Princess Elizabeth's Spy

“Yes, Maggie.” As they strolled, Maggie looked at the Princess in profile. She was fourteen, but she seemed younger. Her neck looked so slim and vulnerable. How close had she come to dying today?

“I met with Crawfie this morning,” Maggie began. “She showed me your schedule. You and your sister are very busy girls.”

“Oh, and you don’t know the half of it. They make us knit too. For the soldiers, of course. I’m terrible at it, especially socks. Can’t turn a heel. I pity the men who get my socks, they’re all so lumpy and bumpy.”

“Usually you ride on Saturday mornings, yes?”

“Oh, yes, every Saturday. I love to ride. Margaret’s still a little scared, but I love to gallop.”

“But you ride with someone else? One of the Ladies-in-Waiting?”

“Oh, you mean because of what happened to Lady Lily?” The Princess’s face clouded. “It’s terrible, isn’t it?” For a moment, she looked to be on the verge of tears, then shook her head and squared her shoulders. Maggie could see the queen she would someday be.

“Yes, I’m so sorry,” Maggie said.

“Lily and I often rode together. She wanted to compete in the Olympics, except they won’t let women ride yet. Her specialty was dressage, but she just loved to gallop …” The Princess’s throat closed and her voice became husky.

“There’s to be a memorial service Saturday. At Saint George’s Chapel. You will come, won’t you?” the Princess said earnestly, tears filling her clear blue eyes. “Lady Lily was so very lovely.”

Maggie looked up at the castle’s many windows, glinting like blind eyes in the reflected sun. Who might be behind one of those windows, perhaps wishing harm to a sweet little girl? Or a Lady-in-Waiting? I’m going to find out, Maggie vowed. And I’ll do everything I can to keep this girl safe.

She smiled and reached down to take the Princess’s small, soft hand. “Of course. Of course I’ll be there.”

The warm, cavernous kitchen had high clerestory windows that vaulted like a culinary cathedral. Hanging burnished copper pots of all shapes and sizes lined the walls. The floor of black and white tiles was covered in coconut matting, and the air was filled with sounds of knives chopping through heavy root vegetables and the toasty malt aroma of baking bread. A small army of staff in white hats and aprons seemed to be coming and going with trays laden with china and silver.

Cook, a tall, thin woman with gray-streaked blond hair tucked under her starched white cap, hands rough and scarred from years of kitchen work, bobbed a curtsy at the princess. She took one look at Maggie’s hand and procured an ice pack. “You’ve fared better than some, Miss,” she said, shaking her head—for Maggie’s was not the first corgi bite she’d witnessed in her fifteen years at the castle. Maggie and Lilibet sat down at an enormous scarred wooden table.

“It’s true,” Lilibet said. “Some people bleed so much, we have to fetch a doctor to stitch them up.”

Fantastic, Maggie thought. It’s not bad enough the Germans are bombing us nightly, Ladies-in-Waiting are being beheaded, and the Royal Family is in danger—I need to fend off rabid corgis too?

The wireless was on, broadcasting BBC news. “Have you heard about Coventry, Miss?” Cook asked.

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Maggie admitted. “It’s terrible.”

“Germans hit it last night but good. They’re sayin’ there were more than a thousand dead. Terrible damage to the factories there.”

The Princess’s face was somber. “It’s horrible, Cook.”

“It is, Your Highness.”

“I’m going to write to the families of every single person who died,” Lilibet said.

“That’s a lot of letters,” Maggie said.

“I know,” Lilibet retorted. “But what good is it being a Princess, if I can’t help people? I can’t make it better, but I can let them know their loss hasn’t gone unnoticed or unmarked.”

Maggie was impressed by the young girl’s compassion and understanding of her position.

Cook’s hard face turned tender as she looked at the Princess. “Maybe you’d both be wantin’ a cup of tea, then?”

Maggie had learned during her tenure in England just how restorative tea could be. “Thank you.” She glanced down at the slender Princess. “I think we both could use one.”

“And maybe a bit of Brown Windsor Soup too? Miss Hope, it’s the favorite of His Majesty.”

Lilibet made a surreptitious gagging face. Apparently, Brown Windsor Soup was not the Princess’s favorite dish.

“Cook, I’d be honored,” said Maggie.

“Don’t eat the soup,” Lilibet whispered, when Cook’s back was turned.

“I think I must now,” Maggie whispered back.

“Well,” the Princess said, looking like a regular fourteen-year-old girl again, “don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Detective Wilson and his deputy were using the servants’ dining room to question the castle’s staff about the murder. About fifty people or so were lined up in the corridor, each waiting his or her turn. “And who are you, Miss?” Wilson’s assistant said to Maggie as she walked by, on her way to Victoria Tower.

From the table inside the room, Detective Wilson looked up from his conversation with Audrey Moreau. “It’s all right, Jim,” he said. “That’s Maggie Hope, Princess Elizabeth’s maths tutor. I’ve already spoken with her.”

From the other end of the long corridor, Maggie heard loud yelling, incongruous in the castle, and turned to see who it was. “That’s Sam Berners, Miss Hope,” said the man waiting in line for his turn to be questioned. He was trim, with silvery gold receding hair, a pink scalp, and a kind smile. “But the way, I am Sir Owen Moreshead, the castle’s librarian. I must compliment you on the way you handled Sir Clive last night.”

“Oh,” said Maggie. “Yes, well—”

“If you ever find yourself in need of anything for the Princess from the library, please do let me know.”

“Thank you, Sir Owen, that’s very kind of you.”

The loud voice became even louder and was now spouting profanity. “Get yer hands off me—I tell ya I ain’t seen nothin’!”

“Master of the Mews,” Sir Owen said. Then, off Maggie’s confused look, “The Royal Falconer. He keeps to himself, mostly. Bit of an eccentric.”

Maggie saw a large bearded man with rough, unkempt hair being dragged into the hallway by two Coldstream Guards. His clothes were covered in bird excrement, and his right arm and hand were encased in a protective leather gauntlet. “I don’ know nothin’!” he was protesting loudly in a thick Scottish accent. “I din’ see anythin’!”

“Everyone must talk to the Detective, Sam,” one of the footmen waiting to be questioned said. “Even you.” Maggie recognized him as the one who’d winked at her, her first night at the castle.

“Don’ have nothin’ to say,” Berners grumbled, taking his place in line, under the watchful eye of the Coldstream Guards.

“He’s positively medieval,” Sir Owen whispered to Maggie. “Probably a quarter raptor himself. But he’s part of the castle, as much as the Long Walk or the stones of the Great Tower.”

“Where are the birds kept?” Maggie asked, curious.

“Oh, there’s some sort of structure up on the roof,” Sir Owen answered. “Sam has a room in the castle, but he prefers to sleep with the birds—as if you couldn’t tell. He and the largest falcon, Merlin, are inseparable.”

Maggie shook her head. A hanged Lady-in-Waiting and rabid corgis and a man who lives with birds? “I thought living in a castle would be interesting, Sir Owen,” she said, “but nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared me for this.”

It wasn’t difficult to find Lady Lily’s room. The police had left the door ajar.

With another look to make sure she was alone, Maggie let herself in. Lady Lily’s sitting room was much like her own. However, since Lily had been at Windsor Castle longer, she’d amassed more possessions. Creamy down