Princess Elizabeth's Spy

puzzling him for days. It seemed to be on a purposeless patrol of the North Sea. The sub hadn’t surfaced, it hadn’t attacked, it hadn’t seen action of any kind. It just skulked about, lying in wait.

“U-two-forty-six,” Kirk said, reaching out to run his index finger over the tip of the metal pin. It was cold and hard. “What are you doing there?”

Chapter Twelve

Maggie had another nightmare.

This time, she was out walking the grounds hand in hand with Lilibet, the sky a greenish gray that threatened thunderstorms. A large falcon flew overhead, almost a pterodactyl, huge, with skeletal wings. He swooped down and grabbed the princess by the back of her coat.

Maggie felt the girl’s small hand ripped from hers and began crying as the bird flew higher and higher, taking her away to what Maggie knew was a horrible fate.

Her own screaming woke her up. It was still dark. She was trembling, drenched in cold sweat, heart thumping, limbs cramping. She lay there for a few minutes, gasping for breath, blinking away the images of the dream.

Finally, her heart slowed and she was able to see the shadows in her room for what they were—just shadows, and not terrible birds of prey with sharp talons and beaks. She rubbed her eyes, hard, pinpoints of light breaking through. Pull yourself together, Hope, she scolded.

She was able to go back to sleep, but woke up tired and disoriented. At least it was her day off. After completing her daily morning exercise regime, learned at Camp Spook—push-ups, sit-ups, leg lifts, and jumping jacks—preparing her lesson plans for the Princess, and lunch, Maggie put on her wool coat and hat and went to the police station.

It was raining, a cold, damp drizzle that showed no sign of letting up, and a stiff wind blew her large black umbrella inside out, showing its inner spine like a skeleton for a brief moment before she was able to right it. Finally, she reached the red-brick station. “I’d like to speak with Detective Wilson, please,” she said to the older sandy-haired man in uniform behind the wooden counter as she began to feel the warmth from the coal heater in the corner. “It’s in regard to the Lily Howell case.”

“Just a moment, Miss.”

Maggie looked around the station. There were the usual posters in primary colors: National Service Needs You, ARP Auxiliary Firemen Needed, and Dig for Victory!

Detective Wilson appeared. “Ah, hello, there. It’s Miss, ah, Hope, isn’t it?”

“It is, Detective Wilson.”

“Miss Hope, please follow me.”

In Detective Wilson’s tidy office, Maggie took a seat in front of his desk, noting he had no personal photos there, just a wilting aspidistra. “I’ve remembered something that Lady Lily mentioned,” she began.

“Yes?”

“She was … with child.” Maggie would have liked to have used the proper medical term— pregnant—but it was considered impolite.

Detective Wilson looked up and smiled. “We know.”

“How …?”

“Autopsy.”

I’m an idiot—obviously they would know. “Of course.”

“How did you know?”

“She told me, the night I met her.”

“She would have had to. Someone only three months along wouldn’t be showing.”

“Any idea whom the father might be?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Maggie said. “I’ve asked around—apparently, she was a ‘popular girl.’ “

“I had an interesting telephone call—from a Mr. Frain. You know him?”

“Yes,” Maggie said. Frain’s made contact, of course. She tried to see where the conversation was heading.

“He mentioned the complications in the case and that MI-Five had a … particular interest. And we should help you as much as possible.” He cleared his throat. “And we, the local police, request the same from you.”

“Of course, sir,” Maggie said. She realized some toes had been stepped on in establishing the jurisdiction of MI-5 and the local police. “We’re all on the same side, after all.”

Maggie walked to Windsor and Eton Central Station, to get the train to Slough. It was raining harder, nearly sleeting—but it was Thursday, the day she was supposed to meet her father for dinner. She waited under the eaves of the arched glass roof in the cold for the train.

At Slough, Maggie walked until she found Bell’s Tavern. She was early, so she had some tea.

She waited.

The clock ticked on, until the heavy black hands reached six, Maggie and her father’s agreed-on meeting time.

She waited. Of course he might be late. Doesn’t mean he forgot our dinner, just that something came up.

Then she ordered and ate some squash-apple soup and bread and margarine.

She waited. The clock’s hands went to seven.

Then a cider. The clock’s hands reached eight.

Finally, close to nine, the waitress came over. “Will that be all, love?”

Maggie looked up at the clock, which now read 8:10. “Yes. I’m done.” She pulled out her purse to get her wallet to pay the bill, tears threatening to flood her eyes. “I’m really, truly, absolutely done.”

On the way to the Slough train station in the dark, Maggie saw three men stagger out of one of the pubs. They walked toward her, pushing one another and laughing, until they blocked her way.

“And what do we have here?” the tall one sniggered.

Maggie clamped her pocketbook under her arm and tried to walk abound them.

“Not so fast, love,” one with a beard said. “Fancy a drink?”

“No, thank you,” Maggie replied. They circled around her. “Let me pass!”

“Wot? Need to go home to your boyfriend?” the short one said. “I could be your boyfriend. Give us a kiss,” he slurred as he staggered toward her.

Maggie looked around. The main street of Slough was deserted. “I said no.”

The tall one got up right in front of her, much too close, his breath foul and smelling of gin. “Why don’t you pick one of us, love?” He reached out to stroke her cheek. “Or we’ll pick for you.”

Maggie kneed him between the legs, hearing him howl and his friends laugh, then sidestepped and ran, as fast as she could, to the train station. “Bitch!” they called after her.

Trembling, Maggie called Hugh at his office from a public pay phone on the train platform. “Of course I can meet you,” he said.

An hour later, Maggie stepped off the train and exited the Windsor station, taking High Street to Peascod Street. The blackout curtains were drawn at Boswell’s Books, but when Maggie rapped at the door, Mr. Higgins answered. “What you’re looking for is in the back, miss.”

Maggie went through the stacks to the back room, used for bookkeeping and storage. Hugh was there, sitting at a small round table. He stood up. “Hello.” Then, “You look a bit pale. Is everything all right?”

Maggie didn’t look at him.

He sat back down.

She took off her coat and her sweater, then rolled up her shirtsleeves.

“Get up,” she said.

“Beg pardon?”