Princess Elizabeth's Spy

Maggie considered. “I’m not asking if you saw the actual murder. I’m asking if you saw the person who put up the wire. See?” She pointed to the riding course. “You have a perfect view. And I know you’re always up here, watching your birds.”

“I seen nothin’. Told you.” He trained his eyes back to the horizon.

“What did you see, Mr. Berners?” she asked gently.

“I canna, I canna say,” he said finally.

“So, you did see something.” Maggie’s heart beat faster. “Who? Who was it?”

Berners was silent, an agonized look on his face.

“A woman is dead.” She took a breath. “It might easily have been Princess Elizabeth.…”

Berners looked at her, shocked. It had been the first time he’d looked her in the eyes, and Maggie noticed they were green and flecked with gold.

“Yes, she was out riding with Lily that morning. If she’d been in front …”

“The wee Princess?” Berners looked close to tears. “I didn’ know. That’s different. He shouldna have put the Princess’s life at risk. No, no,” he muttered, trying to sort out this new revelation.

“So you did see something?”

“The person … The person who did it knows somethin’ ‘bout me,” Berners said. “Somethin’ bad. Real bad.” He looked down at his boots. “I don’ wanna lose my place here.”

“Whatever it is, it can’t be as bad as a murder.”

“Hunting, murder—we’re all righ’ savage when you think abou’ it.”

“Your birds hunt for food. It’s natural. It’s the food chain, Darwin’s survival of the fittest. But whoever killed Lily was committing murder. There’s the difference. In many ways, your falcons are more civilized than people.”

Berners considered, looking out over the vast lands of the castle. “Aye, lassie,” he said finally. “You’re right.” He took a breath. “He’s been poachin’ off the King’s land, he has. And since I saw what he did, he’s been givin’ me food. And I take it. I’ve jus’ been so hungry, Miss. So hungry …”

“That’s all?” Maggie smiled, a wide smile. When Berners saw, he gave a nervous laugh.

“Yes, miss, that’s all. Canna stan’ that carrot mess no more.” He shrugged. “An’ that Lady Lily was no lady, that’s for sure. She a mean one. Oh, not to the other Lords and Ladies, but horrible to the servants. Didn’t think the world was any worse with her gone.” He scratched his head. “Didn’t think about the Princess being in danger, though.”

“Mr. Berners,” Maggie pressed, “who set up the wire?”

He looked up, eyes wild. “If I tell you what I know, I’ll get in trouble. Can’t afford to lose my job, miss.”

“Of course not,” Maggie said in soothing tones. “But you didn’t do anything.” She had an idea. “And he did. What if he decides to kill again? Maybe the princesses won’t be so lucky?”

“I don’t want to get into any trouble, miss,” Berners said, voice breaking.

“You didn’t do anything—you’re just a witness.”

“I took ’is meat.”

“But he was the one who did the poaching.” Maggie paused. “I’ve met Detective Wilson a few times. And he seems like a reasonable man. If you tell me who did it, I can tell him how helpful you were. And he might go easy on you.”

“If you could do that, miss, I’d be most grateful.”

“Then, Mr. Berners, please tell me—who killed Lady Lily?”

There was the loud sound of wings flapping and a rush of air. Berners stretched out his arm, and a falcon landed on his long leather glove, wings beating fast and hard until the bird folded them neatly. “What d’you think, Merlin,” Berners said. “You think I should tell the young miss?”

Merlin cocked his head and angled one beady black eye at Maggie. “Scree! Scree!” he cried.

“All right,” Berners said, giving a heavy sigh. “The man who put up the wire that killed Lady Lily was Mr. Tooke, Miss.”

Mr. Tooke! The Head Gardener. He was the perpetrator?

“Thank you, Mr. Berners,” Maggie said, trying to contain her shock. “And may I call Detective Wilson and tell him you’ll speak with him?”

Another long pause, while Berners stroked the feathers at the back of Merlin’s neck.

“I’ll talk to ’im, miss,” he agreed finally. “Yea, I’ll talk to ‘im.”

Maggie went to the tidy red-brick police building. The older man with sandy hair recognized her and smiled. “Well, hello there!”

“I’m here to see Detective Wilson,” Maggie said. “It’s urgent.”

“He’s in a meeting, Miss.”

“It’s something he’ll want to hear right away.”

“Then come to his office, Miss.”

When Detective Wilson excused himself from his meeting, he went to his office and listened to what Maggie had learned. Together, they drove back to the castle, where they went first to find Sam Berners on the roof, who told the detective the same story he’d told Maggie.

Then they went to Mr. Tooke’s flat, where he confessed everything. He looked almost relieved when the detective said he was under arrest for the murder of Lily Howell, put handcuffs on him and led him to the car to take him to the station. As they drove away, Maggie felt sad. Sad for Mr. Tooke’s wife, sad for Mr. Tooke, sad for Lily. She remembered something she had typed once, for the P.M.: “Never, never, never believe any war will be smooth and easy, or that anyone who embarks on the strange voyage can measure the tides and hurricanes he will encounter.”

Hats off, Mr. Churchill, Maggie thought grimly. You certainly have that one right.

Back in her room, Maggie shivered. She used the loo, washed up, then changed into her flannel nightgown, adding socks and a cardigan. The fireplace was lit and she turned on the portable radiator in the bedroom, waiting for it to warm. In the meantime, she cleared the small table where she and Lilibet had been working.

She picked up the book, the Grimm. Maggie sighed. It wasn’t Lilibet’s fault; it had been an accident. Still, it was one of the few things she owned that had belonged to her mother.…

Maggie looked at the inscription. It was still there, the black ink now blurred and watery. However, that wasn’t what captured Maggie’s attention, as she flipped through the pages of the book. There were tiny, tiny holes in the pages. Holes too small to be seen with the naked eye but highlighted by the tea stains.

Some sort of bugs? Moths? Maggie thought. Then she headed for the bed, to battle yet another night of tears and insomnia and eventual bad dreams.

The next day, Maggie received a package with her breakfast, a pair of leather skates in her size, along with a message that her skates were sharpened and ready. Since she already had her skates, she could interpret only that Hugh was going to meet her somewhere where they could ice-skate.

“Audrey,” Maggie asked, “where do people skate around here?”

“I think there’s a pond near Frogmore House, miss,” Audrey replied.

“Thank you,” Maggie said. She was happy—not because would she see Hugh, of course, but because she’d have a chance to vary her physical fitness routine.

Stately white Frogmore House, a seventeenth-century royal country home, was a good walk south of the castle in the Home Park. Maggie had made it in plenty of time and was sitting on a rough wooden bench by the side of the pond, lacing up her skates, when she spotted Hugh, dressed in tweed trousers and a Barbour jacket, playing tag with a few children. Their laughter, and the rough, scraping sound of blades on hard ice, floated up to the sky, which was leaden and threatened snow. The surrounding grass was a dull brown, and the trees that outlined the perimeter of the pond were now completely bare.

Maggie stepped onto the ice and pushed off on one blade, her breath visible in the cold air. So long, Nevins.