Princess Elizabeth's Spy

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  The rain stopped, and Audrey folded up her umbrella. She waited for the red double-decker bus, and when it arrived she took the narrow stairs to the top deck. As the vehicle made its slow way up Regent Street, she was joined by a man wearing a dark gray coat, a gray bowler hat, and a Trinity College scarf in navy, red, and yellow stripes. He sat next to her, despite the fact that the deck was nearly empty.

  She looked up and smiled, beginning what was to be a long conversation in whispered French.

  It was sunset at Windsor Castle—red, rose, and tangerine bled out into the western sky, leaving long violet shadows.

  Behind battlements on top of the castle stood a large structure, the Royal Mews, a wooden construction with mesh screened doors and windows. Inside were perches with goshawks and peregrine falcons in hoods, tethered with heavy leather jesses.

  “There, now, Merlin,” Sam Berners crooned, as he slipped the tooled leather hood over the falcon’s head. He took a moment to look out over the grounds of the castle, with the Thames and Eton in the shadowy distance.

  Alistair Tooke entered the Mews and stood for a moment at the entranceway, repulsed by the smell. “Berners!” Tooke said, his boots crunching on the fresh straw laid down on the floor.

  “Got nothin’ to say to you,” Berners replied, transferring Merlin to his arm.

  “Just as long as you don’t say anything to the police,” Tooke warned. “If you won’t, I won’t.”

  Berners looked at his falcon, Merlin, blind in his tooled and painted leather hood. “We’re all hunters, then, aren’t we?”

  “We are, indeed. And I’ll keep your secret, if you keep mine.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Hugh grabbed the hilt of his épée as he began to advance on the piste that covered a long strip of the highly polished floor of the Reform Club. “Nevins. Nevins!” Behind his metal mesh mask, his eyes narrowed. “Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.”

  Mark was dressed, as was Hugh, in the traditional white fencers’ uniform. He advanced and lunged as Hugh continued to rant, his voice echoing in the high-ceilinged wood-paneled room, decorated with suits of armor and historical swords, its large windows overlooking Pall Mall.

  Hugh deftly parried, the clicks and scrapes of metal on metal echoing under the brass and ormolu chandeliers. His breathing was heavy with the intense effort. “Nevins is an idiot! And so is Frain, for that matter, for replacing me—with him, of all people!”

  Mark counterattacked with a passata-sotto, his épée whistling through the air. “Look,” he said and grunted. “May I say something?”

  Hugh put down his épée and took off his mask. “What?” Perspiration glistened on his face.

  Mark took off his mask as well, and wiped drops of sweat out of his eyes with his sleeve. “Nevins is a good agent. He has more experience than you do. And he may be a pompous ass at times, and get a little too friendly with the female staff, but he does his job and does it well. I believe you’re letting this get personal.”

  “Oh, not this again—”

  “It’s true! You obviously think about Miss Hope more than any handler should—”

  They both put their masks back on. “I’m a consummate professional, and you know it,” Hugh said as he went back to en garde. “And I’m a better fencer than you too.”

  “Possibly,” Mark said as they parried and their blades clicked. “Well, then take it from the chap who’s worked in a small closet with you for over three years—I think you miss her. Not the job. Her.”

  “Ha!” Hugh exploded, their blades meeting again. “She’s a good agent is all. A bit green, but good—smart, intuitive. We had a … rapport.”

  Mark feinted, then thrust, moving in against Hugh now, driving him back. “And now Nevins is going to have that … ‘rapport’ … with her. And it’s driving you bonkers.”

  Hugh countered the best he could. “That’s rubbish!”

  Mark pushed forward for the victory, the tip of his sword against Hugh’s heart, winning the point. “No, no it’s not.”

  Hugh was absolutely still. Then, “Prat.”

  “Ass.”

  They each lowered their swords and took off their masks.

  “So, what do I do?” Hugh said, when he’d caught his breath.

  They returned to the garde line, saluted, then stepped forward and shook hands, as tradition dictated.

  “I don’t think there’s all that much you can do, really, if Frain’s set on using Nevins,” Mark said, as they walked together to the door. “But you might want to start thinking about breaking things off with Caroline. Because if you feel this strongly about another girl, it’s not fair to string Caroline along.”

  Hugh raised his hands in mock surrender. “You’re right, damn you.”

  “Back to the real fight, then?” Mark said, clapping his friend on the back.

  “Indeed.”

  A few hours later, Hugh stood in Archer Nevins’s office, a thick manila file in hand. He handed it over to Nevins, a charismatic man with glossed-back hair, just a decade older than Hugh. He had a winning toothy grin, like a politician’s, and the confidence that came from successfully running a number of spy-finding operations. While he was married and had two sons, he was infamous, among the female staff at least, for his wandering hands and for seducing any number of receptionists, telephone operators, and typists. Nevins opened the file and flipped through the pages. “The infamous Maggie Hope,” he said.

