Princess Elizabeth's Spy

“fist,” or typing style, as individual as a fingerprint. Ritter scribbled it down, then, as per protocol, asked the operator to repeat the message. He checked it against what he’d written, then acknowledged the contact and signed off.

Ritter consulted the Morse code book to decipher the message.

“It says they smuggled out the decrypt from Bletchley,” Ritter read as he translated.

“Excellent!” Krause said. “We just secured our retirement—gold, girls, an endless supply of beer …”

“Wait. I’m not done.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “This isn’t good. Frijjo is dead. And the decrypt is missing.”

“Scheiss!” Krause pounded his table with his fist. “Fucking Becker’s going to have our heads.”

“Becker?” Ritter said. “He doesn’t even believe the British can break Enigma. This will just confirm what he already suspects.”

Krause laughed, a bitter laugh. “You should be scared of him. Don’t let his affection for little Wolfie charm you.”

“I’ll tell you who I am scared of.”

“Yeah, who’s that?”

“Commandant Hess.”

Krause’s smirk faded, as the name, and its significance, reverberated. “We’re not working on that operation, though.”

“Still, Operation Edelweiss had better go off without a hitch—because I’ve heard about what happens when Commandant Hess gets angry. Makes Goebbels look like a pussycat.”

Chapter Eleven

At the castle, Maggie was getting dressed for dinner. Although she would rather have stayed in her rooms to read the Turing, which she’d purchased at the bookshop, she resigned herself to getting through the meal.

She pulled out the gown she’d brought, held it up and looked at it. It was an angelic blue chiffon, with black satin edging and black roses on one shoulder. The last time she’d worn it, she’d been with John. He’d asked her to marry him, and she, angry that he’d joined the RAF, had turned him down. Looking at the dress, Maggie thought bitterly, I was a fool. And I still am. She closed her eyes, and her shoulders sagged. And I hope to God I’ll get a chance to make it up to him. She put it on, along with fur- lined boots and her coat.

Maggie, already suspicious of the two other girls in Victoria Tower, went to find them. She had no personal interest in befriending them, but they were Lily’s best friends and could possibly have some information, and so …

She went down a flight of stairs and knocked at the door. There was no answer. She knocked again. “What?” she heard as the door cracked open. It was Polly.

“What do you want?” the girl snapped.

“Why hello, Polly,” Maggie replied, masking her annoyance. “Is this your door? I thought we could all walk to dinner together.”

“It’s Louisa’s, actually,” Polly said, cigarette in hand, opening the door a little wider. Inside, Maggie could see rooms similar to hers. Louisa, though, had done some decorating. Maroon scarves covered her lamps, making a reddish glow. Her walls were papered with prints of Italian Futurist painters popular with Fascists: Giacomo Balla, Umberto Boccioni, and a few others Maggie didn’t recognize. The air was thick with smoke from pungent clove cigarettes, and Lale Andersen’s “Lili Marleen” was playing on the phonograph.

Louisa was in the bathroom, applying her eyeliner. “Who’s there?” she called.

“Hello, Louisa, it’s Maggie.”

“Who?”

“Maggie Hope. We met at the Carpenters Arms with Gregory.” A pause. “And Lily.”

Louisa emerged from the bathroom in a long red dress with a black jet lavaliere, the kind of necklace Victorians would have worn in mourning. “Ah,” she said. “The governess. Shouldn’t you be walking with Crawfie?”

“And how lovely to see you tonight, too,” Maggie said.

Marion grimaced apologetically. “She probably came to see your snake.”

Louisa smiled, a cold smile. “Would you like to meet Irving?” she said.

“Uh, of course,” Maggie replied.

Louisa walked over to her dresser, where there was a covered glass container. She reached inside. “He’s a ball python,” she said, picking up a long, muscular snake. Maggie figured he was about four feet long and about five inches around, black and covered with slivery chartreuse blotches. “Here!” she said, tossing him at Maggie.

Instinctively, Maggie held out her hands and caught the snake. He was cold but dry, not at all slimy, and began to curl around her arms. Maggie saw his black shiny eyes and his forked tongue heading toward her neck.

“They like heat,” Louisa said.

Maggie stood perfectly still, unwilling to flinch. “Hello, Irving,” she said in a steady voice. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” As he tried to wrap himself around her, she extricated herself, handling him carefully. “I think he likes me.”

Marion and Louisa looked almost disappointed at Maggie’s degage reaction.

Maggie deposited Irving back into his container and replaced the lid. She went to Louisa’s loo and washed her hands, calling cheerfully through the door, “Shall we go to dinner now?”

They made it to the Octagon Room just in time.

“Miss Hope, you’ll be seated here.” Lord Clive gestured to an empty chair to the right, in the middle of the long table covered in starched white linens. Maggie noted, with satisfaction, that his tone was much warmer now. Louisa and Marion were seated at the other end of the table. She noticed the friendly footman and gave him a smile, which he returned before arranging his face back into the neutral mask of a royal servant.

“Thank you, Lord Clive,” Maggie replied. She went to take her seat.

Dinner was made in the castle’s kitchen out of wartime rations supplemented with winter vegetables from the considerable Victory Gardens. According to the menu, handwritten in French, tonight’s repast was mock goose—layers of potatoes and apples baked with cheese—with pickled onions, and beetroot pudding for dessert. Maggie sat between Sir Owen, the King’s librarian, and Mr. Alstaire Tooke, the head royal gardener. From across the table, Gregory raised his wineglass and gave her a grin.

Maggie took a bite of mock goose, then turned to her white-haired dining companion. “Delicious, don’t you think?”

He looked past her, not meeting her eyes, as though he didn’t understand her words. “Quite,” he said finally, in a quiet voice.

“I’m Maggie Hope, by the way. Princess Elizabeth’s new maths tutor?”

“Tooke,” was the response. His eyes seemed unfocused.

“Are you feeling all right, Mr. Tooke?”

He seemed not to hear her.

Sir Owen, seated on Maggie’s other side, turned to her. “Your accent tells me you’re an American,” he observed as the next course was being served.

“British, actually,” Maggie answered, “but I was raised in the United States, near Boston.”

“Do you have any idea of when the Yanks are going to join us in this endeavor?”

“Soon, I hope.”

“Well, they are taking their time about it, aren’t they?”

During the time Maggie had been in England, she’d heard quite a bit on the subject. “Indeed,” she said tartly.

“Well, you know the Yanks,” said another older man with a monocle and handlebar mustache across the table. “Late to every war.”

Maggie bit her lip, retorting with choice words—in her head.