He studied the photo. “Yes, Miss,” he said, pocketing the pound notes. “She used to come here regular, about once a month, I’d say.”
“Did you ever see her come or go with anyone?”
“Sometimes some lady friends. Young, like ‘er.”
“Pale, black hair, red lipstick?”
“That’d be them, Miss.”
“Anyone else?”
“Sometimes, Miss,” he said in lower tones, “people don’t come and go with the people they’re here with, if you get my meaning. But the chambermaids always know. Go around the corner to the staff entrance, ask around there. You may get someone who knows more than I do.” He gave a broad wink.
“Thank you,” Maggie said, “very much.”
She walked into the staff entrance, a world away from the polished surfaces and high ceilings of the lobby— low and dim.
“Miss, you’re not allowed in ‘ere,” a thin older woman said, her rough hands testament to the cleaning she must do.
“Actually, I was wondering,” Maggie said. “Have you ever seen this woman here at the hotel?”
The woman stared at the photograph. “No, love, I ain’t seen ’er.” Maggie pulled out the pound notes again. This time, they had the intended effect. The woman looked around and caught sight of one of her fellow maids. “She might know. Maude! Maude! Come over ‘ere?”
“What?” Maude barked. She was a large, burly woman with surprisingly delicate features.
“Miss ‘ere ‘as a question,” she said, looking pointedly at the pound notes.
“Do you recognize the woman in the photo?” Maggie asked.
The woman stared. “Yeah,” she said. “Always asking for more towels, that one. What she does with all them towels, I ‘ave no idea, ‘cept we’ve gotta wash ‘em.”
Maggie’s heart leapt. “Did you ever see her with anyone?”
The woman squinted at the photo. “Oh, she got around, all right. I know, ‘cause I bring her the extra towels to ‘er room, and also some other’s rooms. Probably took a bath in every bloody room at the hotel. Sorry, Miss.”
“That’s all right. Do you happen to remember who she was with?”
The woman sighed. “There was a woman, actually. Pretty, with black ‘air.” She lowered her voice. “The one ’oo was murdered ’ere.” She crossed herself.
“A young man. Tall, thin.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Oh, I dunno, Miss. All those young men look alike to me. Tall, pale, nose in the air.”
“Was he blond or dark?” Maggie pressed. “Did he have scars on his face?” She waited for the answer, heart in her throat. Because she liked Gregory, she really did. And she didn’t want him to have anything to do with Lily’s murder or the decrypt.
“No, Miss, no scars—I would ’ave remembered that.” She thought a bit. “’E ’ad one a those scarves, you know, the fancy university scarves?”
“What were the colors?”
“Blue. Dark blue with red and yellow. I remember it—ugly as sin.”
By the time Maggie returned to the castle, snow was falling in earnest and a light dusting had collected on the ground. As she walked up the gravel path, her feet making crunching noises in the still, cold air and the bells from St. George’s Chapel clanging, she saw that a truck had pulled up in front of the castle’s entrance. In the back was an enormous evergreen from the Great Park, at least twenty-two feet tall and nearly as wide at the tree’s foot—the Royal Christmas tree.
Mr. Tooke was overseeing the men untying the ropes and wrestling with it. He caught Maggie’s eye and lifted his tweed cap. “Hello, Mr. Tooke!” Maggie called. She recognized her winking footman, out of uniform. “Hello,” she said to him. “It’s silly to keep seeing each other and not be introduced. I’m Maggie Hope.”
“George Poulter,” he said, tipping his cap. “How d’you do?”
“Have you been at Windsor long, Mr. Poulter?”
“Came with Sir Gregory. Sir Gregory Strathcliffe? I used to be his manservant back in the day, at his family’s estate. That was before the injuries, of course. He found me a place at Windsor Castle when he came, he did. Good man, Sir Gregory.”
“Yes,” Maggie said, thoughtful. “Yes, he is.”
Inside, the castle was a buzz of activity. Servants arranged boughs of evergreen on fireplace mantels, releasing their sharp, piney smell. There was holly as well, with glossy leaves and bright red berries. Even through the corridors were as long and cold as ever, the decorations lent a homey touch to the place. Maggie was amused to see that, where grand oil paintings used to hang, large posters for
Maggie made her way to the vast Waterloo Chamber, where the stage was set up. The room was magnificent: a soaring clerestory ceiling, paneled walls decorated with lime-wood carvings by Grinling Gibbons, an enormous Indian carpet.
Lilibet and Margaret were rehearsing the final ballroom scene with the other children, the sons and daughters of the castle’s staff. “Stop it, Margaret,” Maggie heard. It was Lilibet, her high, sweet voice echoing through the vast chamber. “You’re stepping on my toes.”
“Oooooh, wouldn’t want to step on the Royal Toesies, now, would we?” Margaret retorted.
Crawfie clapped her hands. “All right, children,” she said in her Scottish lilt. “Let’s take a break, shall we? Audrey’s setting up tea and biscuits in the nursery—come back in half an hour, please.”
Maggie walked forward to Crawfie, standing near the platforms of the makeshift stage. “How goes it?”
“Oh, Maggie.” Crawfie sighed. “I’d be better off directing corgis, for as much as the children listen … and the performance is in less than two weeks.”
“That’s quite a bit of time—I’m sure it will be wonderful,” Maggie assured the woman.
“The sets look fantastic,” Crawfie said.
“Thank you. The girls and Gregory are responsible.”
“Oh, but the shading—it really looks like a storybook brought to life!”
“Well, it’s a bit intimidating, making a castle set to go into an actual castle—but somehow we managed by making it a bit less literal. Thank Gerda Wegener—I loved her illustrations when I was a child.”
“You’ll be with us? For the performance? To make sure everything goes the way it should?” Crawfie looked pale.
“Of course I shall. Wouldn’t dream of being anywhere else.” Maggie looked intently at Crawfie. “Are you all right? Maybe you could do with a cup of tea yourself?”
“Oh, I’m fine,” Crawfie shrugged. “It’s just that, with the Prime Minister coming and all of his people, and the King and Queen, of course … and it’s such a big event for the children. The first time most of them have been onstage.” She shook her head. “I just don’t want anything to go wrong.”
“No,” Maggie said, looking out into the shadows, realizing how vulnerable Lilibet and Margaret were onstage. “No, indeed.”
Chapter Eighteen
Letters arrived for Maggie occasionally, care of Windsor Castle. The twins, Annabelle and Clarabelle, sent missives describing their adventures as Land Girls working on a farm in Scotland, writing on the same page in two alternating colored inks, purple for Annabelle and Moroccan red for Clarabelle. Sarah sent cards from various stops on the Vic-Wells Ballet’s tour of Britain, deftly drawn cartoons of some of her fellow dancers, including ballerina Margot Fonteyn and choreographer Frederick Ashton.
Aunt Edith sent long letters in small, elegant script, lamenting Maggie’s career move from typist to tutor. Of all the people she had to keep her secret from, Maggie would have loved to have told Aunt Edith what she was
