Princess Elizabeth's Spy

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “Yes?” Maggie said softly.

  “She—” Tears filled the Princess’s deep blue eyes. “She was missing her head.”

  As Crawfie called for Alah and the two women bustled about with cool cloths and tea trays for the Princesses, Maggie excused herself.

  Taking another look at the maps in her pocket, she went back to Victoria Tower for her coat and hat, then left the castle, its high walls encrusted with moss and lichen, and wrapped in gauzy spiderwebs.

  She made her way in the damp chill toward the castle’s stables. And she wasn’t the only one. There were Coldstream Guards patrolling outside, while inside the main stable, the King and Queen were being briefed by Lord Clive. Maggie was used to seeing official photographs of King George VI and, of course, photographs of both him and his wife, Queen Elizabeth, in the newspapers, but it was another thing to see them in person. She was surprised by how much smaller they seemed than she imagined, the King with fair slicked-back hair and a tweed suit, the Queen with her old-fashioned bangs, periwinkle-blue wool coat, and a jeweled brooch in the shape of a corgi.

  Maggie slipped inside the wooden stable door and listened.

  “Apparently, Lady Lily had taken the lead and was riding ahead of the Princess Elizabeth,” Lord Clive was saying. “The path goes through a wooded area. The police officers have told us they found a piano wire, strung up across the bridle path, affixed to two large trees. I’m sorry to say, your Majesties, that Lady Lily was beheaded—by this wire.”

  “There, now, dear,” the King said to the Queen.

  “Would Your Majesty like to sit down?” Lord Clive asked.

  “No, thank you, your Lordship,” the Queen replied resolutely. “I’m fine. Please continue.”

  “Well, ma’am, I’m afraid that’s all we know for sure. The police are at the scene now. Of course they’ll do an autopsy.”

  “Yes,” the Queen said, her gentle face grave. “We must call Lily’s parents immediately.”

  “Are you sure, dear?” the King said.

  “Of course,” she replied, raising her chin and squaring her slight shoulders. “I’ll do it right away. And please send the detective in charge to see me when he’s finished, Lord Clive.” The King and Queen turned and left to return to the castle.

  Maggie turned to leave and stepped on a creaky board.

  “Miss Hope,” Lord Clive said, catching sight of her, his eyes narrowing with suspicion. “What are you doing here?”

  “I—I heard the commotion and thought I’d see what was going on,” Maggie answered.

  “Nothing that concerns you,” Lord Clive said as he approached her. “Although it is curious—you’re here only one night and already someone is dead.”

  “It’s terrible, sir. I met Lady Lily last night. She seems—seemed—like a lovely girl.”

  Lord Clive was not won over. “I’m keeping an eye on you, Miss Hope.”

  “Of course, Your Lordship.”

  And I’ll be keeping an eye on you too.

  At the crime scene, the corpse was already wrapped and two men were transferring it to a battered Black Maria. A stocky older man in a camel-hair overcoat and gray felt hat with a notebook seemed to be finishing up as Maggie made her way over to him.

  “Hello,” he said in neutral tones, his breath cloudy in the cold air. His eyes were bright and penetrating, his jowls heavy, his mustache streaked with gray. “My name’s Detective Wilson.” Detective Chief Superintendent Wilson of the Windsor police department had served his country in World War I, and then rose through the ranks of the police force to his current position. A widower, with a son serving in the Royal Navy, Wilson originally tried to become involved with the war effort but had ultimately decided that staying on in Windsor wasn’t necessarily a bad idea. For the war had certainly not brought any respite from transgressions. If anything, the stresses of war had intensified the number and viciousness of local crimes.

  “Maggie Hope, sir. Pleased to meet you—although under horrible circumstances.”

  “Yes,” he said, his eyes going to the body, which had been safely stowed in the vehicle. The car spluttered as it warmed up, then the engine turned over.

  “Did you know”—he consulted his notes—“Lily Howell? You look about her age.”

  “I met her yesterday, sir. I understand she was one of the Queen’s Ladies-in-Waiting.”

  “Yesterday?” the detective queried.

  “I arrived yesterday from London,” Maggie told him. “Last night I had dinner at the Carpenters Arms with Gregory Strathcliffe. While we were there, Lily and two other Ladies-in-Waiting—Louisa and Polly—joined us. We all walked back to the castle together.”

