Frain didn’t look up from his papers. “Really? And what did she find out?”
“She knew Lily Howell was in London, at the same hotel and at the same time that woman committed suicide—if that’s indeed what happened. She knows it might indeed be a murder. She knows Lily Howell was three months pregnant. And,” Hugh pulled out the piece of paper Maggie had given him, “she gave us this—” Hugh handed over the cryptograph.
Frain read it, eyes inscrutable. “Thank you,” he allowed. “That will be all.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hugh left Frain’s floor, walking down to the small subterranean office he shared with Mark Standish.
“I’m going to the funeral,” he announced to Mark, as he got his coat and hat. Mark was looking at photographs of potential IRA mailbox bombers with a loupe magnifier, without much luck.
“I’ll meet you there,” Mark said, without looking away from the photographs. The service was for a fellow MI-5 officer, Andrew Wells, who’d died in the line of duty, killed by a Nazi spy’s stiletto in St. James’s Park after Wells recognized her. MI-5 covered up the murder, saying it was an accident. The spy was still at large in London.
Mark gestured to the photograph on Hugh’s desk. “Are you meeting up later with Caroline?”
“Of course,” Hugh snapped as he shrugged into his overcoat.
“I’m just checking, old thing. Just checking.”
The funeral was being held at St. Martin-in-the-Fields. Hugh climbed the stone steps and pulled open the imposing doors. The interior was cavernous and dim in the fading daylight, lit by brass chandeliers and large beeswax candles in tall sconces. Somber music poured from the organ as Hugh walked down the aisle, his footsteps heavy on the marble tiles. He made his way to a hard wooden pew in the front of the church and took a seat, a world away from the bustle of Trafalgar Square outside.
As he sat, people began to file in, taking their seats or somberly exchanging greetings. It was a small service; they all sat near the altar. A small boy and his mother slipped into the pew in front of him. The boy, who was about six or so, with soft golden curls, began to fidget. He was dressed in black, as was his mother, who was dabbing at her eyes with a cambric handkerchief.
Everyone stood as the pallbearers brought in the large black casket, with the Union Jack draped over it and a wreath of crimson poppies. Andrew Wells’s casket.
They all sat down again as the silver-haired priest began his homily. “We brought nothing into this world, and it is certain we can carry nothing out. The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away—blessed be the name of the Lord.”
The boy began to kick the leg of his pew, his worn oxfords making a loud banging that
reverberated through the church.
“Shhh, love—don’t do that,” she said, placing her hand on the boy’s leg.
The boy twisted in his seat and stared back at Hugh. “That’s my daddy, you know,” he said, pointing at the coffin.
Hugh looked up at the coffin, then back at the little boy. “Then you must be Ian Wells,” Hugh whispered back. “I knew your father. He was a hero.”
Without warning, the boy was out of his seat and lunging at Hugh, burying his face in his shoulder and wrapping his thin arms around his neck, hugging him tightly, and sobbing.
Hugh held him; the boy’s hair smelled warm and sweet. “My father died in the line of duty, too,” he whispered, patting the boy’s back. He could feel sharp shoulder blades through the boy’s jacket. “It was a long time ago. I was about your age, actually.”
The boy looked up at Hugh with wide hazel eyes, damp plump hands still on his shoulders. “Do you still miss him?”
“Every day,” Hugh answered. “It gets better—it does—but it never quite goes away.”
In the Amtsgruppe Ausland offices of Abwehr in Berlin, junior agents Torsten Ritter and Franz Krause were sitting in black leather chairs in a large empty conference room, radio on the long table in front of them, waiting. Outside, the sky was cerulean, with just a few high feathery cirrus clouds. Krause was tapping his fingers nervously.
“Do you really need to do that?” Ritter asked.
Krause stopped. “Sorry.”
“By the way, my mother said to tell your mother hello,” Ritter said.
Krause grimaced. “I try not to talk to my mother.”
“Well, I’ll tell mine that she says hello back. It’ll make her happy.”
