Princess Elizabeth's Spy (10 page)

Oh, I would love to have the opportunity to see those books. If only.
“Actually, Sir Owen, I was interested in finding out if you had any knowledge of what happened to Lady Lily’s books. They’re missing from her bookshelf.”

Sir Owen gave her a quizzical look.

“Louisa and Marion wanted them,” she improvised quickly. “To remember her by.”

“Yes, of course,” he said, forehead furrowing. “Well, the kind of books Lady Lily read, romances and such, aren’t really the sort we shelve here. However,” he said confidentially, “the Housekeeper, Mrs. Beesley, is a great aficionado of love stories, mysteries, and the like—and she has a lending bookcase in her parlor for the staff to use. Perhaps they’ve found their way to her?”

“Oh, thank you, Sir Owen,” Maggie said. “Thank you very much.”

After another trip through icy winding corridors, Maggie found herself at the door of the housekeeper’s parlor. She rapped at the door. “Come in!” called a high-pitched, thready voice.

Maggie opened the door and there was Mrs. Beesley, sitting at a plain wooden desk in a small, narrow room. She was younger than Maggie had expected, with brown hair in rolls, narrow shoulders, thin lips, and a serious expression in her eyes. “Yes? May I help you?” she said.

“Hello, I’m Maggie Hope, the Princess’s maths tutor,” she began. “You must be Mrs. Beesley.”

“Yes, please come in,” Mrs. Beesley said.

In for a penny, in for a pound,
Maggie thought, stepping inside. “Well, I was talking to Louisa and Marion,” she began. “The Ladies-in-Waiting.”

“Oh, it’s hard to hear those names without thinking of our poor Lady Lily.” Mrs. Beesley pulled out her cambric handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

“Yes,” Maggie said. “And that’s what brings me here, actually. You see, Louisa and Marion wanted a few of Lily’s books, to remember her by. There were some in her room apparently, and now they’re gone—”

Mrs. Beesley’s eyes narrowed. “Now, if you’re accusing me—or my staff—of pinching those books …” Her fingers worked at the handkerchief’s hem.

“No, no, of course not,” Maggie assured her. “No one’s accusing anyone of anything. I was just hoping to find out where they’d been taken, is all. No offense meant.”

“None taken,” Mrs. Beesley said stiffly, hands still now.

“Sir Owen said you’re a great reader,” Maggie said, “and that you have a sort of lending library? Is it possible the books might have gotten in there?”

“It’s possible, I suppose,” Mrs. Beesley said. “The bookcase Sir Owen’s referring to is in the hallway. You’re welcome to take a look. Or borrow a book, if you’re so inclined, of course.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Beesley.”

The bookcase was a tall one, filled with penny dreadfuls and dime novels in lurid colors, along with a few romances, Gothic horror stories, and a few copies of the Saint James Bible. Sure enough, there was a wooden crate next to the case, filled with romance novels. Maggie bent over to rummage through them, taking out a few books, flipping the pages. Nothing. She went through book after book with Lily’s personal bookplates, trying to be charitable about the girl’s choices in novels. Pulp romance mostly, terrible stuff, but here and there was a novel Maggie recognized. But in terms of clues, there was nothing. No letters, no notes, no scribbles in the margins.

Well, what were you expecting, exactly?
Maggie thought.
The name of the baby’s father in calligraphy? The murder’s identity written on a bookplate?
She pulled out Gaston Leroux’s
Le Fantôme de l’Opéra
and flipped through it. Nothing.

She sighed. It was the only decent book in the bunch. She looked upward, saying, “Would you mind terribly, Lily?”

The corridor didn’t answer; neither did any ghosts. “Thank you.” And she tucked the book under her arm as she walked away.

Back in her room, Maggie kicked off her shoes and curled up on the sofa in front of the radiator with
Le Fantôme de l’Opéra.
As she opened it to the first page, she noticed the endpaper on the book’s inside cover didn’t lie smoothly.

What on earth—

Heart beating faster now, Maggie ran her fingers over the paper. There was definitely something in there.

With a hatpin from the stand on her dresser, she made a neat slit in the endpaper, then pulled out a folded piece of paper. Maggie read it. She read it again. A third time, for good measure.

She sat perfectly still, overcome with shock. It was a decrypt of a German cipher: “U-boat commander Hempelmann, in grid square 4498, had sunk one tanker.…”

Oh, Lily, Lily, Lily,
Maggie thought.
Where did you get this? Who gave it to you?
And then, with the shock of realization,
And what were you going to do with it?