  “Really?” Detective Wilson said, scribbling on his notepad. “About what time was that?”

  “It was around midnight. I remember because I was worried about oversleeping without an alarm clock.”

  “And what do you do at the Castle, Miss Hope?”

  “I’m tutoring the Princess Elizabeth in mathematics.”

  “I see. And when was the last time you saw Lily Howell?”

  “We’re all—that is, we were all—staying in Victoria Tower.” Maggie looked back at the hulking structure, where age-blackened chimneys emitted thin threads of smoke into the cold air. “She and the other girls have rooms on the lower floors. I’m up on the top, so I said good night to the three of them just after midnight, then continued upstairs.” She rubbed her gloved hands together, to warm them. Overhead, a peregrine falcon with a black head and a black-and-white tufted breast glided by, then dipped down and settled on a nearby tree, folding his large wings. His laughing cries were borne away by the cold wind.

  “Did anything … happen … that you recall?”

  “No, sir. It was a pleasant evening.” No need to mention the morning sickness. At least, not until I’ve run it past Frain.

  Detective Wilson tipped his hat. “Thank you, Miss Hope,” he said as he walked back to the road and to his waiting car. He opened the door and got into the driver’s seat. “I’ll be in touch.” He started the engine.

  “Yes, sir,” Maggie said. She held up one hand as he drove off toward the castle.

  Anything related to the crime had been removed. Still, as Maggie walked to a group of bare trees by the side of the path, she could see where the wire had been attached to the tree and rubbed through the bark. Oh, Lily …

  Well, the facts are these, she thought, taming her racing mind with logic. Lily Howell is dead. She was decapitated by a wire tied to two trees, stretched over a bridle path. But was she the intended victim? Maggie remembered Crawfie’s schedule of the Princesses’ activities. Both girls were supposed to be riding today.

  The falcon looked down at Maggie with keen black eyes. He made a high-pitched “key-key-key-key!” cry, which floated up into the cold air and hung there. Then he flew off.

  Frain said the Germans were planning on kidnapping Princess Elizabeth, not assassinating her. But he could be wrong. Had someone intended to kill the Princess? Had Lily Howell just been in the wrong place at the wrong time?

  Chapter Nine

  As Maggie approached the castle, her ears were assaulted by the barking of a pack of corgis. Back at No. 10, she’d liked having Mr. and Mrs. Churchill’s pets around, even if some of the other staff members complained. But compared to the corgis, Rufus and Nelson and the rest of the Churchill menagerie were downright civilized.

  These dogs, with their big pointed ears, large, sleek bodies, and tiny legs, swarmed around her, yapping, jumping, and pulling at the hem of her coat. With all the teeth and fur and noise, Maggie didn’t even see Princess Elizabeth walking behind them.

  “Dookie!” the Princess called, her sweet childish voice ringing out. “Dookie! And the rest of you! Leave poor Maggie alone!”

  Poor Maggie had a sudden urge to turn and run, but instead knelt down, putting out a hand for the dogs to sniff. “There, now,” she said in gentle tones. “It’s all right. See? I’m per
fectly friendly.”

  Without warning, one of the corgis bit her hand, teeth sinking into the tender flesh.

  “Ow!” Maggie cried. “Ow, ow, ow!” she said, shaking her hand, wishing she could say so much more.

  “Dookie!” the Princess admonished. “Bad dog! Very bad dog!”

  She ran over to Maggie, with the grave air of one who was used to looking after canine injuries. “Let me see.”

  Maggie gingerly took off her glove and stuck out her hand. The dog’s fangs had torn through the leather and lining but hadn’t broken the skin. Still, her hand bore the imprint of red, angry tooth marks.

  “Oh, it’s not so bad, really,” the Princess said, inspecting it.

  Maggie gritted her teeth. Easy for you to say.

  “You should have seen Lord Livingston!” the Princess said. “Dookie bit him and there was just blood everywhere. They can’t help it,” she continued earnestly. “None of them can. It’s how they’re bred. They’re hunters, after all. It’s just their nature to bite.”

  “Really,” Maggie managed. “And his name is Dookie?”

