Princess Elizabeth's Spy

“Get up.”

He did.

“Help me move the table and the chairs out of the way.”

Together, in silence, they cleared the room.

“Are you all right?” Hugh said finally.

“At Camp Spook, my downfall was the physical,” she said, ignoring his question. “So, every morning and night, I’ve been doing exercises. Sit-ups, push-ups, jumping jacks, jackknives … You name it. I’ve started running too, before dawn, so no one can see. I’ve been practicing shooting with clay pigeons. But one thing I can’t do is practice any martial-arts skills.”

She walked to the center of the room. “That’s what I need you for.”

“What?” Hugh was, confused.

“Come on, you’ve had the same training I had, probably more and better.”

“Maggie …” He looked positively horrified. “I—I can’t.”

“Afraid a girl’s going to beat you up?” Maggie walked up to him and began poking him. They were not gentle pokes.

“Ouch!” Hugh said.

“Come on, you deskbound fop!”

He saw the desperation in her eyes. “All right,” he said. “It’s been a while for you.” He took off his jacket. “Let’s go back to the basics.”

Maggie took a wide-legged stance and glared.

Hugh loosened his tie. “Your aim is to get your opponent off-balance. Once off-balance, you can use his weight to throw him down.” He gestured to Maggie. “Pretend you’re just walking along the street.”

She walked past him. He reached out to grab her. She threw her arm across him and flipped him to the ground.

“Ouch,” Hugh said. He moved his appendages to see if anything was broken.

Maggie paced back and forth in front of him. “Get up.”

He did. “Now pretend I’m coming at you again.” He came behind her in a choke hold and she bent over and, with a grunt, flipped him over. He hit the floor again with a loud bang.

“Ooof,” he said, blinking against the pain.

Archibald Higgins knocked at the door. “Everything all right in there?”

“Just fine, Mr. Higgins,” Maggie replied, breathing hard. “Never better.”

“All right, then.” The door clicked closed.

“Again,” Maggie demanded.

Hugh rose to his feet. He rolled up his shirtsleeves. He came at her from the front, going for her neck. She grabbed his arm and twisted it, causing him to bend over and groan in pain.

She let go.

He came at her again, this time trying to kick her. She grabbed his leg and rotated; he fell onto his stomach.

He got up, breathing hard, sweat breaking out on his temples, and came at her again, both hands reaching out to choke her. They wrestled together for what felt like an eternity, before Maggie managed to fall deliberately under him, bringing him down with her. Their lips were almost touching.

Then, with a foot to his midsection, she managed to kick-flip him over.

They both lay on the ground, trying to catch their breath.

Finally, Maggie got up and stood over Hugh. “Are you all right?” she said, extending a hand. He took it and allowed her to help him up.

“I’ll live,” he said. “You?”

Maggie’s eyes were hot and red. She sniffled. “I’m fine.”

Hugh led her over to the table. They both sat down on it.

“You’re obviously not,” he said. “And I don’t think it’s anything physical.”

There was a long silence, then, “I went to Slough today. I was supposed to have dinner with my father. And he forgot. I waited for hours!” She sniffled again. Hugh handed her a handkerchief, which she took and wiped her eyes with. “And then some, some men hassled me.”

Hugh looked concerned. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Maggie said. “I made a run for it. And, on top of everything, Lily’s dead. It could just as easily have been Lilibet! But—my father—and I haven’t even seen him since I bumped into him, by accident, at the office.… He never even asked me about John! And then—and then, I was stood up by my own father.” She blew her nose, making a loud and unladylike snuffling sound.

“Maggie …” Hugh made a few awkward pats to her shoulder. “Maggie, listen to me. You have a job to do. You can’t let your relationship—or non-relationship—with your father affect you. You can’t let a bunch of buffoons affect you. You can’t let what happened to John affect you. And you can’t let your fear, and your anger, and your sorrow—” Hugh broke off suddenly.

“I know.” Maggie reached out and took Hugh’s hand. It was large and warm. “Thank you. I’m all right now.”

After a few moments, she let go of his hand. “I have some official business,” he said.

Maggie swiped at her eyes again. “Of course.”

“We want you to get the King’s file on Lily Howell.”

“If MI-Five wanted Lily Howell’s file, surely Frain could just ask the King for it. Unless you think …” Maggie considered. “The King? You think the King had something to do with Lily Howell’s murder?”

“It’s possible,” Hugh said. “Or it’s possible there are some things in Lily’s file the Royals would want to remove, before showing it to us.”

“And let’s just suppose for a moment I was to get caught by all those Coldstream Guards who protect the king. Would MI-Five stand up for me? Or let me hang?”

“But you won’t get caught. We’ll make sure of it.” His forehead creased. “What’s in those files might shed some light on what’s been happening at the castle.”

“I’ll need clay to make imprints of the keys—those files are bound to be locked,” she said.

“Your wish is my command.” Hugh slipped off the table and went to his jacket, pulling out a wrapped pad of soft brown clay from the inside pocket. He handed it to her. “Get the imprints, and then we’ll make you the keys.” He bent down to the briefcase again, rummaging.

“And I’ll need a—”

Hugh handed her a small camera.

“Ha!” Maggie said, pleased, as she accepted it.

Then he handed her a felted handbag. “Not really my style,” she remarked, turning it in her hands and looking at it from all angles.

“There’s a false bottom. For hiding the camera.”

“Fantastic.” Feeling better, she rolled down her sleeves and gathered her things to leave, placing the clay and camera in the purse’s false bottom. As she did, she made a mental note to photograph Louisa’s files as well.

“By the way,” Hugh said. “You’re not bad. At fighting, that is.”

“Well, I—” Maggie was momentarily flustered.

“For what it’s worth, I think you could have held your own in France,” Hugh said.

“That means a lot to me, Hugh,” she replied. Then she left.

At Maumbrey Cottage, his home at Bletchley, Edmund Hope went to the large wooden desk, picked up the telephone receiver, and dialed. “Margaret wanted to have dinner with me,” he said into the telephone receiver.

On the other end of the line, Peter Frain said, “We know.”

Static crackled and spluttered over the line.

“I knew she was going to ask me questions about her mother.”

“And what did you say?”

“Nothing,” Edmund replied. “I didn’t meet her.” He didn’t mention he’d been there, at the pub in Slough, and