Princess Elizabeth's Spy

and when she’d corrected him, he’d said, “Yes, yes—Margaret Hope,” and then, “We need some hope in this office.” Maggie was convinced it was one of the reasons he’d accepted her and let her stay on, at least in the early days.

“Besides—it’s just like Schrodinger’s cat, after all.”

“Cat?” David said, roused slightly.

“Schrodinger’s cat,” Maggie insisted. “Surely you must have discussed it in physics class? Erwin Schrodinger’s illustration of the principle of quantum theory of superposition.”

David groaned. “Oh, Maggie. I’ve been out of university for far too long. This war’s killing all my brain cells.”

“Look, Schrodinger proposed that you place a—theoretical, of course—cat into a steel chamber, along with a vial of hydrocyanic acid and a very small amount of a radioactive substance. If even a single atom of the substance decays during the test period, a relay mechanism will trip a hammer, which will, in turn, break the vial and kill poor Mr. Puss.

“Now, an observer won’t know whether the vial has been broken, the hydrocyanic acid released, and the cat killed. And since we cannot know, the cat is simultaneously dead and alive—according to quantum law, at least—in a superposition of states. It’s only when we break open the box and learn the condition of said cat that the superposition’s lost, and the cat becomes either dead or alive.”

“So John’s dead? And alive?” David said. “And, this being the real, not theoretical, world, he may never come back and we very well might not ever discover a body. What I’m trying to say is—we may never know, really.”

The words dead and body hung in the air. Maggie realized the pain David must be feeling. He and John had been best friends at Oxford and had gone to work for Churchill together. They’d defended him when all of England thought him crazy with his Nazi warnings and worked together through the first of the Blitz. They were brothers in all but blood.

“And that’s why I refuse to give up hope,” Maggie said simply. “Because until we know, it’s both.”

“I’ll tell you this, wherever John is, he’s not overly thrilled to be compared to a cat.”

“Oh, David!” Maggie exclaimed, tossing a sofa cushion at him.

“Whatever helps, Magster. But you are,” he said, patting her head, “a very strange girl.”

When David had gone to bed, Maggie stayed up with her untouched snifter of cognac. She riffled through the newspaper. “Suicide at Claridge’s!” screamed one of the headlines.

Why can’t David get a respectable paper and not these tawdry tabloids, she thought with a twinge of irritation. Maggie scanned the article: Apparently some poor girl had killed herself in the bathtub.

But without the tasks of the day to distract her, her thoughts, as they always seemed to do, went to that fateful phone call she’d received earlier that autumn. It had started with a note left on the cot in the room at Camp Spook that she’d shared with two other women. With excellent penmanship, Mrs. Forrester had written, “Flight-Lieutenant Nigel Ludlow rang at 11:30 a.m. He asked you to return call.”

The world had stopped for a moment as Maggie considered the meaning of this. Nigel was in the RAF too— he had joined even earlier, while John was still working with Mr. Churchill. He’d never called Maggie before, but it could be about anything, really. Something to do with Chuck? The wedding?

As Maggie ran downstairs to use the black telephone in the parlor, she tried to ignore the fact that her hands were cold and trembling. She picked up the receiver and dialed the numbers.

She reached the pilots’ mess. “Flight Lieutenant Ludlow?” On the line there was a crackle of static and the sound of men’s voices in conversation and the clatter of dishes and cutlery. “Of course. Just a moment.”

There was a loud bang as he must have thumped the receiver down. Interminable minutes as Maggie waited, waited for Nigel to tell her everything was all right. They’d laugh about what a nervous Nellie she’d been and she’d make him promise not to tell John.…

“Maggie?” She heard Nigel’s voice boom over the wires. Was he somber? Distracted? Jolly? She couldn’t tell.

“Hello, Nigel.” She fought to keep her voice steady. “You rang?”

“Yes, yes, I did.” “Are you sitting down?” He spoke to her as if she were a small child. Maggie slumped into the chair next to the telephone table, feeling suddenly faint.

“Tell me,” she said.

“John asked me to call you, you know—in case of anything—”

Maggie’s nerves were stretched to the breaking point. Just tell me! “Yes?”

“Well, a bit of bad news. His Spit went down somewhere near Berlin. The plane’s gone. It’s possible of course, he managed to jump, but I’m afraid we haven’t heard anything in over a week.…”

The plane’s gone? She pictured John hitting the ground in his Spitfire, a ball of flames.

“You, you think he could have jumped?” she managed.

“Well, it is possible.” A long pause, which made Maggie think Nigel didn’t pin much hope on it. “Anything’s possible.” Then, “Maggie? Are you still there?”

“Did you, did you—” Her voice broke. “Call his parents?”

“His commanding officer did.” Then, “Maggie, I’m so sorry—if there’s anything I can do—” But the receiver had slipped from her fingers and hit the floor with a dull thud. Maggie drew up her feet and laid her head on her knees as the tears finally came.

She didn’t know how long she’d sat there, crying, when Mrs. Forrester found her. “Are you all right, dear?” she inquired from the doorway.

Maggie looked up, her face tearstained, hot, and red, and made an attempt to wipe at her nose with her hand. She tried to speak and nothing came out but more silent sobs.

“There, now,” Mrs. Forrester said, sitting beside her and replacing the phone’s receiver. She procured a starched linen handkerchief from the depths of her bosom. “Here you go,” she said, handing it to Maggie.

“Thank you,” Maggie managed, wiping at her eyes and nose.

Mrs. Forrester sat next to her, a plump and comforting presence, not saying a word.

Maggie took a rattling breath. “I think—I think he might be dead,” she said finally.

“Who, dear?”

“John, Flight Lieutenant John Sterling.”

“Air Force?”

“Yes.”

“His plane crashed. In Germany.”

“Yes.”

“I don’t know. He might have jumped before the crash. No one knows.…”

“Then that, my dear, is what you have to hold on to. That your young man’s alive and he’ll send word. Maybe not today. Or tomorrow. But that he will.”

Mrs. Forrester stared through the window, a distant look on her face. “It’s what I did. When I got the phone call about my Bernie.”

Maggie wiped again and looked up.

“My husband. The Great War. He was a pilot too. Plane went down over France. He was missing too.”

“And—did he come home?”

There was a pause as the question hung in the air. “No, dear,” Mrs. Forrester said. “But I felt it was my sacred duty to hold on to hope for as long as possible.

“Now, I want you to go and wash your face with cold water. And then come to the kitchen and I’ll make us both a nice cup of tea. You’ve got a long journey ahead of you—waiting and then dealing with what you learn—and you won’t be any good to anyone if you don’t keep your strength up.”

When Maggie made no effort to move, Mrs. Forrester stood up and grasped Maggie’s hand, pulling the young woman to her feet. “One foot in front of the other, dear. That’s how all journeys start. Go upstairs. Go.”

As Maggie, zombie-like, made her way up the stairs, she heard Mrs. Forrester mutter to herself, “And