  “His full and formal name is really Rozavel Golden Eagle. But yes, he’s called Dookie, because he was supposed to go to my father, who was the Duke of York at the time. That’s what the breeders called him when he was born, and the name just stuck.”

  “I see,” Maggie said through tight lips.

  “You aren’t going to tell Crawfie, are you? Or Alah? Or Mummy and Daddy?”

  Maggie saw an opening to win the girl’s trust. “No, I won’t. I promise. You’re right—Dookie’s only doing what’s in his nature.”

  “Oh, thank you.” The Princess brightened. “I can fetch you an ice bag, if you’d like.”

  “That’s all right. But I wouldn’t mind an escort back to Victoria Tower. The castle’s rather confusing.” She smiled. “I might have to start dropping bread crumbs. Although then I’d probably be fined by the ARP Warden.”

  “You would,” the Princess said. “But I must insist that first I take you to the kitchen, so Cook can give you some ice for your hand.”

  Maggie smiled at the young girl’s motherly tones, especially after the morning she’d already been through. Score one for the British stiff upper lip, she thought. “Of course, Your Highness. Thank you.” Then, “By the way, should you be wandering around by yourself, especially after what happened to Lady Lily?”

  Lilibet had the grace to blush. “I am in the habit of sneaking out a lot,” she confided. “It gets so dull inside, with all the knitting.”

  “I know, but you probably should be with someone.” Maggie made a mental note to talk to Alah about it.

  “Yes, Maggie.” As they strolled, Maggie looked at the Princess in profile. She was fourteen, but she seemed younger. Her neck looked so slim and vulnerable. How close had she come to dying today?

  “I met with Crawfie this morning,” Maggie began. “She showed me your schedule. You and your sister are very busy girls.”

  “Oh, and you don’t know the half of it. They make us knit too. For the soldiers, of course. I’m terrible at it, especially socks. Can’t turn a heel. I pity the men who get my socks, they’re all so lumpy and bumpy.”

  “Usually you ride on Saturday mornings, yes?”

  “Oh, yes, every Saturday. I love to ride. Margaret’s still a little scared, but I love to gallop.”

  “But you ride with someone else? One of the Ladies-in-Waiting?”

  “Oh, you mean because of what happened to Lady Lily?” The Princess’s face clouded. “It’s terrible, isn’t it?” For a moment, she looked to be on the verge of tears, then shook her head and squared her shoulders. Maggie could see the queen she would someday be.

  “Yes, I’m so sorry,” Maggie said.

  “Lily and I often rode together. She wanted to compete in the Olympics, except they won’t let women ride yet. Her specialty was dressage, but she just loved to gallop.…” The Princess’s throat closed and her voice became husky.

  “There’s to be a memorial service Saturday. At Saint George’s Chapel. You will come, won’t you?” the Princess said earnestly, tears filling her clear blue eyes. “Lady Lily was so very lovely.”

  Maggie looked up at the castle’s many windows, glinting like blind eyes in the reflected sun. Who might be behind one of those windows, perhaps wishing harm to a sweet little girl? Or a Lady-in-Waiting? I’m going to find out, Maggie vowed. And I’ll do everything I can to keep this girl safe.

  She smiled and reached down to take the Princess’s small, soft hand. “Of course. Of course I’ll be there.”

  The warm, cavernous kitchen had high clerestory windows that vaulted like a culinary cathedral. Hanging burnished copper pots of all shapes and sizes lined the walls. The floor of black and white tiles was covered in coconut matting, and the air was filled with sounds of knives chopping through heavy root vegetables and the toasty malt aroma of baking bread. A small army of staff in white hats and aprons was coming and going with trays laden with china and silver.

  Cook, a tall, thin woman with gray-streaked blond hair tucked under her starched white cap, hands rough and scarred from years of kitchen work, bobbed a curtsy at the Princess. She took one look at Maggie’s hand and procured an ice pack. “You’ve fared better than some, Miss,” she said, shaking her head—for Maggie’s was not the first corgi bite she’d witnessed in her fifteen years at the castle. Maggie and Lilibet sat down at an enormous scarred wooden table.

  “It’s true,” Lilibet said. “Some people bleed so much, we have to fetch a doctor to stitch them up.”

