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 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.
Then Maggie found another file within the main one. This one was different. It had records of Lily’s meetings with Sir Oswald Mosley, the leader of Britain’s Fascist party, and her trips to Nazi Germany. There were photos of her with Unity and Diana Mitford, at a British Fascist party rally, giving a Nazi salute; one of her at the 1937 Nuremberg Rally, at Hitler’s side; one of her with Julius Streicher, publisher of Der Stürmer newspaper.
Oh, Lily, Lily, Maggie thought. Who were you? How did you get caught up in all this?
The items in the folder were letters. There was a handwritten note from Home Secretary Sir John Anderson, calling for her “youthful indiscretion” not to be held against her and her MI-5 file destroyed. There were also notes from him, Neville Chamberlain, and Lord Halifax to the King, asking his Majesty to give Lily a place at court—and keep her past a secret.
No wonder MI-5 wanted me to get these files. Still, what about Louisa? So she went back to the cabinet and pulled Louisa’s file as well. She brought it back to the desk. Louisa had attended the Institut Alpin Videmanette, a Swiss finishing school, and made her debut. Her file resembled Lily’s in its aristocratic banality. However, there was no additional folder, nothing to implicate her in any way.
Maggie heard a noise in the hall. Damn. What was that? Maggie checked her small watch. It was 3:15 a.m.—surely no one was up.
She flipped another page and snapped a photo.
The noise was footsteps.
Flipped another page. Snap.
They were coming closer.
Snap.
If someone found her, what would she say? Maggie considered as she kept working, her hands trembling.
Keep working, she thought. Just a few more pages.
And then, Done!
Quickly, she put the files back in place, locked the drawer, put the keys and camera back in her bag, turned off the desk light, and then dove underneath the desk, curling herself up into a small ball in the kneespace.
She heard the lock pop and the door creak open. Someone’s here!
Maggie willed her pulse to slow and her breathing to be silent.
There were footsteps approaching. A light came on, and Maggie blinked her eyes against the sudden brightness. From her vantage point under the desk, she could see Gregory’s polished wingtip shoes. He approached the desk and stopped.
She thought her heart would burst from the strain. Surely he could hear her breathing?
In sounds that seemed amplified, Maggie heard him unstop one of the bottles on his desk and pour himself a drink, the liquid splashing into the glass. She realized that if she wanted to, she could reach out and untie his shoelace.
Not that she would, of course.
The moment felt like hours, but finally the door swung shut and Maggie heard the lock slide into place.
Maggie stayed underneath the desk, unmoving. I’ll stay here as long as I need to. In the inky black darkness, her heartbeat resumed a normal tempo.
A feeling of triumph suffused her, warm and glowing. I did it, she thought.
I did it!
Chapter Seventeen
The next morning, at a tiny newsstand not too far from Boswell’s Books, Maggie saw Nevins, paging through Men Only magazine. She approached.
Maggie looked through the titles and busied herself flipping through a copy of National Geographic. The newsstand’s proprietor was overseeing a delivery in the back.
“The mission was a success,” she said quietly.
“Terrific. Hand over the film, darling,” Nevins said.
“No,” Maggie said, not looking up from the pages.
Nevins spun around to face her. “No? Do I need to remind you this is my operation? Now give me the damn film.”
She looked up. Slowly. “Nevins,” she said, appraising him, “this isn’t going to work.”
“Darling, I’m your superior officer. I give the orders. You follow them.”
“I’m the one with the film, Nevins. I’m the one with access to the castle. I’m the one who almost got caught taking these photos. And I’m the one questioned because I was spotted talking to you—you, who felt the need to just stop by and say hello to your ‘darling’ out in the open and without a pretext. Yes—we were seen, and I was questioned about it.”
Maggie squared her shoulders and looked him in the eyes, deadly serious. “I’ve realized something recently, Nevins. I’m the one with the power. You need me. Frain needs me. My days of blindly following orders are over. Especially orders from someone like you, who’s all ego and no integrity.”
Nevins’s jaw dropped. “Bitch!”
