Princess Elizabeth's Spy

Later, as the dinner dishes were taken away, Lord Clive rose. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice carrying throughout the expansive space. “We have, as a community, suffered a terrible loss this last weekend. I was pleased to see so many of you at Lady Lily’s memorial service. Please be assured we will be doing everything we can to cooperate with the authorities and bring the person responsible to justice.”

There was a collective murmur. Sir Owen called out, “Hear, hear!”

Maggie looked at Louisa and Marion, seated on either side of Gregory, who shot each other a look before turning their attention back to Lord Clive.

“However,” the Lord continued, “life does go on. And I’m pleased to inform you that the Prime Minister, his wife, and select members of his staff will be joining us to sleep and dine for Christmas. They will enjoy three days and nights of Windsor Castle’s hospitality.”

There was another low murmur from the table, a more excited one this time.

Lord Clive cleared his throat again. “Of course, we wish to show the Prime Minister and his staff exactly how gracious our hospitality at the castle is. I’m calling on all of you to put your best foot forward.” He looked around the table. “That is all.”

Sir Owen rose and helped pull out Maggie’s chair. “Miss Hope, we’ve been told you come to us from the Prime Minister’s office.”

“Yes, Sir Owen,” she said, as they waited to file out.

“You worked for Churchill, did you?”

“Yes, sir.”

Louisa called over, “Is he as pickled as people say?”

“Excuse me?” Maggie said.

“Sorry, I’ll speak ‘American,’” Marion said. “I mean drunk. Is Churchill a drunk? That’s what we hear, at any rate.”

“No,” Maggie said, getting angry. How dare she? “I’ve never seen him drink to excess. In fact, one of his favorite quotes is, ‘I have taken more out of alcohol than alcohol has taken out of me.’ ”

Louisa gave a cat-like smirk. “I, for one, wanted to see Lord Halifax as Prime Minister.”

“Then you must enjoy goose-stepping. Lord Halifax would have surrendered by now,” Maggie snapped, color rising in her face. “Where Churchill never will.” She saw Gregory bite his lip to stop himself from laughing.

“Miss Hope! Lady Louisa!” Lord Clive admonished. “May I remind you that not only are we at Windsor Castle, but the Nazis are the enemies? Enough!”

The company was excused. Mr. Tooke left without saying a word to anyone, eyes downcast. “You mustn’t mind Lady Louisa,” Sir Owen told Maggie as they walked out together into the chilly corridor. “She’s very … colorful.”

“I see,” Maggie said.

“And you mustn’t mind Mr. Tooke either. Hasn’t been himself lately.”

“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Has he been ill?”

“His wife passed recently.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“She was German, you see. Lived here for years, though. She was only recently sent to some sort of—camp. Apparently, the strain was too much for her. She died of a heart attack. Poor bloke just found out this past week.”

“That’s terrible.” Maggie was aware of the camps, of course. The Prime Minister had given the go-ahead for their creation. He might be the Prime Minister, and he might be a great man, but it didn’t mean Maggie agreed with everything he did.

“Poor thing’s in shock.” Sir Owen shook his head, then turned to go. “Lovely to see you again, Miss Hope. Cheers.”

“Cheers,” she replied, her mind full of internment camps.

Gregory was at her side. “Well, you definitely spiced up dinner!” Then he turned serious. “It was a rather stressful meal—considering what happened over the weekend.”

One regular dining companion missing. “Of course,” Maggie said.

“Lady Lily was a particularly sparkling presence at meals. She’ll be missed for a long time to come.”

“I only met her the once, but she was charming. Was she … engaged?”

Gregory frowned. “Not that I know of, at least. Why do you ask?”

Maggie wasn’t about to tell him she knew Lily had been pregnant.

“Just wondering. She was so beautiful, after all.”

“Plenty of beaux, of course. Popular girl.”

They walked together down the long corridor in silence. “You knew her when she was younger?” Maggie prompted.

“Yes, she lived near us, near Chesterfield in Derbyshire.”

Maggie smiled. “It must have been nice to grow up with a playmate.”

“It was,” he said with a wan smile. “Although I didn’t meet her until she was five. She was born in Germany.”

“Oh, really?” Maggie said, her head spinning, thinking about the decrypt.

“If you don’t mind, I must return to the Equerry’s office.” He gave a small bow. “Good night, Maggie.”

“Good night,” she said, resuming her walk down the drafty corridor.

Could it be that Lily was a spy? A Nazi spy? she thought.

But if Lily was a Nazi spy, then who killed her?

And why?

Admiralty Arch was not only a large office building, it was, in fact, an archway, providing road and pedestrian access between The Mall and Trafalgar Square. Nearly undetectable to those who didn’t know it was there, carved in marble, was a nose. Just a nose, not a face—embedded in one of the archways. Legend was that it was Lord Nelson’s nose, and soldiers passing through on horseback would rub it for good luck.

Just like so many military men before him, Admiral Donald Kirk looked at the nose and said a short silent prayer to Lord Nelson. Kirk was a trim, smart-looking man with silvery hair and piercing green eyes, wearing a dark blue naval uniform. He leaned heavily on a silver-handled walking stick—a crushed knee in the last war had left him with a stiff, almost mechanical limp. The injury kept him from serving at sea in the current war—which he hated. However, his wife and four daughters, now married and mothers themselves, were grateful he was able to serve his country while staying in London. Sometimes, when they were all together at home and the women were carrying on, he wished for a submarine to command once again.

At the doorway a Royal Marine saluted. Kirk switched the walking stick to his other hand to return the salute, then switched back and proceeded inside. Slowly, for the stairs weren’t easy to navigate for anyone, let alone someone with a damaged leg, he made his way down narrow staircases until he reached the windowless Submarine Tracking Room.

Many Londoners were wrapping up work and going home for the evening, but the Submarine Tracking Room buzzed with excitement around the clock. The gray-painted walls were covered with maps studded with different colored pushpins, charts, and photographs of German submarine commanders. Several men in uniform repositioned the colored pins, according to information they received. The centerpiece of the room was a large table, covered with a map of Britain and the Atlantic Ocean and North Sea. Colored pushpins represented every freighter, warship, and submarine in the waters, both British and German.

A few officers were repositioning some of those pins, to reflect the day’s movement. Kirk limped over to take a closer look.

“That U-boat there.” He pointed to a red pin just off the Lincolnshire coast. “What’s it been doing?”

The man, young, with a five-o’clock shadow, shrugged. “It’s been there for a while—not doing much of anything, sir.”

Donald Kirk hadn’t reached the position he had by being the strongest or the fastest. His injuries early in the last war had seen to that. No, what he was known for was a rigorous intellect, coupled with the ability to think like the enemy. He squinted at the map on the table. Something was not right. The submarine’s movements had been