They stopped speaking when the radio began to emit a series of short beeps. It was a radio message from their British contact, code-named Wōdanaz. The contact in Windsor tapped out code, slow and deliberate—his “fist,” or typing style, as individual as a fingerprint. Ritter scribbled it down, then, as per protocol, asked the operator to repeat the message. He checked it against what he’d written, then acknowledged the contact and signed off.
Ritter consulted the Morse code book to decipher the message.
“It says they smuggled out the decrypt from Bletchley,” Ritter read as he translated.
“Excellent!” Krause said. “We just secured our retirement—gold, girls, an endless supply of beer …”
“Wait. I’m not done.” He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “This isn’t good. Frijjō is dead. And the decrypt is missing.”
“Scheiss!” Krause pounded his table with his fist. “Fucking Becker’s going to have our heads.”
“Becker?” Ritter said. “He doesn’t even believe the British can break Enigma. This will just confirm what he already suspects.”
Krause laughed, a bitter laugh. “You should be scared of him. Don’t let his affection for little Wolfie charm you.”
“I’ll tell you who I am scared of.”
“Yeah, who’s that?”
“Commandant Hess.”
Krause’s smirk faded, as the name, and its significance, reverberated. “We’re not working on that operation, though.”
“Still, Operation Edelweiss had better go off without a hitch—because I’ve heard about what happens when Commandant Hess gets angry. Makes Goebbels look like a pussycat.”
Chapter Eleven
At the castle, Maggie was getting dressed for dinner. Although she would rather have stayed in her rooms to read the Turing, which she’d purchased at the bookshop, she resigned herself to getting through the meal.
She pulled out the gown she’d brought, held it up and looked at it. It was an angelic blue chiffon, with black satin edging and black roses on one shoulder. The last time she’d worn it, she’d been with John. He’d asked her to marry him, and she, angry that he’d joined the RAF, had turned him down. Looking at the dress, Maggie thought bitterly, I was a fool. And I still am. She closed her eyes, and her shoulders sagged. And I hope to God I’ll get a chance to make it up to him. She put it on, along with fur-lined boots and her coat.
Maggie, already suspicious of the two other girls in Victoria Tower, went to find them. She had no personal interest in befriending them, but they were Lily’s best friends and could possibly have some information, and so …
She went down a flight of stairs and knocked at the door. There was no answer. She knocked again. “What?” she heard as the door cracked open. It was Polly.
“What do you want?” the girl snapped.
“Why hello, Polly,” Maggie replied, masking her annoyance. “Is this your door? I thought we could all walk to dinner together.”
“It’s Louisa’s, actually,” Polly said, cigarette in hand, opening the door a little wider. Inside, Maggie could see rooms similar to hers. Louisa, though, had done some decorating. Maroon scarves covered her lamps, making a reddish glow. Her walls were papered with prints of Italian Futurist painters popular with Fascists: Giacomo Balla, Umberto Boccioni, and a few others Maggie didn’t recognize. The air was thick with smoke from pungent clove cigarettes, and Lale Andersen’s “Lili Marleen” was playing on the phonograph.
Louisa was in the bathroom, applying her eyeliner. “Who’s there?” she called.
/>
“Hello, Louisa, it’s Maggie.”
“Who?”
“Maggie Hope. We met at the Carpenters Arms with Gregory.” A pause. “And Lily.”
Louisa emerged from the bathroom in a long red dress with a black jet lavaliere, the kind of necklace Victorians would have worn in mourning. “Ah,” she said. “The governess. Shouldn’t you be walking with Crawfie?”
“And how lovely to see you tonight, too,” Maggie said.
Marion grimaced apologetically. “She probably came to see your snake.”
Louisa smiled, a cold smile. “Would you like to meet Irving?” she said.
“Uh, of course,” Maggie replied.
Louisa walked over to her dresser, where there was a covered glass container. She reached inside. “He’s a ball python,” she said, picking up a long, muscular snake. Maggie figured he was about four feet long and about five inches around, black and covered with slivery chartreuse blotches. “Here!” she said, tossing him at Maggie.
