Princess Elizabeth's Spy (14 page)

Down, down they went, into the bowels of the castle. The cold air was damp and stale. The walls were rough stone, and the path underneath their feet was crumbling. In the beam of Mrs. Tuffts’s light, Maggie could see shiny black beetles and spiders scuttling away. She thought she saw a fat gray rat out of the corner of her eye but decided it was only her imagination.

Finally, they reached their destination. Maggie saw that the walls had been reinforced and beds had been brought down. Others were there as well: Sir Owen, Lord Clive, Mr. Tooke. Sir Owen was making tea on a brazier. His fussing with the tea tin, pot, and cups seemed incongruous with the sinister gloom of the dungeon and at the same time so very natural for him. Maggie looked around at the walls, wondering about the fates of those who’d been imprisoned here.

“It’s a red warning, Miss Hope,” Mrs. Tuffts whispered in her ear. Yellow warnings were for when the bombers flew over on their way somewhere else. A red warning meant bombing was going on directly above them. “It’s unusual for us. They say Windsor Castle’s been spared so far, because Hitler rather fancies it for his own someday.”

“I see,” Maggie said, a shiver running through her, looking toward the Princesses. However, they were the picture of calm, already settling in with books and toys that Crawfie had brought, accepting cups of steaming tea from Sir Owen. Suddenly, he was at her elbow. “Would you care for a cup of tea, Miss Hope?” he asked.

“Yes, please.” He handed her a cup and saucer, the gold bands around the edges of the saucer and cup’s rim twinkling in the dim light. Maggie took a sip. It was weak, but it was hot, and she was grateful. “Thank you, Sir Owen,” she said, “for bringing civilization with us.”

“Of course!” he said, shocked that, even in a Royal dungeon, with Nazi planes dropping bombs overhead, life would be anything less than civilized. “Did you know, Miss Hope, that the soldiers manning the antiaircraft guns on the roof of the castle shot down a Nazi plane a few months ago? A Messerschmitt one-oh-nine—it landed upside down on the Long Walk. We turned it right side up and put it on public display. Would you believe people paid a sixpence to see it? The money went to the Hurricane Fighter Fund.”

“How fascinating, Sir Owen.” Through the gloom, Maggie could see groups of people settling in on metal folding chairs, dimly lit by candles or flashlights. She saw Louisa and Marion with a few of the other Ladies-in-Waiting. Making sure Crawfie and the Princesses were all right, Maggie picked her way over on the uneven stones to Louisa and Marion.

“Quite a nuisance,” Louisa was saying in her raspy voice. “I was supposed to have a date tonight.”

Maggie looked around, checking who was there. “Where’s Gregory?” she said, taking one of the hard metal seats.

“Oh, goodness knows where he’s gotten to,” Marion said. “He and Lily used to sneak out and go to the roof to drink bottled beer and watch the planes go by.”

“He must be terribly affected by her death,” Maggie said, taking a sip of tea.
Was Lily’s baby his?
she wondered.
Do the girls know she was pregnant?

“Oh, yes,” Louisa said. “They knew each other since they were in the cradle. But I’d say he’s been more affected by his injuries. He’s not been the same since he came home.”

“Well, what do you expect?” said Marion. “He was practically burned to a crisp in Norway. I’ve heard him say he wishes it had ended there. But only when he’s ridiculously drunk.”

“Gregory and Lily—they, ah …”
Could Gregory be the baby’s father? Could he be the killer? Oh, no, no. Not Gregory.

“We always suspected it,” Louisa said, “but they’d never admit to anything.”

“Tell me about Lily,” Maggie said. “What was she like?”

Marion sighed. “Everyone loved Lily. She had such charm about her, an ease—”

“And that laugh,” Louisa interrupted. “Like a raccoon in heat.”

“Louisa!” Marion exclaimed, and they both giggled.

“Well, It’s true! And if Lily were here, she’d be the first to agree.”

“Was she,” Maggie said, delicately, “seeing anyone else? Besides, perhaps, Gregory?”

Louisa shrugged. “Hard to tell. She was always secretive about her beaux. But she did like to go to London on the weekends. Couldn’t possibly keep her here, you know. Sometimes we’d go with her, on the train, and sometimes Gregory would give her a lift. And always at Claridge’s. Never the Savoy or the Ritz or any of the other big hotels—no, those were for tourists. She always stayed at Claridge’s.”

“My, my,” Maggie said, taking another sip of her tea.
And Victoria Keeley was at Claridge’s at the same time. Who had access to the decrypts, could have somehow stolen one, and then given it to Lily. And was murdered in the bath.
Maggie had a sudden inspiration.
A trip to London, to Claridge’s, to question the staff is in order.

