Princess Elizabeth's Spy

he was suspected of spying for Germany?

From a nearby black rooftop, a falcon began his mad laughing caw, then flew off. Maggie turned and watched him sail through the air until he reached the top of one of the castle’s high walls. It was a fair distance away, but Maggie squinted to see him land on the shoulder of a man. Probably Sam Berners, the Royal Falconer. She gave a grim smile. If only I could get the falcon to go for Nevins. “Unless you have some actual information to impart, we’re finished, Mr. Nevins.”

“It was good to meet you, Miss Hope. I look forward to using the information you bring me to crack the case.”

Maggie turned and started tramping back to the castle, blood boiling, leaving Nevins to stare after her. “Yes,” she muttered to herself. “Yes, Nevins, you’re finished. Quite finished.”

Later, in the Octagon Room, still seething at Nevins and wondering about her father, Maggie picked at her dinner, letting the conversation of the others flow and swirl around her.

She heard her name being called. It was Crawfie. “Miss Hope!” she was saying.

She cleared her thoughts of Nevins. “Yes, Miss Crawford.”

“I want to include the Princesses somehow in this year’s Red, White, and Blue Christmas celebration,” she began. “And I was thinking a performance might be in order. They’re going to be making public appearances soon enough, and some practice on a stage, in front of family and friends, might help them make the transition.”

Maggie nodded, listening.

“I was thinking of a pantomime. Sleeping Beauty, in fact. Princess Margaret can play Briar Rose and Princess Elizabeth can be the Prince. I spoke with Mr. Tanner, who’s a teacher at the Royal School, in the Great Park, where the other children of Windsor Castle attend school—and it turns out he was a Gilbert and Sullivan player back in the day, and would be delighted to direct. We can charge admission and the ticket money can go to the Queen’s Wool Fund.” She sighed. “It’s been so dull for the Princesses here, and I think it would do them a world of good.… May I count on your help, Miss Hope?” Crawfie asked. “For scenery, especially?”

“Of course!” Maggie exclaimed. It was, after all, just the thing to keep an eye on the Princesses and their circle during the time she wasn’t tutoring. “Crawfie, I’d be happy—in fact, thrilled—to help. Thank you.”

Maggie attended the first read-through that night in the nursery. The sheer scope of work the production would entail was staggering. There were sets to be built and painted, costumes to sew, props to make, lights to be hung, and only a few weeks in which to do it. Maggie sat, listening to the Princesses read through the script, taking notes on what would be needed. Mr. Tanner clapped his hands after they’d finished Act I, saying in plummy Welsh tones, “All right, Your Highnesses, that’s enough for the night.”

Maggie was amused there were no auditions for the roles; it was simply assumed the two Princesses would play the leads—Margaret as the Sleeping Princess and Elizabeth as the Prince.

A resounding bell stood in for the wailing air-raid siren Maggie was used to. Lilibet and Margaret rushed to the windows. “Theirs,” they said matter-of-factly, as German planes roared overhead, on their way to London or beyond. The corgis all crowded around the windows but were too well trained to bark. Still, a few of them growled softly.

Margaret went over to Maggie and took her hand. “We can tell the difference, you know,” she said, quite seriously, “even in the dark—by the sound of the engines.”

Mrs. Tuffts, another tiny and wizened A.R.P. Warden, fluttered in. “Come!” she said, her bony wrists waving and wisps of white hair escaping from under her metal helmet, “to the dungeons! Crawfie, would you please hurry them along?”

“Come, girls,” Crawfie urged. “Take your suitcases and gas masks, and we’ll be on our way.” And true enough, two small suitcases stood by the nursery door, as though the Princesses were off to Paddington Station instead of to a makeshift air-raid shelter in the castle’s dungeon.

“Can you believe those suitcases are real Vuitton?” Crawfie confided to Maggie. “They belong to France and Marionne.”

“France and Marionne?” Maggie didn’t think she’d met them yet.