Instinctively, Maggie held out her hands and caught the snake. He was cold but dry, not at all slimy, and began to curl around her arms. Maggie saw his black shiny eyes and his forked tongue heading toward her neck.
“They like heat,” Louisa said.
Maggie stood perfectly still, unwilling to flinch. “Hello, Irving,” she said in a steady voice. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” As he tried to wrap himself around her, she extricated herself, handling him carefully. “I think he likes me.”
Marion and Louisa looked almost disappointed at Maggie’s dégagé reaction.
Maggie deposited Irving back into his container and replaced the lid. She went to Louisa’s loo and washed her hands, calling cheerfully through the door, “Shall we go to dinner now?”
They made it to the Octagon Room just in time.
“Miss Hope, you’ll be seated here.” Lord Clive gestured to an empty chair to the right, in the middle of the long table covered in starched white linens. Maggie noted, with satisfaction, that his tone was much warmer now. Louisa and Marion were seated at the other end of the table. She noticed the friendly footman and gave him a smile, which he returned before arranging his face back into the neutral mask of a royal servant.
“Thank you, Lord Clive,” Maggie replied. She went to take her seat.
Dinner was made in the castle’s kitchen out of wartime rations supplemented with winter vegetables from the considerable Victory Gardens. According to the menu, handwritten in French, tonight’s repast was mock goose—layers of potatoes and apples baked with cheese—with pickled onions, and beetroot pudding for dessert. Maggie sat between Sir Owen, the King’s librarian, and Mr. Alstaire Tooke, the head royal gardener. From across the table, Gregory raised his wineglass and gave her a grin.
Maggie took a bite of mock goose, then turned to her white-haired dining companion. “Delicious, don’t you think?”
He looked past her, not meeting her eyes, as though he didn’t understand her words. “Quite,” he said finally, in a quiet voice.
“I’m Maggie Hope, by the way. Princess Elizabeth’s new maths tutor?”
“Tooke,” was the response. His eyes seemed unfocused.
“Are you feeling all right, Mr. Tooke?”
He seemed not to hear her.
Sir Owen, seated on Maggie’s other side, turned to her. “Your accent tells me you’re an American,” he observed as the next course was being served.
“British, actually,” Maggie answered, “but I was raised in the United States, near Boston.”
“Do you have any idea of when the Yanks are going to join us in this endeavor?”
“Soon, I hope.”
“Well, they are taking their time about it, aren’t they?”
During the time Maggie had been in England, she’d heard quite a bit on the subject. “Indeed,” she said tartly.
“Well, you know the Yanks,” said another older man with a monocle and handlebar mustache across the table. “Late to every war.”
Maggie bit her lip, retorting with choice words—in her head.
Later, as the dinner dishes were taken away, Lord Clive rose. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he said, his voice carrying throughout the expansive space. “We have, as a community, suffered a terrible loss this last weekend. I was pleased to see so many of you at Lady Lily’s memorial service. Please be assured we will be doing everything we can to cooperate with the authorities and bring the person responsible to justice.”
There was a collective murmur. Sir Owen called out, “Hear, hear!”
Maggie looked at Louisa and Marion, seated on either side of Gregory, who shot each other a look before turning their attention back to Lord Clive.
“However,” the Lord continued, “life does go on. And I’m pleased to inform you that the Prime Minister, his wife, and select members of his staff will be joining us to sleep and dine for Christmas. They will enjoy three days and nights of Windsor Castle’s hospitality.”
There was another low murmur from the table, a more excited one this time.
Lord Clive cleared his throat again. “Of course, we wish to show the Prime Minister and his staff exactly how gracious our hospitality at the castle is. I’m calling on all of you to put your best foot forward.” He looked around the table. “That is all.”
Sir Owen rose and helped pull out Maggie’s chair. “Miss Hope, we’ve been told you come to us from the Prime Minister’s office.”
“Yes, Sir Owen,” she said, as they waited to file out.
“You worked for Churchill, did you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Louisa called over, “Is he as pickled as people say?”
“Excuse me?” Maggie said.
