Princess Elizabeth's Spy

wide and hand in front of her mouth, trying to stifle a laugh. “It’s in the oven,” she whispered to Lilibet.

Maggie was packing up her books and notebooks. “What’s in the oven, Margaret?”

Lilibet’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Come with us,” she said. “You’ll see.”

Smiling with amusement, Maggie let the girls lead her through the castle’s maze of corridors, finally reaching the kitchen with its high ceilings and skylights.

“There you are,” said Cook, looking up from a mountain of chopping parsnips.

“Is it done?” asked Margaret.

“Almost,” Cook, wiping her hands on her apron. “Sit down and I’ll get it for you for your elevenses.”

“A mystery!” said Maggie as they sat down at a long wooden table. “And sounds like one you can eat too!”

The girls looked at each other and giggled.

From an enormous oven, Cook pulled out a pie. She set it in front of the trio. Maggie looked. The top of the pie was dark orange. She inhaled the fragrance of cinnamon and nutmeg. It smelled familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.

Margaret couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Pumpkin pie!” she exclaimed.

“Pumpkin pie?” echoed Maggie, confused.

“Well, we learned about America and the Pilgrims and the Indians,” Lilibet told her. “We thought you might miss celebrating Thanksgiving.”

Oh, the dears. Maggie felt a lump in her throat, part homesickness, part happiness. “Thank you, both,” she said. “I’m touched beyond words.” As a tutor, she just had to add, “You do know that Thanksgiving was more than two weeks ago, though, yes?”

“We had to save our sugar rations,” Lilibet confided.

“Can we eat it now?” Margaret asked.

“Of course,” said Maggie, as she sliced the pie and handed out plates.

“And we cooked the pumpkin and mixed the filling ourselves!” Margaret chimed. “It was baking during our lesson!”

“It smells wonderful,” Maggie told them.

“Very American?” Margaret asked.

“Extremely American,” Maggie replied.

Truth be told, the pie was not as sweet as it should have been and was missing, in Maggie’s opinion, the all- important allspice. But she blinked away stinging tears as they ate, thinking of her Thanksgivings at Wellesley with Aunt Edith and her friend and lover, Olive, who always managed to produce feasts from their tiny kitchen.

When they were finished, and dishes washed and put away, Margaret had another glint in her eye. “We want to take you exploring,” she said, sotto voce, out of earshot of Cook.

“Follow us,” Lilibet admonished.

Maggie did as she was told. “Yes, ma’am.”

The girls seemed to know every nook and cranny of the castle. Maggie was surprised when they took her down the stairs near the servants’ entrance and through narrow damp tunnels and down into the dungeon. Lilibet pulled out a flashlight they’d hidden for these purposes and turned it on, the beam a magic wand in the darkness.

“Where are we going?” Maggie whispered as they walked the low-ceilinged corridors in the dark. “And does Alah know you two do this? I can’t help but think she wouldn’t like it.”

Margaret sighed dramatically. “Alah doesn’t like us to do anything except sit and knit,” she said. “If I have to sit and knit everyday, I shall surely go mad.”

“Stop exaggerating, Margaret,” Lilibet snapped. “We’re at war. People are making enormous sacrifices. Surely if I can knit, you can knit.”

“Yes, your Majesty,” Margaret said with mock deference and a low curtsy.

Maggie was counting the twists and turns as they went. “You’re sure you know where you’re going?”

“And, here we are!” announced Lilibet.

They had reached a small room, part of the old dungeons. Maggie shivered, thinking of those who’d been imprisoned there over the centuries.

“Over here!” Margaret said, running over to a pile of large hatboxes. “Open it, Maggie!”

Maggie walked over with trepidation. What did the boxes contain? Skulls? Bones? Ashes?

Determined not to show fear, she opened the largest. Inside were newspapers. Taking a deep breath, Maggie reached inside. Behind her, the girls giggled. “She stuck in her thumb.…” Margaret began.

Maggie pulled out something large and heavy, wrapped in tissue paper. “… and pulled out …” Is that what I think it is? Could it be? “The Crown Jewels?”

The crown she held was the Imperial State Crown, gold and encrusted with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and pearls in crosses pattees and fleurs-de-lis, topped with purple velvet and trimmed in white ermine. The large diamonds glittered in the dim light. “‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,’ “ she whispered, thinking of all the heads who’d worn it over the ages.

“Look!” said Margaret, pulling out from another hatbox the long Sovereign’s scepter, topped with a diamond as large as her fist.

“Goodness,” Maggie breathed.

“Look at this,” Lilibet said, pulling out the Sovereign’s Orb, a golden ball set with bands of gems and pearls, topped with an amethyst and then a diamond cross. “Charles the Second once held it—can you imagine?” She held it out to Maggie. “Go on, give it a try.”

Maggie accepted the object, it was cool to the touch. “It’s heavy,” she whispered. Then, trying to remember her role as teacher, “Shouldn’t these be in the Tower of London?”

“Here for safekeeping. They will be mine one day, after all,” Lilibet said. “I wanted you to see them.”

“Thank you—both of you,” Maggie said. “This was, well, quite an unexpected treat.”

“We can give you a tour of more of the dungeons, if you’d like,” Margaret said, wrapping the jewels back in the papers and putting them in the trunk.

“Thank you,” Maggie said. “A tour would be more valuable than jewels, really.”

The next day, after lessons with Lilibet, Maggie took the Windsor and Eton central train back to London. After arriving at Paddington, Maggie took the tube’s Central Line to the Circle Line, exiting from the Bond Street stop in Mayfair. Above ground, she walked until she saw the imposing tall red-brick building that was Claridge’s. She walked past the doorman, who tipped his hat, over the gleaming black and white tiles, through the perfumed air, to the concierge desk.

The concierge on duty was a tall man, thin, with a long face and droopy eyes and jowls, like a bloodhound. “Good morning, Miss.” he said. “May I help you?”

“Good morning,” Maggie answered. She pulled out her picture of Lily. “I was wondering if you could help me —have you seen this woman at your hotel?”

“Miss, here at Claridge’s, we treat our guests with the utmost respect, which includes respect for their privacy.”

“I understand, sir, but the young lady in the photograph is dead. Any information you could share would be most appreciated.”

“Are you with the police?” he asked, voice low, making sure the hotel’s guests checking in couldn’t hear.

“N-no,” Maggie stammered. “I’m—a friend.” She pulled out a few pound notes, as she had seen done in the movies.

“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” he said, wagging his finger. “We don’t do that here. I’m afraid I can’t help you. Good day.”

Ugh, I’m such an amateur, she thought, annoyed. If Nevins were doing his job properly …  Maggie walked back to the door, when she got outside, out of sight of the front desk, she showed Lily’s photograph to the doorman, slipping him the pound notes. It went a bit smoother this time. “Have you seen this woman?”