Princess Elizabeth's Spy

and clustered red, pink, and golden roses were dying. The cold air smelled of earth and frost and impending winter. A few plump pigeons strutted and cooed, waiting for someone, anyone, to leave crumbs.

Besides the occasional pedestrian and twittering sparrow, they had a wooden bench in the garden with a fine view of William McMillan’s Triton fountain to themselves, knowing there was no way their conversation could be overheard. Still, Hugh was on one end, buried in The Times, and Maggie was at the other, pretending to read Turing.

“Frain’s in Bletchley right now, questioning a cryptographer named Benjamin Batey. He had access to the decrypt. He was also seeing Victoria Keeley.” Hugh’s breath made white clouds in the air.

Maggie took a sharp breath but kept her eyes on her page. “Is there any evidence that he murdered her?”

Hugh shrugged. “Not so far. Frain’s been questioning him. And Frain can be very … persuasive. So far, though, Benjamin Batey seems like a sort of hapless victim. They allegedly had their … tryst … at her flat and then she went to London alone.”

“So, we know somehow, perhaps through Mr. Batey, Victoria Keeley got her hands on a decrypt. We know that she passed it to Lady Lily Howell at Claridge’s. We know Victoria Kelley was murdered. And we know Lily had hidden the decrypt and was then murdered also.”

“Yes.”

“What we need to focus on,” Maggie said, “is how Lily Howell was going to send, or take, that information to Germany. No one found a radio, a way for her to communicate?”

“No, she must have been working with someone else.”

“Possibly someone at the castle.”

Maggie nodded. “Of course, if there’s someone else at Bletchley who’s stealing decrypts …”

“I know, I know.” Hugh folded his paper.

“At any rate, we should get the names of everyone at Claridge’s the night Victoria Keeley was murdered and run them against everyone at Windsor Castle and Bletchley Park. Of course, people might have used aliases, but —”

“I’m sorry,” Hugh said, “but I’ll have to pass along your request—to your new handler.”

“New handler?” The book nearly fell out of Maggie’s hands.

Hugh ran his hands through his hair. “I’m afraid so. This is getting more serious than Frain anticipated, so he’s pairing you up with someone more senior.”

“That’s unacceptable. You’re an excellent agent. We work well together.” She was filled with an overwhelming sense of disappointment and rage, like a child whose favorite playmate was moving away.

“It’s fine, really. I mean, of course my pride is bruised. But mostly I’ll miss …” He stared at her, searching for the right things to say.

“Yes?” Maggie prompted.

“I’ll miss … the case. It’s been quite the roller coaster already. And I think we’ve just scratched the surface.” He continued to look at her. “But I’m afraid it can’t be helped.” He rose and tipped his hat. “Good luck, Maggie Hope.” And then he walked away, swallowed up by the park.

“And good luck to you, too,” she replied to herself, feeling lost and alone once again.

Maggie wasn’t the only resident of Windsor Castle spending the day in London. Audrey Moreau was there as well. It was her one day off a month from her maid’s duties, and she had told Cook that she was taking the train to London to do some sightseeing.

London was a city of smoking ruins, but many of the shops were open, and what architecture remained was still magnificent. Cold rain was falling, and water gushed in the gutters, filled with fallen yellow leaves.

Audrey had left off her black-and-white maid’s uniform and was wearing a woolen dress with her winter coat, which she’d tailored to accentuate her slim figure. A hat with a silk orchid one of the castle’s guests had left behind topped off her ensemble. She was rewarded by men smiling and tipping their hats.

She made her way to a bus stop near Piccadilly Circus. The statue of Eros was gone, but the circle was still a popular place for people to meet—sailors in uniform on leave shouting to one another and smoking, WAAFs and FANYs in bright red lipstick, men in dark suits and bowler hats under black umbrellas.

The Circus was surrounded by huge billboards from the Ministry of Propaganda: Join the Wrens!, It Is Far Better to Face the Bullets than to Be Killed at Home by a Bomb, and God Save the King.

The rain stopped, and Audrey folded up her umbrella. She waited for the red double-decker bus, and when it arrived she took the narrow stairs to the top deck. As the vehicle made its slow way up Regent Street, she was joined by a man wearing a dark gray coat, a gray bowler hat, and a Trinity college scarf in navy, red, and yellow stripes. He sat next to her, despite the fact that the deck was nearly empty.

She looked up and smiled, beginning what was to be a long conversation in whispered French.

It was sunset at Windsor Castle—red, rose, and tangerine bled out into the western sky, leaving long violet shadows.

Behind battlements on top of the castle stood a large structure, the Royal Mews, a wooden construction with mesh screened doors and windows. Inside were perches with goshawks and peregrine falcons in hoods, tethered with heavy leather jesses.

“There, now, Merlin,” Sam Berners crooned, as he slipped the tooled leather hood over the falcon’s head. He took a moment to look out over the grounds of the castle, with the Thames and Eton in the shadowy distance.

Alistair Tooke entered the Mews and stood for a moment at the entranceway, repulsed by the smell. “Berners!” Tooke said, his boots crunching on the fresh straw laid down on the floor.

“Got nothin’ to say to you,” Berners replied, transferring Merlin to his arm.

“Just as long as you don’t say anything to the police,” Tooke warned. “If you won’t, I won’t.”

Berners looked at his falcon, Merlin, blind in his tooled and painted leather hood. “We’re all hunters, then, aren’t we?”

“We are, indeed. And I’ll keep your secret, if you keep mine.”

Chapter Fifteen

Hugh grabbed the hilt of his epee as he began to advance on the piste that covered a long strip of the highly polished floor of the Reform Club. “Nevins. Nevins!” Behind his metal mesh mask, his eyes narrowed as he paced. “Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.”

Mark was dressed, as was Hugh, in the traditional white fencers’ uniform. He advanced and lunged as Hugh continued to rant, his voice echoing in the high-celinged wood-paneled room, decorated with suits of armor and historical swords, its large windows overlooking Pall Mall.

Hugh deftly parried, the clicks and scrapes of metal on metal echoing under the brass and ormolu chandeliers. His breathing was heavy with the intense effort. “Nevins is an idiot! And so is Frain, for that matter, for replacing me—with him, of all people!”

Mark counterattacked with a passata-sotto, his epee whistling through the air. “Look,” he said and grunted. “May I say something?”

Hugh put down his epee and took off his mask. “What?” Perspiration glistened on his face.

Mark took off his mask as well, and wiped drops of sweat out of his eyes with his sleeve. “Nevins is a good agent. He has more experience than you do. And he may be a pompous ass at times, and get a little too friendly with the female staff, but he does his job and does it well. I believe you’re letting this get personal.”

“Oh, not this again—”

“It’s true! You obviously think about Miss Hope more than any handler should—”

They both put their masks back on. “I’m a consummate professional, and you know it,” Hugh said as he went back to en garde. “And I’m a better fencer than you too,” he gasped.

“Possibly,” Mark said as they parried and their blades clicked. “Well, then take it from the chap who’s worked in a small closet with you for over three years—I think you miss her. Not the mission. Her.”

“Ha!” Hugh exploded, their blades meeting again. “She’s a good agent is all. A bit green, but good—smart,