Maggie’s nostrils flared with contempt. “Tell Mr. Frain that if Agent Thompson isn’t on the other end of the pickup, he’s not getting this film.”
“But, but—” Nevins spluttered. “Thompson’s a nothing, a nobody!”
“He’s an infinitely better agent than you.” Maggie put down her magazine and smiled. “As far as I’m concerned—you’re fired.”
When maths lessons with Lilibet were over, there was a knock at the nursery door. It was Margaret, eyes wide and hand in front of her mouth, trying to stifle a laugh. “It’s in the oven,” she whispered to Lilibet.
Maggie was packing up her books and notebooks. “What’s in the oven, Margaret?”
Lilibet’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “Come with us,” she said. “You’ll see.”
Smiling with amusement, Maggie let the girls lead her through the castle’s maze of corridors, finally reaching the kitchen with its high ceilings and skylights.
“There you are,” said Cook, looking up from a mountain of chopped parsnips.
“Is it done?” asked Margaret.
“Almost.” Cook wiped her hands on her apron. “Sit down and I’ll get it for you for your elevenses.”
“A mystery!” said Maggie as they sat down at a long wooden table. “And sounds like one you can eat too!”
The girls looked at each other and giggled.
From an enormous oven, Cook pulled out a pie. She set it in front of the trio. Maggie looked. The top of the pie was dark orange. She inhaled the fragrance of cinnamon and nutmeg. It smelled familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.
Margaret couldn’t hold it in any longer. “Pumpkin pie!” she exclaimed.
“Pumpkin pie?” echoed Maggie, confused.
“Well, we learned about America and the Pilgrims and the Indians,” Lilibet told her. “We thought you might miss celebrating Thanksgiving.”
Oh, the dears. Maggie felt a lump in her throat, part homesickness, part happiness. “Thank you, both,” she said. “I’m touched beyond words.” As a tutor, she just had to add, “You do know that Thanksgiving was more than two weeks ago, though, yes?”
“We had to save our sugar rations,” Lilibet confided.
“Can we eat it now?” Margaret asked.
“Of course,” said Maggie, as she sliced the pie and handed out plates.
“And we cooked the pumpkin and mixed the filling ourselves!” Margaret chimed. “It was baking during our lesson!”
“It smells wonderful,” Maggie told them.
“Very American?” Margaret asked.
“Extremely American,” Maggie replied.
Truth be told, the pie was not as sweet as it should have been and was missing, in Maggie’s opinion, the all-important allspice. But she blinked away stinging tears as they ate, thinking of her Thanksgivings at Wellesley with Aunt Edith and her friend and lover, Olive, who always managed to produce feasts from their tiny kitchen.
When they were finished, and di
shes washed and put away, Margaret had another glint in her eye. “We want to take you exploring,” she said, sotto voce, out of earshot of Cook.
“Follow us,” Lilibet admonished.
Maggie did as she was told. “Yes, ma’am.”
The girls seemed to know every nook and cranny of the castle. Maggie was surprised when they took her down the stairs near the servants’ entrance and through narrow damp tunnels and down into the dungeon. Lilibet pulled out a flashlight they’d hidden for these purposes and turned it on, the beam a magic wand in the darkness.
“Where are we going?” Maggie whispered as they walked the low-ceilinged corridors in the dark. “And does Alah know you two do this? I can’t help but think she wouldn’t like it.”
Margaret sighed dramatically. “Alah doesn’t like us to do anything except sit and knit,” she said. “If I have to sit and knit every day, I shall surely go mad.”
“Stop exaggerating, Margaret,” Lilibet snapped. “We’re at war. People are making enormous sacrifices. Surely if I can knit, you can knit.”
“Yes, your Majesty,” Margaret said with mock deference and a low curtsy.
Maggie was counting the twists and turns as they went. “You’re sure you know where you’re going?”
“And, here we are!” announced Lilibet.
They had reached a small room, part of the old dungeons. Maggie shivered, thinking of those who’d been imprisoned there over the centuries.