“Sorry, I’ll speak ‘American,’” Marion said. “I mean drunk. Is Churchill a drunk? That’s what we hear, at any rate.”
“No,” Maggie said, getting angry. How dare she? “I’ve never seen him drink to excess. In fact, one of his favorite quotes is, ‘I have taken more out of alcohol than alcohol has taken out of me.’ ”
Louisa gave a cat-like smirk. “I, for one, wanted to see Lord Halifax as Prime Minister.”
“Then you must enjoy goose-stepping. Lord Halifax would have surrendered by now,” Maggie snapped, color rising in her face. “Where Churchill never will.” She saw Gregory bite his lip to stop himself from laughing.
“Miss Hope! Lady Louisa!” Lord Clive admonished. “May I remind you that not only are we at Windsor Castle, but the Nazis are the enemies? Enough!”
The company was excused. Mr. Tooke left without saying a word to anyone, eyes downcast. “You mustn’t mind Lady Louisa,” Sir Owen told Maggie as they walked out together into the chilly corridor. “She’s very … colorful.”
“I see,” Maggie said.
“And you mustn’t mind Mr. Tooke either. Hasn’t been himself lately.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Has he been ill?”
“His wife passed recently.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“She was German, you see. Lived here for years, though. She was only recently sent to some sort of—camp. Apparently, the strain was too much for her. She died of a heart attack. Poor bloke just found out this past week.”
“That’s terrible.” Maggie was aware of the camps, of course. The Prime Minister had given the go-ahead for their creation. He might be the Prime Minister, and he might be a great man, but it didn’t mean Maggie agreed with everything he did.
“Poor thing’s in shock.” Sir Owen shook his head, then turned to go. “Lovely to see you again, Miss Hope. Cheers.”
“Cheers,” she replied, her mind full of internment camps.
Gregory was at her side. “Well, you definitely spiced up dinner!” Then he turned serious. “It was a rather stressful meal—considering what happened over the weekend.”
One regular dining companion missing. “Of course,” Maggie said.
“Lady Lily was a particularly sparkling presence at meals. She’ll be mi
ssed for a long time to come.”
“I only met her the once, but she was charming. Was she … engaged?”
Gregory frowned. “Not that I know of, at least. Why do you ask?”
Maggie wasn’t about to tell him she knew Lily had been pregnant.
“Just wondering. She was so beautiful, after all.”
“Plenty of beaux, of course. Popular girl.”
They walked together down the long corridor in silence. “You knew her when she was younger?” Maggie prompted.
“Yes, she lived near us, near Chesterfield in Derbyshire.”
Maggie smiled. “It must have been nice to grow up with a playmate.”
“It was,” he said with a wan smile. “Although I didn’t meet her until she was five. She was born in Germany.”
“Oh, really?” Maggie said, her head spinning, thinking about the decrypt.
“If you don’t mind, I must return to the Equerry’s office.” He gave a small bow. “Good night, Maggie.”
“Good night,” she said, resuming her walk down the drafty corridor.
Could it be that Lily was a spy? A Nazi spy? she thought.
But if Lily was a Nazi spy, then who killed her?
And why?
Admiralty Arch was not only a large office building, it was, in fact, an archway, providing road and pedestrian access between The Mall and Trafalgar Square. Nearly undetectable to those who didn’t know it was there, carved in marble, was a nose. Just a nose, not a face—embedded in one of the archways. Legend was that it was Lord Nelson’s nose, and soldiers passing through on horseback would rub it for good luck.
Just like so many military men before him, Admiral Donald Kirk looked at the nose and said a short silent prayer to Lord Nelson. Kirk was a trim, smart-looking man with silvery hair and piercing green eyes, wearing a dark blue naval uniform. He leaned heavily on a silver-handled walking stick—a crushed knee in the last war had left him with a stiff, almost mechanical limp. The injury kept him from serving at sea in the current war—which he hated. However, his wife and four daughters, now married and mothers themselves, were grateful he was able to serve his country while staying in London. Sometimes, when they were all together at home and the women were carrying on, he wished for a submarine to command once again.
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