The King's Justice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “He’s missed three shifts now,” Fermi said, lighting a black cigarillo.

  Maggie crushed out her cigarette and set Punch on the coffee table. “Is that like him?”

  “Not at all,” replied Chapman. He looked over to the white-haired man, still sewing. “Pippin, have you heard anything about Basso?”

  Pippin looked up, watery eyes large behind thick glasses. “These are his pants I’m hemming, sir,” he explained. “He hasn’t come in or even called in for over two weeks. The Captain says we’ve waited long enough and need his gear for one of the new men.”

  Maggie felt a prickle of fear. “Do you think he’s all right?” she asked. “Should we contact his family?”

  “I already did, Miss Hope,” Pippin said. “His mother told me he went to see his father, who’s being held on an island somewhere up north near Orkney.”

  Maggie’s brow creased. “He’s a prisoner in one of the internment camps for Italians?”

  Pippin nodded. “His father didn’t do too well with the winter up north, and so Mr. Basso left to be with him when he took the last rites. That was the last I heard. I assumed he’d call in when he got back, but so far, I haven’t heard anything.” He held up a pair of trousers, shortened with small, neat stitches. “Which is why I’m hemming.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be back any day now,” Chapman reassured them.

  When Milo appeared, washed and dressed in fresh clothes—wool trousers, a shirt with rolled-up sleeves, and a striped knit vest—Maggie noticed he was still rather pale. Brushing aside her concern for Basso, she raised her glass. “To the man of the hour, Milo Tucci!” she called.

  The other men raised theirs as well. “To Milo Tucci!”

  Fermi added, “Salute.”

  Milo blushed and sat. “I didn’t do very much,” he explained. “Miss Hope, er, Maggie here did the real work. I was just trying not to embarrass myself.”

  “You did a fine job, Milo,” Maggie reassured him. “And next time will be easier. You’ll see.” She looked up at the black Bakelite clock on the mantel; the black hands indicated that it was six. “Ah, it’s getting late—Milo, how about I take you out to get a drink and meet my friends?”

  Milo looked at her now empty glass and raised an eyebrow. “Aren’t you drinking here?”

  “Yes, well—I want to treat you to a proper drink in a proper pub. Come on, get your coat and let’s go!”

  “Tube or bus?” Milo asked as they headed to the cloakroom.

  Maggie’s mouth twisted in a grin. “How about something altogether different?”

  * * *

  —

  Milo gaped at the rusty motorbike. The sun was just beginning to set, the rays slanting, glinting off cobblestones slick with ice. “Well, go on then—hop on!” Maggie patted the cracked leather seat in encouragement. The motorbike was an old BSA M20 she’d recently bought secondhand and fixed up, its large round headlight fitted with a slatted blackout mask.

  “You’re sure she’s safe?” Milo asked, gazing at dents and rust patches.

  “Safe as houses.” Maggie handed her battered helmet to Milo. “Here, put this on.”

  “Shouldn’t you wear it?”

  Maggie shook her head. “I like feeling the wind in my hair.” She winked as she scrambled onto the bike, slipping goggles over her head, setting the rings over her eyes. “And I promise to avoid the potholes.”

  “Good thing you’re wearing trousers.”

  “I’m saving ever so much money on stockings. Now hop up!”

  Milo looked unsure but did as he was told, sliding in behind her and keeping his hands awkwardly at his sides.

  “Hold on!” Maggie called back to him as she kicked up the stand and revved the engine. Milo looked to see what he could grab on to. “Round my waist!” she instructed.

  “I’m fine,” he said, placing his hands on her shoulders.

  “Suit yourself.” The bike jerked forward and Milo threw his arms around Maggie’s midsection, hugging her for dear life. She tried not to laugh.

  * * *

  —

  As they wound their way through the streets of London, Maggie surveyed the adopted city she loved. So many buildings had been leveled by bombs, an avalanche of rubble was always a danger. The City and East End districts were so damaged that maps were no longer of use.