She checked the date: It was a recent decrypt, dated November 17, 1940. The Friday the Ladies-in-Waiting had all gone to London for the weekend.

The day the woman at Claridge’s had been murdered.

Oh, Lily—what were you involved with?

And what happened to you, as a result?

The memorial service for Lady Lily Georgina Howell at Windsor Castle’s St. George’s Chapel was well attended by somber-looking castle residents, all dressed in black from head to toe. In the pews, Maggie saw recognizable faces mixed with the unfamiliar. Alah and Crawfie. Sir Owen, Lord Clive, and Mrs. Beesley, and Mr. Berners, who’d cleaned up fairly well. Ainslie, Audrey, and the winking footman. Louisa and Marion, who caught her eye and then began whispering behind their hands. Maggie was sure they were saying nothing good. There was Gregory, across the aisle from the two girls; he gave her a quick nod.

Maggie turned back to observe the architecture. St. George’s showed the same concern for bombing that the rest of the castle did. The stained-glass windows and quatrefoils were taped and boarded, and much of the statuary had been removed for safekeeping. However, nothing could diminish the beauty of the vertical lines of the Late Gothic soaring stone arches and the fan-vaulted ceiling, built in the English Perpendicular style, or the black-and-white chessboard marble floors in the Quire. The icy air inside the chapel’s thick stone walls smelled of piety and pomp.

As the priest’s voice rang out as he began his homily, Maggie first thought of her flatmate, who’d died during the summer—twice. And then of John.
Will we ever be able to find a body? Have enough closure for a memorial service?
Then she shook her head.
No, he’s alive. Alive. I’m sure of it.
She stood in prayer with the other congregants.

As the choristers in their ruby robes and white collars sang the last bars of Vivaldi’s “Cum Sancto Spiritu,” the great organ thundered out the magnificent closing notes and the final
Amen
echoed against the vaulted ceiling. The congregation rose as the Royal Family left their pew and began to walk down the aisle. Then the rest of the people began to follow, row by row. Outside, large and low gray clouds darkened the hazy white sky. The chapel’s bells chimed relentlessly as the stern wind caused overcoats and dresses to billow.

“Wonderful music, the Vivaldi
Gloria.
” Gregory fell into step beside her, wearing a Burberry raincoat and a Trinity College scarf. His limp was more pronounced than it had been the previous night, and one hand held his hat against the wind. “ ‘Cum Sancto Spiritu’ is joyful and yet somehow defiant, with that wonderful section of syncopation. I think Lily would have approved. I’d like it played at my own funeral, someday.” He laughed, a small and bitter laugh. “Someday, a very, very long time from now.” Maggie noticed his pallor and how much the scars pulled on his face.

“Were you very close to Lily?” she asked as they walked together on one of the gravel paths of the Lower Ward, heading to the Henry VIII Gate. Overhead, geese flew by with their long necks outstretched, honking mournfully.

“We grew up together,” he replied. “Although I went to off to Eaton and then to Cambridge. We met up again here, at the castle.”

“It must have been nice to see a familiar face.”

“It was.” They walked in silence for a while, as Maggie debated what she could ask without tipping her hand.

“I’m afraid I need to get back to the Equerry’s office, even on a Saturday,” Gregory said, finally, lifting his hat. “A somber morning, to be sure. But better for having seen you.”

Maggie smiled. Further questions could wait. “I agree. And I have a most pressing errand in town.” She displayed her corgi-bitten glove. “In this cold, it would be foolish not to pick up another pair. I only hope I have enough clothing rations.”

Arms crossed over her chest in the face of the frigid wind, Maggie walked out the Henry VIII Gate and down the cobblestone drive. She passed the blackened bronzed statue of Queen Victoria, plump and proud with her orb and scepter, and turned onto High Street. It was early Sunday afternoon, and she and Hugh Thompson were supposed to meet at Boswell’s Books around three.
Very well,
Maggie thought.
Might as well pick up a new pair of gloves while I’m at it.

The town of Windsor in daylight was charming, with narrow stone streets and bright, tidy shop fronts. The architecture was quirky and whimsical, with buildings nestled close to one another, sporting an assortment of small ivy-covered turrets, Corinthian columns, cupolas, high round windows, sloped slate-tiled roofs, and windowboxes of fading flowers. Unlike London, it was still unscathed by bombing. Maggie heard the occasional car engine and the clip-clop of horses’ hoofs on cobblestones in the distance. The air was fresh and sweet compared to London’s, but when the wind blew a certain way, there was the unmistakable smell of horse dung.