  “As you can see, her current assignment—”

  “I do,” Nevins said.

  “She already has the clay and the camera, so—”

  “And that’s why I’m on this case now, Thompson. Anything else I need to know about her? One man to another?”

  “No.”

  “What about Frain?”

  “What about Frain?”

  Nevins looked at Hugh. “Is he still sleeping with her? Or has he moved on?”

  Hugh took a deep breath and overcame the urge to punch Nevins in the jaw. “There’s nothing unprofessional between Miss Hope and Mr. Frain.”

  “Oh, come, now, Thompson,” Nevins said. “Surely you’re not that naïve. How do you think she got this job?”

  “Her intelligence and skills.”

  Nevins laughed. “I think you’re just jealous.”

  Nevins came to the photograph of Maggie, clipped to the back page of the folder. “Well, well, well!” He whistled through his teeth. “Now I know why Frain hired her. Wouldn’t kick that out of bed for eating biscuits.”

  Hugh bit the inside of his cheek. “Try anything funny, and she just might kick you.”

  “Oh, feisty, is she?”

  Hugh silently counted to ten. “Will that be all—sir?”

  “What? Oh, yes.” Nevins was still staring at the picture. He waved one hand without looking up. “That will be all, Thompson. Dismissed.”

  After the Princess’s maths lesson and lunch, Maggie received a message saying the book she’d ordered from Boswell’s had arrived. She left the castle grounds through the King Henry VIII Gate, heels clicking on the cobblestones, walked past the statue of Queen Victoria, then turned right down Peascod Street under the low silvery clouds. But she wasn’t alone.

  “Miss Hope!” a man called, catching up to her. She didn’t recognize him from the castle, and she felt a moment of alarm.

  “Miss Hope!” he called again, panting and falling into step alongside her. “I’m Archer Nevins.” His breath made clouds in the cold air. “I want to let you know that we’re going to make a fantastic duo.”

  Maggie stopped, her eyes narrowing. So this was her new handler. She felt … cheated.

  “Mr. Frain’s assigned Mr. Thompson to a less important case.” He wiped at his nose with a linen handkerchief, his monogram embroidered in large ornate letters. “I have more seniority—more experience—and Frain thought you’d be better suited to working with me.”

  Maggie started walking again. Since arriving at Windsor, she’d gotten int
o the habit of taking either an early-morning run or a long afternoon walk on the grounds. She’d begun her regime to build up her strength and endurance, but really she just liked to get away from the confines of the castle for a least a few hours a day. In the time she’d been there, she was already getting stronger and faster, and she put her speed to her advantage as they walked down the cobblestoned street.

  As Nevins followed, struggling to keep up in his slippery-soled shoes, Maggie felt a wave of anger wash through her. She stopped and faced him, bringing him up short. “Mr. Nevins, I have a question.”

  “Yes?”

  “Have you run the list of names of Windsor Castle and Bletchley Park employees against the list of guests at Claridge’s for the night Victoria Keeley was murdered? I asked Hugh, and he said he’d pass the request to you.”

  Nevins laughed. “So, that was your idea, was it? A regular Mata Hari you are. Well, darling, you’ll find I’m not like Hugh Thompson. I, for one, don’t take orders from a woman. In fact, let’s set this straight—I’m the boss. You’ll be taking orders from me.”

  “Are you insane?” Maggie hissed. “What are you doing here? And out in the open? Stopping by for tea? Already one woman’s been shot in London and one’s been decapitated here. Since I’m new, there are any number of people at the castle suspicious of me. You’re abusing the privilege of the handler position.”

  “This is why I don’t like to work with women,” Nevins said softly, “no matter how attractive the package. You women may be clever—and you’re reputed to be quite clever—but you’re not intelligent. You may be able to obtain information in a given situation, but you can’t put it all together.” He smiled. “It’s why you have me, of course.”

  Maggie felt her face grow hot, and started walking again. “That’s not how I see things. Or Mr. Frain.”

  Nevins laughed, a pinched, mean laugh. “Frain’s a pragmatist. He saw that he could get you into Windsor, and because of your sex, you’d be less obvious—especially when dealing with a child. A good role for a woman, I suppose. But honestly, I’d rather see Thompson or Standish in the field on this one, not you. Although I wouldn’t mind your sitting just outside my office. You’d dress the place up nicely.”

  “Are you joking?” Maggie managed. “Look, Mr. Nevins, I’m a professional. And I expect to be treated as such. Understood?”

  Nevins looked as though Cupid’s arrow had just pierced his heart. “You have pluck, Maggie,” he managed, finally. “So very American. And you like the chase, it seems. I just hope you haven’t picked up any of your father’s habits.”

  “My father? What’s he got to do with anything?”

  “You don’t know?” Nevins whistled. “He was investigated for being a double agent for Germany in the last war. Now, in this one, he’s supposed to be ferreting out a spy at Bletchley. Been on the case for years and still no spy.… Do you think dear old Dad might be working for Abwehr? That’s what the boys in the back room whisper, at any rate.”

