Princess Elizabeth's Spy

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?

Chapter Ten

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 cafe 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.”