“Over here!” Margaret said, running over to a pile of large hatboxes. “Open it, Maggie!”
Maggie walked over with trepidation. What did the boxes contain? Skulls? Bones? Ashes?
Determined not to show fear, she opened the largest. Inside were newspapers. Taking a deep breath, Maggie reached inside. Behind her, the girls giggled. “She stuck in her thumb …” Margaret began.
Maggie pulled out something large and heavy, wrapped in tissue paper. “… and pulled out …” Is that what I think it is? Could it be? “The Crown Jewels?”
The crown she held was the Imperial State Crown, gold and encrusted with diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and pearls in crosses pattées and fleurs-de-lis, topped with purple velvet and trimmed in white ermine. The large diamonds glittered in the dim light. “ ‘Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown,’ ” she whispered, thinking of all the heads who’d worn it over the ages.
“Look!” said Margaret, pulling out from another hatbox the long Sovereign’s Scepter, topped with a diamond as large as her fist.
“Goodness,” Maggie breathed.
“Look at this,” Lilibet said, pulling out the Sovereign’s Orb, a golden ball set with bands of gems and pearls, topped with an amethyst and then a diamond cross. “Charles the Second once held it—can you imagine?” She held it out to Maggie. “Go on, give it a try.”
Maggie accepted the object; it was cool to the touch. “It’s heavy,” she whispered. Then, trying to remember her role as teacher, “Shouldn’t these be in the Tower of London?”
“Here for safekeeping. They will be mine one day, after all,” Lilibet said. “I wanted you to see them.”
“Thank you—both of you,” Maggie said. “This was, well, quite an unexpected treat.”
“We can give you a tour of more of the dungeons, if you’d like,” Margaret said, wrapping the jewels back in the papers and putting them in the trunk.
“Thank you,” Maggie said. “A tour would be more valuable than jewels, really.”
The next day, after lessons with Lilibet, Maggie took the Windsor and Eton Central train back to London. After arriving at Paddington, Maggie took the Tube’s Central Line to the Circle Line, exiting from the Bond Street stop in Mayfair. Above ground, she walked until she saw the imposing, tall red-brick building that was Claridge’s. She walked past the doorman, who tipped his hat, over the gleaming black and white tiles, through the perfumed air, to the concierge desk.
The concierge on duty was a tall man, thin, with a long face and droopy eyes and jowls, like a bloodhound. “Good morning, Miss,” he said. “May I help you?”
“Good morning,” Maggie answered. She pulled out her picture of Lily. “I was wondering if you could help me—have you seen this woman at your hotel?”
“Miss, here at Claridge’s, we treat our guests with the utmost respect, which includes respect for their privacy.”
“I understand, sir, but the young lady in the photograph is dead. Any information you could share would be most appreciated.”
“Are you with the police?” he asked, voice low, making sure the hotel’s guests checking in couldn’t hear.
“N-no,” Maggie stammered. “I’m—a friend.” She pulled out a few pound notes, as she had seen done in the movies.
“Oh, no, no, no, no, no,” he said, wagging his finger. “We don’t do that here. I’m afraid I can’t help you. Good day.”
Ugh, I’m such an amateur, she thought, annoyed. If Nevins were doing his job properly … Maggie walked back to the door, and when she got outside, out of sight of the front desk, she showed Lily’s photograph to the doorman, slipping him the pound notes. It went a bit smoother this time. “Have you seen this woman?”
He studied the photo. “Yes, Miss,” he said, pocketing the pound notes. “She used to come here regular, about once a month, I’d say.”
“Did you ever see her come or go with anyone?”
“Sometimes some lady friends. Young, like ’er.”
“Pale, black hair, red lipstick?”
“That’d be them, Miss.”
“Anyone else?”
“Sometimes, Miss,” he said in lower tones, “people don’t come and go with the people they’re here with, if you get my meaning. But the chambermaids always know. Go around the corner to the staff entrance, ask around there. You may get someone who knows more than I do.” He gave a broad wink.
“Thank you,” Maggie said, “very much.”