Maggie looked around. “It seems like there are a lot of tunnels.”
And a security nightmare,
she thought.

Lilibet, approaching with a knitted wool lap blanket, overheard her. “There are—it’s a veritable labyrinth,” she said, handing Maggie the blanket. “Suspected you might be cold.”

“Thank you,” Maggie said, spreading it over her legs. “Have you and Margaret done much exploring of the tunnels?”

The corners of Lilibet’s mouth turned up. “We’re not supposed to play down here, of course.”

Maggie raised one eyebrow. “Of course.”

“But,” said the Princess, leaning in to Maggie’s ear, “let’s just say that we know if you follow the main tunnel, you’ll come out near the Norman Gate. And if you follow them further, you’ll get to the Henry the Eighth gate. It’s a handy way to cut through a lot of the castle.”

“Good to know,” said Maggie. “Thanks for the tip.”

Lilibet looked to Princess Margaret across the chamber and their eyes met, some secret message being exchanged.

Then Lilibet whispered to Maggie, “We’ll give you our special tour.”

Although Maggie wanted to get to Claridge’s to carry out her own line of questioning, she still had her original mission. The King’s files were kept under lock and key in the King’s Equerry’s office—Gregory’s office. And Gregory, in his position as Equerry, was also Keeper of the Keys. The next evening, with the small bar of clay secreted away in her trouser pocket, Maggie made her way through the maze of the castle to find him. She knocked at the heavy wooden door.

“Come in,” Gregory called.

Maggie did, taking in the Persian carpets and heavy carved furniture. The blackout curtains were in place, and Gregory was reading
The Times
by the jewel-like glow of a Tiffany lamp, the light catching on the tray of various cut-glass bottles. He looked up and smiled, his scars less noticeable in the dim light.

“Ah, Maggie,” he said, raising his cocktail glass. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” He looked pale, and the skin around his scar tissue looked angry and red. He reeked of gin.

Oh, if only I could tell you,
Maggie thought.
But, given what I suspect about you, I really can’t.
“Are you all right?” she asked. “I don’t want to disturb your work.”

“No,” Gregory said, slurring slightly. “Please sit down. You’re a ray of sunshine in this gloom. The King’s at a very important, very formal, and very long dinner—and while he’s there, there’s no chance of my being summoned.” He indicated a bell near the door. “That’s my cue. When it rings, I’m off and running—like one of Pavlov’s dogs.” He put down the paper and smiled. “I have to admit, though, the work’s pretty light. It’s more or less six months of paid vacation for us soldiers.”

“Well, you certainly deserve it,” Maggie said. She looked at the bank of wooden files that lined the wall behind him. They all had locks on them.

“How much of that have you had?” she asked, indicating the glass and a crystal decanter.

“Not nearly enough,” he replied, taking another swig. “Would you like some?”

“Yes, please.”

As he poured her a martini and refreshed his own, he said, “By the way, who was the man?”

“What man?” Maggie asked. But she was stalling. Gregory must have seen her with Nevins from the castle.
Bloody Nevins,
she thought.
Stupid Nevins.

He shook gin and a splash of vermouth with some ice in a shaker, then poured the frosty clear liquid into a cocktail glass and handed it to her. “I saw you on Peascod Street today,” he said. “Who was that man you were speaking with?”

“Why, Gregory,” Maggie dissembled. “Are you jealous?” Heart beating fast, she thought quickly. “He was pretending to be lost, but do you know who I think it was?”

“Who?”

“A journalist!” Maggie said, improvising. “Can you imagine? I can’t think that any respectable paper would print a story about where the Princesses were, but there are some unsavory tabloids.…”

“Oh,” Gregory said. “Right.”

“I think I scared him off, though. Gave him quite a stern lecture.”

He nodded.
Close call,
Maggie thought. “Long rehearsal tonight,” she said, covering a yawn.

Gregory stared off into the middle distance, eyes unseeing.

“Are you all right?” Maggie asked.

He blinked, then shook his head and smiled. “Sorry, just a little distracted. How’s
Sleeping Beauty
coming?”

“Oh, it’s coming. I could use some help painting the flats, though, if you’re so inclined. Somehow, the amount of scenery we need has increased exponentially.”

“I know my way around a paintbrush.” Gregory grinned. “I’d be honored to help.”

Maggie raised her glass, and they clinked. She sipped at her martini and watched him gulp his. “Shall we?”

Crawfie and the Princesses were running lines in the cozy warmth of the nursery. “I’ve brought reinforcements!” Maggie announced.

“Oh, Lord Gregory,” Alah said, looking up.

“Mrs. Knight, I heard I might be of service?” he said.

“Lord Gregory!” Margaret said, standing abruptly and dropping her script. “You’ve come to rescue us!”