  Fantastic, Maggie thought. It’s not bad enough the Germans are bombing us nightly, Ladies-in-Waiting are being beheaded, and the Royal Family is in danger—I need to fend off rabid corgis too?

  The wireless was on, broadcasting BBC news. “Have you heard about Coventry, Miss?” Cook asked.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so,” Maggie admitted. “It’s terrible.”

  “Germans hit it last night but good. They’re sayin’ there were more than a thousand dead. Terrible damage to the factories there.”

  The Princess’s face was somber. “It’s horrible, Cook.”

  “It is, Your Highness.”

  “I’m going to write to the families of every single person who died,” Lilibet said.

  “That’s a lot of letters,” Maggie said.

  “I know,” Lilibet retorted. “But what good is it being a Princess, if I can’t help people? I can’t make it better, but I can let them know their loss hasn’t gone unnoticed or unmarked.”

  Maggie was impressed by the young girl’s compassion and understanding of her position.

  Cook’s hard face turned tender as she looked at the Princess. “Maybe you’d both be wantin’ a cup of tea, then?”

  Maggie had learned during her tenure in England just how restorative tea could be. “Thank you.” She glanced down at the slender Princess. “I think we both could use one.”

  “And maybe a bit of Brown Windsor Soup too? Miss Hope, it’s the favorite of His Majesty.”

  Lilibet made a surreptitious gagging face. Apparently, Brown Windsor Soup was not the Princess’s favorite dish.

  “Cook, I’d be honored,” said Maggie.

  “Don’t eat the soup,” Lilibet whispered, when Cook’s back was turned.

  “I think I must now,” Maggie whispered back.

  “Well,” the Princess said, looking like a regular fourteen-year-old girl again, “don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  Detective Wilson and his deputy were using the servants’ dining room to question the castle’s staff about the murder. About fifty people or so were lined up in the corridor, each waiting his or her turn. “And who are you, Miss?” Wilson’s assistant said to Maggie as she walked by, on her way to Victoria Tower.

  From the table inside the room, Detective Wilson looked up from his conversation with Audrey Moreau. “It’s all right, Jim,” he said. “That’s Maggie Hope, Princess Elizabeth�
��s maths tutor. I’ve already spoken with her.”

  From the other end of the long corridor, Maggie heard loud yelling, incongruous in the castle, and turned to see who it was. “That’s Sam Berners, Miss Hope,” said the man waiting in line for his turn to be questioned. He was trim, with silvery gold receding hair, a pink scalp, and a kind smile. “By the way, I am Sir Owen Morshead, the castle’s librarian. I must compliment you on the way you handled Sir Clive last night.”

  “Oh,” said Maggie. “Yes, well—”

  “If you ever find yourself in need of anything for the Princess from the library, please do let me know.”

  “Thank you, Sir Owen, that’s very kind of you.”

  The loud voice became even louder and was now spouting profanity. “Get yer hands off me—I tell ya I ain’t seen nothin’!”

  “Master of the Mews,” Sir Owen said. Then, off Maggie’s confused look, “The Royal Falconer. He keeps to himself, mostly. Bit of an eccentric.”

  Maggie saw a large bearded man with rough, unkempt hair being dragged into the hallway by two Coldstream Guards. His clothes were covered in bird excrement, and his right arm and hand were encased in a protective leather gauntlet. “I don’ know nothin’!” he was protesting loudly in a thick Scottish accent. “I din’ see anythin’!”

  “Everyone must talk to the Detective, Sam,” one of the footmen waiting to be questioned said. “Even you.” Maggie recognized him as the one who’d winked at her, her first night at the castle.

  “Don’ have nothin’ to say,” Berners grumbled, taking his place in line, under the watchful eye of the Coldstream Guards.

  “He’s positively medieval,” Sir Owen whispered to Maggie. “Probably a quarter raptor himself. But he’s part of the castle, as much as the Long Walk or the stones of the Great Tower.”

  “Where are the birds kept?” Maggie asked, curious.

  “Oh, there’s some sort of structure up on the roof,” Sir Owen answered. “Sam has a room in the castle, but he prefers to sleep with the birds—as if you couldn’t tell. He and the largest falcon, Merlin, are inseparable.”