She walked into the staff entrance, a world away from the polished surfaces and high ceilings of the lobby—low and dim.
“Miss, you’re not allowed in ’ere,” a thin older woman said, her rough hands testament to the cleaning she must do.
“Actually, I was wondering,” Maggie said. “Have you ever seen this woman here at the hotel?”
The woman stared at the photograph. “No, love, I ain’t seen ’er.” Maggie pulled out the pound notes again. This time, they had the intended effect. The woman looked around and caught sight of one of her fellow maids. “She might know. Maude! Maude! Come over ’ere?”
“What?” Maude barked. She was a large, burly woman with surprisingly delicate features.
“Miss ’ere ’as a question,” she said, looking pointedly at the pound notes.
“Do you recognize the woman in the photo?” Maggie asked.
The woman stared. “Yeah,” she said. “Always asking for more towels, that one. What she does with all them towels, I ’ave no idea, ’cept we’ve gotta wash ’em.”
Maggie’s heart leapt. “Did you ever see her with anyone?”
The woman squinted at the photo. “Oh, she got around, all right. I know, ’cause I bring her the extra towels to ’er room, and also some others’ rooms. Probably took a bath in every bloody room at the hotel. Sorry, Miss.”
“That’s all right. Do you happen to remember who she was with?”
The woman sighed. “There was a woman, actually. Pretty, with black ’air.” She lowered her voice. “The one ’oo was murdered ’ere.” She crossed herself.
The link to Victoria confirmed! Maggie thought. “Anyone else?”
“A young man. Tall, thin.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Oh, I dunno, Miss. All those young men look alike to me. Tall, pale, nose in the air.”
“Was he blond or dark?” Maggie pressed. “Did he have scars on his face?” She waited for the answer, heart in her throat. Because she liked Gregory, she really did. And she didn’t want him to have anything to do with Lily’
s murder or the decrypt.
“No, Miss, no scars—I would ’ave remembered that.” She thought a bit. “ ’E ’ad one a those scarves, you know, the fancy university scarves?”
“What were the colors?”
“Blue. Dark blue with red and yellow. I remember it—ugly as sin.”
By the time Maggie returned to the castle, snow was falling in earnest and a light dusting had collected on the ground. As she walked up the gravel path, her feet making crunching noises in the still, cold air and the bells from St. George’s Chapel clanging, she saw that a truck had pulled up in front of the castle’s entrance. In the back was an enormous evergreen from the Great Park, at least twenty-two feet tall and nearly as wide at the tree’s foot—the Royal Christmas tree. How appropriate, Maggie thought, since the first Christmas tree in England was the one Prince Albert brought to Windsor Castle from Germany.
Mr. Tooke was overseeing the men untying the ropes and wrestling with it. He caught Maggie’s eye and lifted his tweed cap. “Hello, Mr. Tooke!” Maggie called. She recognized her winking footman, out of uniform. “Hello,” she said to him. “It’s silly to keep seeing each other and not be introduced. I’m Maggie Hope.”
“George Poulter,” he said, tipping his cap. “How d’you do?”
“Have you been at Windsor long, Mr. Poulter?”
“Came with Lord Gregory. Lord Gregory Strathcliffe? I used to be his manservant back in the day, at his family’s estate. That was before the injuries, of course. He found me a place at Windsor Castle when he came, he did. Good man, Lord Gregory.”
“Yes,” Maggie said, thoughtful. “Yes, he is.”
Inside, the castle was a buzz of activity. Servants arranged boughs of evergreen on fireplace mantels, releasing their sharp, piney smell. There was holly as well, with glossy leaves and bright red berries. Even through the corridors were as long and cold as ever, the decorations lent a homey touch to the place. Maggie was amused to see that, where grand oil paintings used to hang, large posters for Sleeping Beauty, featuring Lilibet and Margaret’s artwork, were displayed.
Maggie made her way to the vast Waterloo Chamber, where the stage was set up. The room was magnificent: a soaring clerestory ceiling, paneled walls decorated with lime-wood carvings by Grinling Gibbons, an enormous Indian carpet.
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