muttered, her grip in leather gloves tight on the silver handle. She righted herself, glad Mr. Saunders hadn’t been there to see.

She looked down at a long blanket-wrapped bundle. Leaning over, flashlight in one hand, she lifted and pulled back the wool covering with the tip of her cane.

Vera gave a sharp inhale, but didn’t cry out when she saw the butchered body of a young woman. The body looked to have be- longed to a girl in her early twenties—healthy and athletic, hair curled. Her throat had been slashed so savagely her head was nearly severed from her body. Her belly had been slit through her ATS uniform, which was soaked through with blood.

Vera felt as if she’d been struck dumb. But she swallowed, braced her shoulders, gathering her strength. “Murder!” she managed to croak. “Murder!” she cried, louder this time. “Someone— someone fetch the police!”

A blond boy in a tweed cap walking past stopped and stared. “What the devil’s going on? Are you all right, ma’am?”

Vera lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and deployed the stiff upper lip she’d perfected over a lifetime of practice. “Yes, yes, of course I am,” she reassured him. “But I’m afraid she isn’t,” she added, pointing to the woman’s mutilated body with the silver tip of her walking stick.

The boy squinted in the darkness, eyes following the flashlight’s beam When he realized what he was seeing, he tore off his cap and crossed himself, whispering, “Bloody hell.” He looked from the body back to Vera. “She’s been ripped, ma’am.” He shook his head, his hands worrying at his hat. “Looks like she’s been done in by Jack the Bloody Ripper himself.”

“What are you going on about, young man?” Despite her occasional daydreams—or night dreams—Vera had no patience for macabre nonsense. But the boy was looking past her to the park’s brick wall, gaping at lettering.

With a shaking hand, Vera raised her flashlight. The words scrawled across the wall were painted the same ghostly, glowing white paint as the curbs.

They read, JACK IS BACK. 

SUSAN ELIA MACNEAL: Reds and readers, what do you do when you're feeling town in two (or more!) directions in life?

Please remember to leave a comment to be in the running for the ARC giveaway of THE QUEEN’S ACCOMPLICE.

(Winners chosen in a totally arbitrary and often subjective way by Kiddo.)