Maggie bought, with her allotted rations, a new pair of leather gloves at W. J. Daniel, then picked up a copy of
The Times
at a newsstand and went into a narrow café for a cup of fragrant tea. After finishing a number of articles on the bombing of Coventry, she looked at her small watch and realized it was nearly three. She braced herself against the cold and went back onto Peascod Street, then saw a bookshop.
BOSWELL’S BOOKS
, the sign read. As she opened the door, a tiny silver bell jingled.

Inside, it was warm and cozy. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and there were tall sliding wooden ladders for reaching the top shelves. The shop was long and went on, with a long aisle down the center, bisected by rows and rows of bookshelves. A worn blue Persian rug lay on the floor and, in a patch of weak sunlight, a fat ginger cat groomed himself.

Maggie smiled at the bent older man with tiny silver spectacles behind the register. The retired MI-5 agent? Archibald Higgins? “Boswell, I presume?” she asked, gesturing to the cat.

“The one and only,” he replied. “Cheeky devil. May I help you find anything, Miss?”

“No, thank you,” Maggie answered. “Just browsing.”

“As you wish,” he said. “Back room’s nice and quiet if you want to catch up on your reading.”

“Thank you.” Maggie walked from the front of the store to the back room, perusing titles, looking for any sign of Hugh. In the stacks, she found a section of mathematics books and journals, including Princeton University’s
Annals of Mathematics.
Maggie pushed aside a wave of bitterness. Once upon a time, she’d wanted, more than anything, to do her postgraduate work at Princeton—with people like James Christopherander, Albert Einstein, Luther Eisenhart, John von Neumann, and Alonzo Church. Not to mention Alan Turing, who’d been at Princeton but returned to England in ‘38 when war was declared. However, they didn’t admit women. And M.I.T. wasn’t exactly second tier.

Maggie pulled out a copy of Turing’s
Systems of Logic Based on Ordinals,
found the back room, settled into a worn leather armchair, and began to read. Eventually, she became aware of a figure in the aisle behind her.

Maggie looked up. It was Hugh, dressed in a heavy wool overcoat, Anthony Eden hat in hand. He looked down at her book. “Turing!” He whistled through his teeth. “A little light reading?”

Maggie smiled. “I find computability theory fascinating.”

Hugh leaned against the bookcase. “So, how goes it?” he asked in low tones. “Are you, er, I mean, is everything—that is—all right?”

“It’s been … interesting,” she answered. “You heard about what happened?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “We also know you were one of the last people to see the victim alive.”

“I met Lily at the Carpenters Arms. She was just coming back from her weekend in London, at Claridge’s. There was a suicide there, over the same weekend.”

Hugh looked at her, startled. “How the …?” Then, “Yes, there was a suicide at Claridge’s that weekend.”

“Well,” Maggie pressed, “don’t you think it’s significant? What if it
wasn’t
a suicide? What if the woman saw something? Or knew something? And what if Lily’s death wasn’t a suicide? There could be a connection.”

“Well, see what you can find out. Start with the victim’s friends. Become friends with them. Find out what they have to say.”

“Can we find out what the autopsy report says?”

“Of course. I’ll let you know as soon as we receive it.”

“There’s something else,” Maggie said.

“Yes?”

“You’ll find out from the autopsy report, but you should know now. Lily was pregnant.”

Hugh scratched his head and stared. “How the devil do you know
that
?”

“She told me. After she threw up in the ladies’ loo.”

“Right, then.”

“She said she was about three months along. I didn’t mention it when I was questioned by Detective Wilson. But I would like to tell him.”

“Of course.”

“And,” Maggie said, reaching into her pocket, “I found this.” She pulled out the decrypt she’d found in Lady Lily’s room.

Hugh took the paper and looked it over. His eyes widened. “Wizard!” he exclaimed. “But how did she get this?”

“I don’t know how she got it, but it was hidden in her copy of
Le Fantôme de l’Opéra.
”

“Thanks for this, Maggie,” he said, tucking the decrypt safely into his suit pocket.

“I thought at first Lily’s death was an accident and that Lilibet, er, the Princess, was the intended victim,” Maggie said. “But now … I don’t think so.”