“Your humble servant, Your Highnesses,” he replied with a low courtly bow.

Maggie was proud the Princesses had no reaction to his scars. “I’m putting him to work on the flats,” she said, indicating the half-painted scenery on a tarp in the corner of the room. “Let’s get him a smock and a brush and get started, shall we?”

Maggie noticed Gregory had a key ring attached to his belt.
The key to the files must be in that ring,
she realized. “Perhaps you’d like to change?”

He looked up as he buttoned an already paint-splattered smock. “Oh, I think I’m fine. But thanks for your concern.”

“Of course!” But she bit her lip in frustration. This was a situation not covered by exercises at Camp Spook.

“As you can see,” she said, “I’ve finished the flats for the castle’s Christening scene, and now I’m trying to do a decent wall of thorns.…”

Almost an hour later, they’d made great progress.

“I’m bored,” Margaret announced to the room.

“You still need to practice,” Lilibet admonished.

“I know my lines,” she retorted, sticking out her tongue. “I’m asleep for most of the play, after all.”

“But now you need to sleep in character,” the older Princess said. “You need to practice with feeling.”

“
Feeling
?” Margaret said. “I suppose you’d know all about that. You, with your romance novels—”

“Stop it!” Lilibet said, her cheeks turning pink.

“Oh, yes,” Margaret announced to everyone, “Lilibet reads romance novels now. And wears silk stockings. And writes looooong letters to Philip …”

“Stop!” Lilibet cried. “Philip and I are friends,” she said to the others. “He asked me to write to him while he’s as sea. He’s in the Royal Navy, after all. It’s my”—she pulled herself up with the dignity of a fourteen-year-old—“patriotic
duty,
after all.”

Maggie knew the Philip in question was Prince Philip of Greece, a more and more frequent topic of Lilibet’s conversation before and after maths lessons.

“Duty, yes,” Margaret cooed.

Alah clapped her hands.
“Girls!”

“I know!” Margaret said. “Let’s play sardines! It’ll be ever so much more fun with Maggie and Lord Gregory here!”

Ever the hostess, Lilibet said, “Does everyone know how to play?” Meaning Maggie.

“If you wouldn’t mind going over the ground rules …” Maggie said.

“We turn off all the lights,” Margaret explained. “One person hides, while the others wait here. We all count to a hundred and then we all go off in search of the hider.”

“And when you find the hider,” Lilibet interjected, “you don’t say anything. You just—”

“—sneak in and hide alongside until everyone’s hidden together, like sardines in a can. And the last one—”

“—is the rotten egg!” they chimed together.

“The one rule,” said Alah, “is that we must stay in this wing.”

“Oh—and there’s one room we can’t go in,” Lilibet said.

“Really?” asked Maggie, suddenly curious.

“It’s the room where Uncle David—that is, King Edward the Eighth, now the Duke of Windsor,” Lilibet said formally, “made the wireless address where he abdicated the throne, to marry ‘that woman.’ That’s what Mummy always calls her. And the room’s been closed up ever since.”

“It’s as if someone
died
there,” Margaret said dramatically.

Lilibet shrugged. “Well, in a way, King Edward the Eighth did. And the Duke of Windsor was born. And then Daddy became King George the Sixth.”

The mood of the room had dropped and had become suddenly somber.

“Well, I’m in!” Maggie said, looking at Alah with a question in her eye. Were the Princesses safe traipsing about in the dark? Alah gave her an almost imperceptible nod, meaning of course she’d keep an eye on them.

Gregory threw up his hands. “How can I resist?”

“Maggie will be the first sardine,” Margaret announced.

“And, Margaret,” Lilibet admonished, “you turn off all the lights.”

Margaret did as she was told and the girls’ tower was in a state of utter darkness, relieved only by the glow of the fireplace. “Oh, it’s so spooooooky,” she said as she came back. In the gloom, the occasional pop and crackle of the log in the fireplace sounded even louder.

“Stop it!” said Lilibet. “Now, we’re going to start counting to a hundred. And, Maggie, you go hide. One, two, three …”

Heart beating hard, Maggie made her way through the darkness.
It’s just a game, don’t be silly,
she thought.
But getting the keys isn’t a game.… 

Her eyes adjusted, and she made her way through the velvety black, looking for a good place to hide. She went into Lilibet’s sitting room. Where to take cover?

After bumping a shin on one of Lilibet’s chairs and trying not to swear, she made her way over the thick carpet to the window. Under the heavy brocade drapes, the blackout curtains were drawn, but behind them was Lilibet’s window seat. Maggie parted the curtains, then stepped up on the window seat, drawing them back as if she’d never been there.

She waited.

