Princess Elizabeth's Spy

were rough and bitten and decidedly un-princess-like. Even in the midst of her own crisis, Maggie realized what a strain the war must be on the young girls, even if they were Royal.

“I know how you must feel, or at least a little bit. If anything happened to Philip …”

Maggie slipped the envelope into her skirt pocket. “It’s nothing that can’t wait until we’ve finished our lesson,” she said briskly. “Now, let’s get down to business.”

It was only later, after Lilibet had closed the door behind her, that Maggie allowed herself to open the letter. It was from Nigel; she’d know his handwriting anywhere. It was shaky and less legible than she was used to, but it was Nigel’s.

She sat down, not sure if her legs would hold her.

Dear Maggie,

As a follow-up to our telephone conversation a few months ago, I am writing to confirm that we still have received no word from John.

He is an extremely able pilot and a loyal officer with a deep sense of duty.

However, he has not been able to contact us for over six months, and the odds of him surviving that long in enemy territory are, I’m sorry to say, quite low.

He is now listed as “Missing, presumed dead.” I thought you would want to know.

Yours sincerely,

Nigel

About a half an hour later there was a knock on the door to Maggie’s room. It was Lilibet, to pick up the ink bottle she’d left.

There was no answer.

Lilibet knocked again.

Nothing.

Just as she was about to turn and climb back down the cold, narrow steps, she heard a noise. It was a high- pitched keening sound. She opened the door.

There was Maggie, facedown on the sofa, clutching the missive in her hands and weeping.

“Maggie?” Lilibet said at the doorway. There was no response, but the wailing died down slightly, then stopped. The Princess could hear long ragged breaths and the occasional sniffle. “Maggie? Are you ill?”

Lilibet cautiously made her way in, walking gently toward the prone form on the sofa, as though not to startle a wild animal. “Maggie?”

Maggie sat up in a sudden movement, pulling her hair back and then wiping furiously at her red and swollen eyes.

“Lilibet, do you—do you have a handkerchief?” she asked finally.

“Of course,” said the Princess, procuring a clean cambric one. “Here you go. Now, tell me what’s wrong.”

Maggie gave her nose a good, honking blow, then pushed the letter to Lilibet, who read it. She set it down, then reached over to place her hand on Maggie’s.

“‘Missing and presumed dead.’ “ Maggie reached for the envelope and paper and crumpled them her hands. Then threw them both in the fire. The two watched as the orange flames consume both papers until they turned black and into lacey ash that flew up the chimney. Maggie felt gutted, as though she’d been kicked, hard, in the stomach. It was a physical sensation so fierce, she momentarily put her arms around herself in self-protection.

“Shhhhh …” Lilibet said in motherly tones, stroking Maggie’s hair as she might pet a horse or corgi. “It will be all right, Maggie. It will be all right.”

Some time later, Lilibet had convinced Maggie to wash her face with cold water and come down to the kitchen for some hot tea.

“Maggie’s had some bad news,” she said to Cook, who immediately went to brew a pot of tea. Then she returned to her work, making up a new tray for Audrey to take upstairs.

“Here you go, Cousin,” Cook said to the Parisienne, who smiled at Maggie and bobbed a curtsey at Lilibet before she picked up her tray and left..

At the long wooden table, Maggie didn’t want to discuss what had just happened; the pain was still too raw and she was still too numb. Lilibet seemed to understand, and sat next to her in supportive silence. Better to try to think of other things.

“Audrey Moreau is your cousin?” she asked Cook, taking a sip of the hot tea.

“No, Miss,” said Cook. “My husband’s cousin. She came from Paris. Got out just in time, poor thing. Parents are gone—got an older brother, but he joined the military. Not sure where he is now.”

“Thank goodness she made it in time!” Lilibet exclaimed.

“And so she’s been here for, what, about eight months?” asked Maggie. “How does she like it?”

“Doing fine, Miss. Does what she’s told, never complains.” Cook looked concerned. “She’s been all right with you, Miss?”

“Oh, yes,” Maggie said. “Of course. Consummate professional, lovely person. I was just curious, is all.”

So, John is dead. Did he die on impact, when his Spitfire went down? Or was he found by the Nazis, then tortured for information, then killed? she thought, before bursting into tears yet again, the heavy pain in her heart nearly unbearable.

How can life possibly go on? And yet it did. People in the castle’s kitchen chopped root vegetables and peeled apples and pulled feathers off chickens and geese. The clock ticked and the hands moved. The earth on its axis turned on and on. And this is what life is, Maggie thought. How odd, really. He’s dead, we’re still alive, and the earth keeps spinning on its axis. How very, very droll.

Chapter Nineteen

In an effort to keep her mind off John, Maggie decided to redouble her efforts to solve the mystery of Lady Lily’s death. After her tea in the kitchen with the princess, she slipped on her sturdy shoes and tramped over the castle’s grounds in the milky afternoon light until she reached the place where Lily had been killed.

The wire had cut through the bark of the tree. It had been tied high up—high enough that it was meant for an adult, on a full-sized horse. Not for a young girl on a smaller pony. Surely, though, Inspector Wilson had noticed that.

In the bare branches of the scarred tree, Maggie heard the raspy, scolding cry of a peregrine falcon. Her eyes went from the falcon, back to the castle. Sure enough, there was Sam Berners, backlit against the sun. “What did you see that morning?” Maggie said to the hawk.

“Scree! Scree! Scree!” it responded before it flew off, its large wings creating a small windstorm. Maggie saw him fly up, up, up into the sky, make a long, gliding circle, then come to rest on the arm of the ever-present, ever-watching Sam Berners. Maggie remembered his agitation the day he was questioned, the way he nearly had to be restrained.

“And, better yet—what did Mr. Berners see?”

It took Maggie a while to walk back to the castle, and then to find her way all the way up to the Royal Mews. Sam Berners was leaning his bulk against the parapets, looking out over the land, cold wind ruffling his unkempt hair.

“Mr. Berners!” Maggie called.

“What ye want, lassie? This isn’t a place for ladies.”

“I think they’re beautiful, you know,” she said, looking at the hooded falcons on their perches.

Berners gave her a sullen glare.

Maggie was undeterred. “The morning of the day Lady Lily was decapitated—”

“I seen nothin’,” he growled. “Already told the detective.”