Hugh looked at her. “You may be right.”

“But if Lily was murdered, who’s a suspect? Someone who knew she’d stolen a decrypt? Or someone who knew she was pregnant? The baby’s father, maybe someone married and/or high-ranking who wouldn’t want to be named as the father? And what, if anything, is the connection between Lily’s stay at Claridge’s and the supposed suicide?”

He sighed. “I don’t know. But we need to find out.” He ran both hands through his disordered hair. “There’s a murderer at Windsor Castle and you’re making progress finding him.”

“Or her,” Maggie said, thinking of Louisa and Marion.

“Or her. Or them, for that matter. Which means you need to be even more careful. And there’s still the matter of the Princess’s safety, as well.”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Maggie said. “I’m always careful. And I’m not frightened.”

“You should be.” Hugh reached into his pocket and procured a piece of paper and a pen. He scribbled a number on the paper. “My direct line. Memorize it, then get rid of it,” he said, hazel eyes serious. “If you ever find you need anything …?”

Maggie took it, unexpectedly touched.

After a few moments, she heard the shop’s bell jingle, indicating Hugh had left.

Back at MI-5, Hugh went directly to Frain’s office. “I thought you’d sent Miss Hope on bit of a wild-goose chase, sir, I really did. But already she’s found out more than the police have.”

Frain didn’t look up from his papers. “Really? And what did she find out?”

“She knew Lily Howell was in London, at the same hotel and at the same time that woman committed suicide—if that’s indeed what happened. She knows it might indeed be a murder. She knows Lily Howell was three months pregnant. And,” Hugh pulled out the piece of paper Maggie had given him, “she gave us this—” Hugh handed over the cryptograph.

Frain read it, eyes inscrutable. “Thank you,” he allowed. “That will be all.”

“Yes, sir.”

Hugh left Frain’s floor, walking down to the small subterranean office he shared with Mark Standish.

“I’m going to the funeral,” he announced to Mark, as he got his coat and hat. Mark was looking at photographs of potential IRA mailbox bombers with a loupe magnifier, without much luck.

“I’ll meet you there,” Mark said, without looking away from the photographs. The service was for a fellow MI-5 officer, Andrew Wells, who’d died in the line of duty, killed by a Nazi spy’s stiletto in St. James’s Park after Wells recognized her. MI-5 covered up the murder, saying it was an accident. The spy was still at large in London.

Mark gestured to the photograph on Hugh’s desk. “Are you meeting up later with Caroline?”

“Of course,” Hugh snapped as he shrugged into his overcoat.

“I’m just checking, old thing. Just checking.”

The funeral was being held at St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Hugh climbed the stone steps and pulled open the imposing doors. The interior was cavernous and dim in the fading daylight, lit by brass chandeliers and large beeswax candles in tall sconces. Somber music poured from the organ as Hugh walked down the aisle, his footsteps heavy on the marble tiles. He made his way to a hard wooden pew in the front of the church and took a seat, a world away from the bustle of Trafalgar Square outside.

As he sat, people began to file in, taking their seats or somberly exchanging greetings. It was a small service; they all sat near the altar. A small boy and his mother slipped into the pew in front of him. The boy, who was about six or so, with soft golden curls, began to fidget. He was dressed in black, as was his mother, who was dabbing at her eyes with a cambric handkerchief.

Everyone stood as the pallbearers brought in the large black casket, with the Union Jack draped over it and a wreath of crimson poppies. Andrew Wells’s casket.

They all sat down again as the silver-haired priest began his homily. “We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away—blessed be the name of the Lord.”

The boy began to kick the leg of his pew, his worn oxfords making a loud banging that

reverberated through the church.

“Shhh, love—don’t do that,” she said, placing her hand on the boy’s leg.

The boy twisted in his seat and stared back at Hugh. “That’s my daddy, you know,” he said, pointing at the coffin.

Hugh looked up at the coffin, then back at the little boy. “Then you must be Ian Wells,” Hugh whispered back. “I knew your father. He was a hero.”

Without warning, the boy was out of his seat and lunging at Hugh, burying his face in his shoulder and wrapping his thin arms around his neck, hugging him tightly, and sobbing.

Hugh held him; the boy’s hair smelled warm and sweet. “My father died in the line of duty, too,” he whispered, patting the boy’s back. He could feel sharp shoulder blades through the boy’s jacket. “It was a long time ago. I was about your age, actually.”