Princess Elizabeth's Spy

“Gregory and Lily—they, ah …” Could Gregory be the baby’s father? Could he be the killer? Oh, no, no. Not Gregory.

“We always suspected it,” Louisa said, “but they’d never admit to anything.”

“Tell me about Lily,” Maggie said. “What was she like?”

Marion sighed. “Everyone loved Lily. She had such charm about her, an ease—”

“And that laugh,” Louisa interrupted. “Like a raccoon in heat.”

“Louisa!” Marion exclaimed, and they both giggled.

“Well, It’s true! And if Lily were here, she’d be the first to agree.”

“Was she,” Maggie said, delicately, “seeing anyone else? Besides, perhaps, Gregory?”

Louisa shrugged. “Hard to tell. She was always secretive about her beaux. But she did like to go to London on the weekends. Couldn’t possibly keep her here, you know. Sometimes we’d go with her, on the train, and sometimes Gregory would give her a lift. And always at Claridge’s. Never the Savoy or the Ritz or any of the other big hotels—no, those were for tourists. She always stayed at Claridge’s.”

“My, my,” Maggie said, taking another sip of her tea. And Victoria Keeley was at Claridge’s at the same time. Who had access to the decrypts, could have somehow stolen one, and then given it to Lily. And was murdered in the bath. Maggie had a sudden inspiration. A trip to London, to Claridge’s, to question the staff is in order.

Maggie looked around. “It seems like there are a lot of tunnels.” And a security nightmare, she thought.

Lilibet, approaching with a knitted wool lap blanket, overheard her. “There are—it’s a veritable labyrinth,” she said, handing Maggie the blanket. “Suspected you might be cold.”

“Thank you,” Maggie said, spreading it over her legs. “Have you and Margaret done much exploring of the tunnels?”

The corners of Lilibet’s mouth turned up. “We’re not supposed to play down here, of course.”

Maggie raised one eyebrow. “Of course.”

“But,” said the Princess, leaning in to Maggie’s ear, “let’s just say that we know if you follow the main tunnel, you’ll come out near the Norman Gate. And if you follow them further, you’ll get to the Henry the Eighth gate. It’s a handy way to cut through a lot of the castle.”

“Good to know,” said Maggie. “Thanks for the tip.”

Lilibet looked to Princess Margaret across the chamber and their eyes met, some secret message being exchanged.

Then Lilibet whispered to Maggie, “We’ll give you our special tour.”

Chapter Sixteen

Although Maggie wanted to get to Claridge’s to carry out her own line of questioning, she still had her original mission. The King’s files were kept under lock and key in the King’s Equerry’s office—Gregory’s office. And Gregory, in his position as Equerry, was also Keeper of the Keys. The next evening, with the small bar of clay secreted away in her trouser pocket, Maggie made her way through the maze of the castle to find him. She knocked at the heavy wooden door.

“Come in,” Gregory called.

Maggie did, taking in the Persian carpets and heavy carved furniture. The blackout curtains were in place, and Gregory was reading The Times by the jewel-like glow of a Tiffany lamp, the light catching on the tray of various cut-glass bottles. He looked up and smiled, his scars less noticeable in the dim light.

“Ah, Maggie,” he said, raising his cocktail glass. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” He looked pale, and the skin around his scar tissue looked angry and red. He reeked of gin.

Oh, if only I could tell you, Maggie thought. But, given what I suspect about you, I really can’t. “Are you all right?” she asked. “I don’t want to disturb your work.”

“No,” Gregory said, slurring slightly. “Please sit down. You’re a ray of sunshine in this gloom. The King’s at a very important, very formal, and very long dinner—and while he’s there, there’s no chance of my being summoned.” He indicated a bell near the door. “That’s my cue. When it rings, I’m off and running—like one of Pavlov’s dogs.” He put down the paper and smiled. “I have to admit, though, the work’s pretty light. It’s more or less six months of paid vacation for us soldiers.”

“Well, you certainly deserve it,” Maggie said. She looked at the bank of wooden files that lined the wall behind him. They all had locks on them.

“How much of that have you had?” she asked, indicating the glass and a crystal decanter.

“Not nearly enough,” he replied, taking another swig. “Would you like some?”

“Yes, please.”

As he poured her a martini and refreshed his own, he said, “By the way, who was the man?”

“What man?” Maggie asked. But she was stalling. Gregory must have seen her with Nevins from the castle. Bloody Nevins, she thought. Stupid Nevins.

He shook gin and a splash of vermouth with some ice in a shaker, then poured the frosty clear liquid into a cocktail glass and handed it to her. “I saw you on Peascod Street today,” he said. “Who was that man you were speaking with?”

“Why, Gregory,” Maggie dissembled. “Are you jealous?” Heart beating fast, she thought quickly. “He was pretending to be lost, but do you know who I think it was?”

“Who?”

“A journalist!” Maggie said, improvising. “Can you imagine? I can’t think that any respectable paper would print a story about where the Princesses were, but there are some unsavory tabloids.…”

“Oh,” Gregory said. “Right.”

“I think I scared him off, though. Gave him quite a stern lecture.”

He nodded. Close call, Maggie thought. “Long rehearsal tonight,” she said, covering a yawn.

Gregory stared off into the middle distance, eyes unseeing.

“Are you all right?” Maggie asked.

He blinked, then shook his head and smiled. “Sorry, just a little distracted. How’s Sleeping Beauty coming?”

“Oh, it’s coming. I could use some help painting the flats, though, if you’re so inclined. Somehow, the amount of scenery we need has increased exponentially.”

“I know my way around a paintbrush.” Gregory grinned. “I’d be honored to help.”

Maggie raised her glass, and they clinked. She sipped at her martini and watched him gulp his. “Shall we?”

Crawfie and the Princesses were running lines in the cozy warmth of the nursery. “I’ve brought reinforcements!” Maggie announced.

“Oh, Lord Gregory,” Alah said, looking up.

“Mrs. Knight, I heard I might be of service?” he said.

“Lord Gregory!” Margaret said, standing abruptly and dropping her script. “You’ve come to rescue us!”

“Your humble servant, Your Highnesses,” he replied with a low courtly bow.

Maggie was proud the Princesses had no reaction to his scars. “I’m putting him to work on the flats,” she said, indicating the half-painted scenery on a tarp in the corner of the room. “Let’s get him a smock and a brush and get started, shall we?”

Maggie noticed Gregory had a key ring attached to his belt. The key to the files must be in that ring, she realized. “Perhaps you’d like to change?”

He looked up as he buttoned an already paint-splattered smock. “Oh, I think I’m fine. But thanks for your concern.”

“Of course!” But she bit her lip in frustration. This was a situation not covered by exercises at Camp Spook.

“As you can see,” she said, “I’ve finished the flats for the castle’s Christening scene, and now I’m trying to do