  As they passed through Camden Town, Maggie saw soldiers in uniforms from all over the world, and the many women in bright lipstick lined up to admire them. But while the American and Canadian soldiers’ faces looked rosy and well fed, English countenances were long and sallow. There was little of the spirit of the early days of the Blitz left, no grim cheer, no “We can take it!” attitude. After years of being forced to do ever more with ever less, people were exhausted.

  However, all of the TO LET notices once posted when Londoners fled to the country during the Blitz were now gone. People from all over Britain, indeed from all over the world, had come to London to work for the government and the military. And then there were those who supported them—Doughnut Dollies and the prostitutes.

  Maggie let out the throttle. “Do you like to go fast?” She didn’t wait for an answer but shifted into high gear and gave the bike more gas, laughing as she felt Milo clutch her even tighter.

  Riding her bike had begun to have the same effect as defusing bombs for Maggie—the speed and the danger helped her to forget, to anesthetize, to numb. The buzz of the motor obliterated any thoughts. Focusing on turns at such high speeds obliterated feelings. The motorbike accelerated. She felt as if she were flying. As the chill wind cut through Maggie’s clothing, she lifted her hands from the handlebars and spread her arms out wide.

  “Mother Mary!” Milo shouted in her ear. “We’re going to die!”

  “Not today, Milo,” she said, grasping the handlebars once again. “Not today.”

  Chapter Four

  When Maggie and Milo pulled up to the Rose and Crown in Marylebone, it was already packed with bodies in uniform: RAF pilots in gray-blue, the Free French in long navy cloaks, expat Poles with their Fighter Squadron badges and medals—all alongside Canadians, Australians, and New Zealanders. They stood outside the pub in the waning sunlight holding pint glasses, their breath fogging the cold air. There were also women in uniform—Maggie thought the Wrens looked the smartest—and others in made-over dresses. No one bothered to carry a gas mask anymore.

  And then there were the Americans. Soldiers from the United States had arrived in the last year, with their cigarettes, chewing gum, and packages of stockings. The Brits loved to describe the Yanks as “overpaid, oversexed, and over here.” There was a line of Americans at the Red Cross clubmobile parked across the street, where the “Doughnut Dollies”—pretty young women in bright lipstick—passed out sugary fried treats.

  “Hey, you’re a real hep tomato,” a young man with corn-colored hair, a constellation of freckles, and an upturned nose called to Maggie as she passed. He was wearing a U.S. Army uniform and holding a half-full pint glass. “That’s some red hair you’ve got.”

  “Careful,” she warned, recognizing his New York accent. “You’re not in Hell’s Kitchen anymore.”

  His jaw dropped. “Windsor Terrace, Brooklyn! Howdja know?”

  She favored him with a Mona Lisa smile. “Gotta blow,” she told him in her most American accent, as his comrades laughed and gulped their beer.

  But as Maggie and Milo made their way to the door, she heard yet another American in uniform declare, “This place is a dump!” The handsome golden-haired soldier had an arrogant posture and spoke with a southern accent. Maggie looked at him askance.

  There was a painful silence before one of the Brits, an RAF pilot, broke it. “This pub is older than your country, mate.”

  “Is that why the beer’s so warm?” the southerner drawled.

>   “It’s the way we like it here,” the British pilot said, turning back to his bemused companions, but making sure his voice carried. “Oh, those Yanks…Late for every war.”

  The American was undeterred. “And we’re here to save your ass. Again.”

  “Not now,” said another U.S. soldier, putting one arm around the southerner. Just then, a dark-complexioned soldier with a U.S. Army uniform was making his way toward the door.

  “Not so fast, boy,” declared the southerner. “You can’t go in there—whites only.”

  The RAF captain turned back around. “People of all colors are allowed to come into our pubs.”

  “We have laws against that back home,” the southerner retorted.

  “But you’re not home now”—the pilot stepped in closer—“are you?”

  As they began to circle each other, Maggie poked her elbow into Milo’s side. “We’ve already had our ration of unexploded bombs for today,” she told him. “Let’s go in. My friend David said he’d come early and grab a table for us.”