“Oh, they’re dolls. Literal dolls. They were given to the Princesses to mark the King and Queen’s state visit to France.”

“Aha,” said Maggie.

“Come, pups!” Lilibet said to the corgis in motherly tones. Dutifully, they all got up and filed after her. Together, they all traveled through the corridors of the castle, until they reached the kitchen. There, down a flight of stairs, was the Royal wine cellar. In the back rooms of the wine cellar, Mrs. Tuffts rolled a carpet out of the way, revealing a trap door in the floor. Crawfie took hold of the iron ring and pulled. The door came up easily, revealing a steep staircase. “I’ll go first,” said Mrs. Tuffts, turning on a flashlight. “Watch your step, now.”

Down, down they went, into the bowels of the castle. The cold air was damp and stale. The walls were rough stone, and the path underneath their feet was crumbling. In the beam of Mrs. Tuffts’s light, Maggie could see shiny black beetles and spiders scuttling away. She thought she saw a fat gray rat out of the corner of her eye but decided it was only her imagination.

Finally, they reached their destination. Maggie saw that the walls had been reinforced and beds had been brought down. Others were there as well: Sir Owen, Lord Clive, Mr. Tooke. Sir Owen was making tea on a brazier. His fussing with the tea tin, pot, and cups seemed incongruous with the sinister gloom of the dungeon and at the same time so very natural for him. Maggie looked around at the walls, wondering about the fates of those who’d been imprisoned here.

“It’s a red warning, Miss Hope,” Mrs. Tuffts whispered in her ear. Yellow warnings were for when the bombers flew over on their way somewhere else. A red warning meant bombing was going on directly above them. “It’s unusual for us. They say Windsor Castle’s been spared so far, because Hitler rather fancies it for his own someday.”

“I see,” Maggie said, a shiver running through her, looking toward the Princesses. However, they were the picture of calm, already settling in with books and toys that Crawfie had brought, accepting cups of steaming tea from Sir Owen. Suddenly, he was at her elbow. “Would you care for a cup of tea, Miss Hope?” he asked.

“Yes, please.” He handed her a cup and saucer, the gold bands around the edges of the saucer and cup’s rim twinkling in the dim light. Maggie took a sip. It was weak, but it was hot, and she was grateful. “Thank you, Sir Owen,” she said, “for bringing civilization with us.”

“Of course!” he said, shocked that, even in a Royal dungeon, with Nazi planes dropping bombs overhead, life would be anything less than civilized. “Did you know, Miss Hope, that the soldiers manning the antiaircraft guns on the roof of the castle shot down a Nazi plane a few months ago? A Messerschmitt one-oh-nine—it landed upside down on the Long Walk. We turned it right side up and put it on public display. Would you believe people paid a sixpence to see it? The money went to the Hurricane Fighter Fund.”

“How fascinating, Sir Owen.” Through the gloom, Maggie could see groups of people settling in on metal folding chairs, dimly lit by candles or flashlights. She saw Louisa and Marion with a few of the other Ladies-in- Waiting. Making sure Crawfie and the Princesses were all right, Maggie picked her way over on the uneven stones to Louisa and Marion.

“Quite a nuisance,” Louisa was saying in her raspy voice. “I was supposed to have a date tonight.”

Maggie looked around, checking who was there. “Where’s Gregory?” she said, taking one of the hard metal seats.

“Oh, goodness knows where he’s gotten to,” Marion said. “He and Lily used to sneak out and go to the roof to drink bottled beer and watch the planes go by.”

“He must be terribly affected by her death,” Maggie said, taking a sip of tea. Was Lily’s baby his? she wondered. Do the girls know she was pregnant?

“Oh, yes,” Louisa said. “They knew each other since they were in the cradle. But I’d say he’s been more affected by his injuries. He’s not been the same since he came home.”

“Well, what do you expect?” said Marion. “He was practically burned to a crisp in Norway. I’ve heard him say he wishes it had ended there. But only when he’s ridiculously drunk.”