  “Stop it, Mr. Nevins. Stop it right now.” Maggie’s head was spinning. Her father was a spy during the last war? He’d never told her that. And he’d been suspected of being a double agent back then? And now, once again, he was suspected of spying for Germany?

  From a nearby black rooftop, a falcon began his mad laughing caw, then flew off. Maggie turned and watched him sail through the air until he reached the top of one of the castle’s high walls. It was a fair distance away, but Maggie squinted to see him land on the shoulder of a man. Probably Sam Berners, the Royal Falconer. She gave a grim smile. If only I could get the falcon to go for Nevins. “Unless you have some actual information to impart, we’re finished, Mr. Nevins.”

  “It was good to meet you, Miss Hope. I look forward to using the information you bring me to crack the case.”

  Maggie turned and started tramping back to the castle, blood boiling, leaving Nevins to stare after her. “Yes,” she muttered to herself. “Yes, Nevins, you’re finished. Quite finished.”

  Later, in the Octagon Room, still seething at Nevins and wondering about her father, Maggie picked at her dinner, letting the conversation of the others flow and swirl around her.

  She heard her name being called. It was Crawfie. “Miss Hope!” she was saying.

  She cleared her thoughts of Nevins. “Yes, Miss Crawford.”

  “I want to include the Princesses somehow in this year’s Red, White, and Blue Christmas celebration,” she began. “And I was thinking a performance might be in order. They’re going to be making public appearances soon enough, and some practice on a stage, in front of family and friends, might help them make the transition.”

  Maggie nodded, listening.

  “I was thinking of a pantomime. Sleeping Beauty, in fact. Princess Margaret can play Briar Rose and Princess Elizabeth can be the Prince. I spoke with Mr. Tanner, who’s a teacher at the Royal School, in the Great Park, where the other children of Windsor Castle attend school—and it turns out he was a Gilbert and Sullivan player back in the day, and would be delighted to direct. We can charge admission and the ticket money can go to the Queen’s Wool Fund.” She sighed. “It’s been so dull for the Princesses here, and I think it would do them a world of good.… May I count on your help, Miss Hope?” Crawfie asked. “For scenery, especially?”

  “Of course!” Maggie exclaimed. It was, after all, just the thing to keep an eye on the Princesses and their circle during the time she wasn’t tutoring. “Crawfie, I’d be happy—in fact, thrilled—to help. Thank you.”

  Maggie attended the first read-through that night in the nursery. The sheer scope of work the production would entail was staggering. There were sets to be built and painted, costumes to sew, props to make, lights to be hung, and only a few weeks in which to do it. Maggie sat, listening to the Princesses read through the script, taking notes on what would be needed. Mr. Tanner clapped his hands after they’d finished Act I, saying in plummy Welsh tones, “All right, Your Highnesses, that’s enough for the night.”

  Maggie was amused there were no auditions for the roles; it was simply assumed the two Princesses would play the leads—Margaret as the Sleeping Princess and Elizabeth as the Prince.

  A resounding bell stood in for the wailing air-raid siren Maggie was used to. Lilibet and Margaret rushed to the windows. “Theirs,” they said matter-of-factly, as German planes roared overhead, on their way to London or beyond. The corgis all crowded around the windows but were too well trained to bark. Still, a few of them growled softly.

  Margaret went over to Maggie and took her hand. “We can tell the difference, you know,” she said, quite seriously, “even in the dark—by the sound of the engines.”

  Mrs. Tuffts, another tiny and wizened ARP Warden, fluttered in. “Come!” she said, her bony wrists waving and wisps of white hair escaping from under her metal helmet, “to the dungeons! Crawfie, would you please hurry them along?”

  “Come, girls,” Crawfie urged. “Take your suitcases and gas masks, and we’ll be on our way.” And true enough, two small suitcases stood by the nursery door, as though the Princesses were off to Paddington Station instead of to a makeshift air-raid shelter in the castle’s dungeon.

  “Can you believe those suitcases are real Vuitton?” Crawfie confided to Maggie. “They belong to France and Marianne.”

  “France and Marianne?” Maggie didn’t think she’d met them yet.

  “Oh, they’re dolls. Literal dolls. They were given to the Princesses to mark the King and Queen’s state visit to France.”

  “Aha,” said Maggie.

  “Come, pups!” Lilibet said to the corgis in motherly tones. Dutifully, they all got up and filed after her. Together, they all traveled through the corridors of the castle, until they reached the kitchen. There, down a flight of stairs, was the Royal wine cellar. In the back rooms of the wine cellar, Mrs. Tuffts rolled a carpet out of the way, revealing a trapdoor in the floor. Crawfie took hold of the iron ring and pulled. The door came up easil
y, revealing a steep staircase. “I’ll go first,” said Mrs. Tuffts, turning on a flashlight. “Watch your step, now.”

  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.”