  * * *

  —

  The low-ceilinged room was loud with voices, punctuated at regular intervals with a bass laugh and several high-pitched titters, the clink of glass, and the occasional scraping chair. The wide wooden floorboards held the scent of eras of spilled ale. Behind the long bar, Winston Churchill, Franklin D. Roosevelt, and Joseph Stalin all kept watch from their framed portraits, draped in bunting sporting the flags of the Allied nations.

  Milo looked at a piece of paper tacked up behind the bar. “That’s you, right?” He pointed, and Maggie knew instantly it was another “Bomb Girl” photo. “You’re famous!”

  “Infamous, more like.” Over the din, Maggie could just manage to pick out Harry James and His Orchestra’s “I’ve Heard That Song Before.” They passed by a cluster of off-duty firemen, telling tales of life during the Blitz. Maggie noted their nostalgic faces as they recounted their stories and wondered if part of them was bored with life post-Blitz, secretly craving the adrenaline falling bombs brought. The waiting life is hard.

  Maggie caught the eye of her friend David Greene, who had commandeered a table in the back corner. He was short and slim, with light hair and bright, sparkling eyes framed by wire-rimmed glasses. He wore a blue pin-striped suit with a snowdrop stuck through the buttonhole in his lapel. She raised a hand in greeting as she and Milo navigated through the crowd.

  Finally, she slid in next to David on a wooden bench, making sure she had a clear view of the entrance. Old SOE habits die hard, she realized. “Hello, darling,” she said with affection as she kissed his cheek. “How are you?”

  David affected a New York accent: “I’m a man, I’m a Jew, I suffer.”

  “You’re looking well,” Maggie said. “And you still have your tan from Morocco.” David was Winston Churchill’s head private secretary and in January had flown with the P.M. to attend the Casablanca Conference at the Anfa Hotel. There, Churchill had met with President Roosevelt and Generals Charles de Gaulle and Henri Giraud of the Free French. Together, the four men had agreed the Allies would accept nothing less than the unconditional surrender of the Axis Powers.

  “David, meet Milo Tucci,” she said as Milo took the seat opposite. “Milo, this is David Greene. Head Private Secretary to Winston Churchill and one of my best friends since I moved to London—how long has it been? Over five years now.”

  “How do you do,” David said, offering his hand.

  “It’s nice to meet a friend of Maggie’s, but I’m not a fan of the Prime Minister,” Milo replied as he shook it. Maggie cringed inwardly. The two men were from different social classes and probably never would have met, let alone sat at the same table, before the war. She pasted a bright smile on her face, hoping for the best, as she and Milo removed their coats. The air was close and warm, the windows fogging with condensation.

  “You’re referring to India, yes?” David said. Mohandas Gandhi, imprisoned in British India, had recently ended a hunger strike in protest against the British Empire.

  “No, about Italy. And Italians in Britain. Us Britalians.” Milo’s cheeks flushed. “ ‘Collar the lot’ was what your P.M. said about us, wasn’t it?”

  “Ah.” David nodded. When Italy had joined the war in June 1940, thousands of Italian-born immigrants were described as “enemy aliens.” Italian immigrants between the ages of seventeen and sixty were arrested after Churchill’s speech and imprisoned in internment camps.

  “There were legitimate concerns about fifth columnists, you know,” David countered. “And you should know the Boss blames no one but Mussolini—and Mussolini alone—for Italy’s troubles and the situation with the Britalians.”

  Milo was not mollified. “My parents were both born in Italy. Mum was interned and released,” Milo told him. “But Dad’s still a prisoner on some Scottish island. Keep wondering when the coppers might pick me up and send me up there to join ’im.” Maggie shuddered as memories of her experiences as a prisoner on a Scottish island flashed through her mind. She reached in her handbag for her cigarette case.

  “I’m not disputing the P.M. was wrong to use those words,” David countered, “but I do believe it sounds worse than he meant. The summer of the Blitz was a dangerous time—and Churchill believed he was protecting enemy country immigrants from ‘outraged public opinion.’ ”

  Milo was unconvinced. “One Italian bloke I knew in Clerkenwell, a shoemaker, killed ’imself rather than be taken to the camps. And ’e ’ated ’Itler and Musso. ’Ated them and fascism. Loved Britain. Fought in the Great War alongside British troops. And now ’e’s dead.”