It was cold—freezing, really—pressed up against the icy square panes of glass. After the almost total darkness, the bright sliver of a crescent moon glowed and galaxies of stars glittered. The keening wind rattled the windowpanes in their frames. High above, in the box of the valance, were lacy spiderwebs. Maggie shivered and wrapped her arms around herself.

“Ready or not—here we come!” she heard Margaret cry and then the sound of laughter.

She waited in the dark and the cold, waited for the first to find her.

It was Gregory.

“Maggie?” he whispered, drawing back the curtains.

“Shhhh …” she said, moving over so that he could step up on the window seat beside her. He did so, and Maggie was aware of him, very close to her, his breath smelling of gin.

“I must be part bloodhound,” he whispered.

“What?”

“I followed my nose—you always wear something that smells like violets.”

Maggie was suddenly confused.
Keep your mind on the keys,
she admonished herself.

“It’s Après l’Ondee,” she whispered back. “My friend Sarah gave it to me.”

“Violets after the rain, then,” he said. “Gods, it’s cold!” He rubbed his hands together, then reached out to Maggie and began to rub her arms.

“It’s the wind, the wind blowing against the glass. Simple thermodynamics, really. You can calculate it if you have both the indoor and outdoor conditions, such as convective coefficients, optical properties, and outdoor velocity—”

Without further ado, he pulled her toward him and kissed her. His lips were warm and dry and tasted of gin. Maggie thought of Lily. Had he kissed Lily like that? Was he the father of Lily’s baby? Her murderer? She pulled away.

Gregory pulled her close and held her. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’ve just wanted to do that since I met you, roaming the corridors.…”

Maggie slipped her arms around his waist. Her fingers brushed the keys, still attacked to his belt. “It’s all right,” she said.
Now, if I could just get the keys.… 
“I do really like you, Gregory. Just—not in that way.”

He let out a dramatic sigh. “Story of my life.”

The curtain rustled, and Margaret pressed her way inside. “I knew I heard you two,” she whispered, climbing up on the window seat with them. “Now hush, or they’ll find us!”

As they moved to let Margaret in beside them, Maggie pushed in the metal tab of the ring and slipped the keys off of Gregory’s belt. The iron was cold and heavy, and she trapped them in her sweaty hand to silence them.
Yes!
she thought, making sure he hadn’t noticed, slipping them into her skirt pocket. And then,
I’m sorry, Gregory. I’m only borrowing them, I promise.

Which she did. During the next rounds of sardines, when she was alone, she quickly pressed the keys into the clay, making a clear imprint. When the game was over, she placed the keys near the flats they’d been painting.

“Goodness,” he said as he put on his bespoke tweed jacket and saw them glint in the firelight. “I can’t be dropping these!” He picked up the keys and smiled at the Princesses, a winning grin. “Don’t tell the King. He might send me to the dungeons, for good.”

“We won’t!” they chorused.

The next morning, Maggie wrapped the key imprint in clay in brown paper and made the prearranged drop-off into the trash barrel near Boswell’s Books, which another agent nonchalantly picked up. The next day, in town, another undercover agent pretended to stumble and surreptitiously slipped a set of keys into her open handbag as she had lunch at a small café.

After midnight, flashlight tucked under her arm, Maggie unlocked the heavy oak door to the King’s Equerry’s office, opened it, went inside, and then closed it behind her with a heavy click. Her heart was pounding. She went to the desk and switched on the stained-glass lamp, the light fighting against the pressing shadows. She turned off the flashlight and put it under the desk and laid down her bag, removing the small camera Hugh had given her.

She went to the files and pulled. Locked, of course. Taking out another, smaller key, she put it in the lock and turned. It popped open with a satisfying click.

Her heart began to pound even faster. She could feel hear armpits begin to dampen.

She went through the files to
H.
There it was, neatly labeled with
Howell, Lady Lily
typed in black ink.

Maggie took the file to the desk and opened it in the tiny bright circle of lamplight. The edges of the room were veiled in heavy and almost palpable darkness. For a moment, Maggie had a feeling of vertigo, as if the circle of light were the only stable place, and in the dim light the walls had receded, leaving her on a high and perilous platform suspended in the dark. Then she swallowed, took the camera and began shooting, turning pages, then shooting again.

My goodness,
Maggie thought, goose bumps prickling on her arms.
I’m actually doing this!

As she photographed, she skimmed the file’s contents. Lady Lily Howell had been born in Germany in 1915, moved to London at age five, and was educated at St. Hilda’s at Oxford University, studying history. She made her debut before in the King and Queen, with Gregory as her escort. Other than that, and a few letters of recommendation, the file was bereft of anything incriminating.
Bugger,
Maggie thought.
Bugger, bugger, bugger.