Princess Elizabeth's Spy

summer, after she’d discovered hidden Nazi code pointing to three specific attacks, including the assassination of the Prime Minister. When Frain had seen her in action, plus learned of her fluency in both French and German, he’d asked Maggie to leave her job as secretary for the P.M. and come work for him at MI-5, which she’d done, intrigued by the possibility of working undercover. She’d had high hopes of being dropped behind enemy lines on a clandestine mission.

And despite her wretched showing in the physical tasks at Camp Spook, she was still determined to do it.

Finally, she was ushered into the room to find Peter Frain behind a large oak desk, a reproduction of Goya’s Lord Nelson hanging on the wall behind him, next to an official photograph of King George VI.

Frain had the same black, slick-backed hair and cold gray eyes Maggie remembered, and, despite the privations of wartime, yet another impeccably tailored suit. In front of him was a manila folder, thick with papers. Maggie could see her name on a label and then, over it, the heavy red-inked stamp, TOP SECRET.

“Ah, Maggie,” Frain said, rising to his feet. They shook hands. “Please, take a seat.” They’d been on a first- name basis since their exploits of the summer. Still, the informality sounded a bit out of place in the austere offices of MI-5.

Maggie had the distinct and uncomfortable sensation of being called to the dean’s office. Still, she refused to let that show. “Good morning, Peter. A pleasure to see you again,” she said, sitting in the chair opposite his desk.

“And under more agreeable circumstances than last time,” Frain replied, his wintry features momentarily warmed by a smile.

“Indeed.”

“I’ve had a chance to look over your file.” He folded his long, tapered fingers. “You scored well on the Intelligence test. In fact, your answer to the first question on the maths section could be the basis of an article for a mathematics journal, if we had the time for such things. Perhaps after the war.”

Maggie’s stomach lurched a bit. “Perhaps.”

“However …”

Oh, here it comes.

“In regard to your physical skills—”

“Peter, I can assure you—”

“Not a bit of it, young lady,” Frain interrupted. “The job I have in mind for you won’t have any wall scaling or puddle jumping, I promise you.”

Maggie cocked an eyebrow. “Really?”

A job? Was he talking about a real spy job, or a desk job in some subbasement, reading the personal letters and private communications of senior officials and officers and flagging anything that looked suspicious? Was he, perhaps, talking about working at Bletchley? After all, her newly found father was there, acting the role of a mad cryptographer while ferreting out a spy.…

“As you undoubtedly know, the Royal Family has decided not to send the princesses to Canada or Australia for safety’s sake but to keep them here, in England.”

“At an ‘undisclosed location in the country,’” Maggie said, having read newspaper reports of the princesses’ whereabouts.

“Yes.” Frain nodded. “And since you’ve signed the Official Secrets Act, I can tell you the young princesses have been sequestered in Windsor Castle. It’s close enough to London that the King and Queen can work at Buckingham Palace during the week but then return to Windsor to be with their daughters on the weekends. Windsor’s not on any particular bombing path, so attacks there have been infrequent. And there’s ample shelter in the castle’s dungeons.”

Who would have thought the dungeons of Windsor would be found useful once again? “Yes,” Maggie repeated, growing impatient. What does this have to do with me?

Frain picked up the heavy green telephone receiver. “Mrs. Pipps, please have Mr. Thompson come to my office.”

He turned back to Maggie. “Mr. Thompson will be your handler while you’re at Windsor. Your cover story is to tutor the Princess Elizabeth in maths. Of course, the King and Queen know why you’re really there, but as far as anyone else in the castle knows, you’re just a tutor. You’ll report to the princesses’ governess,” he said, turning through pages until he found the name. “A Miss Marion Crawford.”

A tutor? To a child? Was the man serious? “Surely you’re joking, Peter,” she said, struggling to make sense of what he was telling her.

“No, Maggie. There’s a strong probability Princess Elizabeth may be in danger. She’s second in line to the throne, after all. We need someone at Windsor to keep an eye on things.”

“You want me to be her—her babysitter?” Maggie was shocked and not a little disappointed.

“I wouldn’t have chosen that specific word. Nanny is more commonly used here. Or the more archaic governess.”

“There must be a platoon of guards in place at Windsor to protect the princess. I’m much too important an asset to waste taking care of a child, Peter, and you know it.” To go from being a typist to being a nanny? What’s wrong with these men in charge?

“I’m quite familiar with your talents, Maggie, and I would never waste them. Why don’t you think of yourself more as a … a sponge?”

“A sponge?”

“Soak up any and all information. Observe everything you can at the castle—and then report anything and everything through Mr. Thompson back to me.”

“An undercover ‘sponge,’ “ Maggie snapped. “Just fantastic.”

The door opened and a figure appeared. “Ah, there you are,” Frain said. “Maggie, meet Hugh Thompson, your handler. Mr. Thompson, Miss Hope.” Hugh was about her age, in his mid-twenties, with a high forehead, hazel eyes, and fine lines hinting at a life of unremitting anxiety. He was astute, motivated, and efficient, different from many other men of his age and class, who tended to take more for granted. When war had broken out, he’d begun to work at the office around the clock, stopping only rarely for a pint with friends or to practice his beloved cello. His efficiency flat in Bloomsbury was unfurnished, except for a bed and a bookshelf and a pile of newspapers. His one indulgence was attending the occasional Chelsea Blues game.

“I’ve heard a lot about you, Miss Hope,” he said.

“And what, exactly, have you heard?”

“Mr. Thompson’s one of the agents who helped track Michael Murphy and his plan for bombing Saint Paul’s Cathedral this past summer.”

“Glad you got the bastard, Miss Hope,” Hugh said.

It seemed a lifetime ago. “Thank you, Mr. Thompson, for your part in it.”

But there was no time for pleasantries. Now she needed to make her stand, to draw a line in the sand. It was time.

Maggie rose to her feet and addressed both men. “Mr. Frain, Mr. Thompson,” she said. “I’m through allowing myself to be confined to so-called ‘women’s work.’ I’m also through with patronizing men giving me half-truths and withholding information. That will end here and now.

“I will consider—consider—going to Windsor Castle to be your ‘sponge.’ But only if you tell me everything—and I mean everything—you know. I’m not going into another situation blind. Not only is it unsafe, but I can’t do my best work.”

Frain cleared his throat. “I can’t do that.”

“Well,” Maggie pronounced, “then I can’t go to Windsor.” Her heart was beating wildly, but she was determined not to let them know. She walked briskly to the door. “Cheers!” she called back over her shoulder.

Frain and Thompson exchanged a look.

“All right, all right, Miss Hope!” Frain called after her. Maggie paused, her hand on the knob. “You’re right.