  David’s face grew grave. “I’m sorry.”

  Maggie lit her cigarette and took a deep drag. “Has anyone heard of the new film, Shadow of a Doubt? Opening at the end of the month—who’s in?”

  Her attempt at changing the subject failed as the two men took no notice. “You know, there was no warning, just a knock on the door and ‘You have to come with us,’ ” Milo said. “La malanotte, we call it—‘the evil night.’ ”

  “Notices had been sent.” Maggie noted David’s use of the passive voice.

  “Notices?” Milo’s voice was louder now. “Most of these people don’t speak English, let alone read it.” Maggie pulled on her cigarette, wanting to jump in to defend Milo, but not knowing how he’d react.

  “They had plenty of time to become citizens.”

  “Many are old. Illiterate. They’re intimidated by the process, the red tape.”

  “There’s the fear of fascism—”

  “These people aren’t fascist! They don’t even understand politics—they’re just proud to be Italian!” Milo slapped his chest for emphasis.

  David nodded. “As you are.”

  “Yes, as he is,” Maggie said.

  “No, actually—I’m not Italian. I’m not an immigrant. I was born in London. Not ‘English,’ but British all the same.”

  Oh, Lord, Maggie thought, realizing her mistake.

  “I’m sorry,” David repeated. “But you should know Churchill’s current effort is to release as many Britalians as possible—get everyone back to work.” He nodded with satisfaction.

  “So, David,” Maggie said, her tone and volume making it clear she was changing the subject, “Milo and I work together at the Hundred and Seventh Tunneling Company.”

  “I see,” David replied. “The so-called Suicide Squad. London’s unsung heroes.”

  Maggie’s lips twitched into a smile. “More like unstrung heroes.”

  “Hecuba’s hankie, Mags,” he said. “I don’t know why you insisted on that job.” David drained the last of the beer from his pint glass. “I’ve been reading Nigel Balchin’s new novel The Small Back Room—editor chum of mine sent me an early draft. The protagonist nearly drinks himself to death from the stress of the bombs. I
don’t know how you do it.”

  Maggie looked at the two empty glasses on the table, one a pint, one a half-pint. “Chuck and Nigel were here?” she asked. She scanned the room for her flatmate, whose real name was Charlotte Ludlow, and her husband, who was on leave from the RAF to visit Chuck and their young son.

  “Excellent deduction, Miss Christie—they left early, though.”

  Maggie crushed out her cigarette in a brown melamine ashtray advertising Theakston Traditional Ales and immediately lit another, inhaling deeply.

  “Nigel wanted to go—didn’t like the crowd.” David watched as Maggie exhaled a progression of smoke rings. “Impressive, Mags, but must you smoke?”

  “Why not? Don’t have to kill myself with that insane running and swimming regime I used to follow.”

  “Yes, but Great Gaia—it’s positively dragon-like. Remember old Smaug and how we used to mock her?” David looked to Milo. “And you rode with her here on the death-mobile, I assume?”

  “It’s a motorbike, David,” Maggie corrected.

  “Not so terrifying as the day we had,” Milo offered. “Defusing an ’Ermann.”

  “I’m not so sure which one would be more terrifying to me—a German bomb or Maggie on a motorbike.”

  “I’m an excellent driver,” Maggie insisted. “My motorbike is not dangerous, and he has a name—Peter.”

  “Yes, after Peter Pan. How clever. I’ve seen you, though—and you’re a reckless driver, Maggie Hope,” David replied. “A downright menace.”

  “Well, who cares?” Maggie took another drag of her cigarette. “It’s fun. Really fun. A good way to let off a little steam, all right? Especially when you round a corner and the bike starts shuddering—and you’re not quite sure if the back tire’s going to hold—but then you pull out of it and straighten up. And you’re in complete control! It’s one of the most wonderful feelings in the world—pure magic. Come on—I’ll take you.”