“Then, when you’re older you learn more—that he was ‘killed in the line of duty.’ But even that’s vague. It doesn’t tell you where, or when, or how.” He downed the gin. “Or by whom.”
Mark was thinking ahead. “Should we go to the Red Lion? Because given what’s just happened, I doubt that Frain would mind.” He closed his folder and stood up. “And, if he does, he can bugger off.”
Hugh went on, as if he hadn’t heard. “And then, then you find out the details. The particulars. That the Germans knew about your father. That they wanted him dead. That his name was written in code. In a line of tiny pinpricks. In a book. Then you learn that the book belonged to your friend’s father. Who carried out the assassination.”
There was a sharp rap at the door, then Nevins opened it and walked in. He had a sheet of paper in his hands, which he handed to Hugh.
“Quite the day, I gather,” he said.
Hugh took the paper, like an automaton, and put it down without reading it.
Mark shook his head. “Jesus, Nevins. Perhaps you’d like to look up the word diplomacy in the dictionary?”
Nevins shrugged. “This is huge. Maggie Hope’s father—your father … Well, I can’t imagine how you must be feeling.”
“Obviously,” Mark said.
Nevins wouldn’t take the hint. “And, you know? I think Saul Levy’s going to be good for you. Just the thing to straighten you out.”
Hugh looked down at the memo and read it. Then he crumpled it and threw it in the metal wastebasket. “I’m not seeing Levy.”
Nevins leaned up against the doorframe. “I’m afraid Frain’s insisting. Levy may be a Jew, but he’s supposed to be a damned good psychiatrist—studied with Freud and all. He must live for this sort of thing. Positively Oedipal.”
“Just get out,” Mark said. “Now.”
“Well, it’s not up to you two,” Nevins said, turning to go. “It’s mandatory.”
Hugh stood up. “You serious about that pub?” he said to Mark. “Because I need to get very, very drunk.”
The same winter rain that had drenched Windsor had moved out to the coast, flooding Norfolk and its coast as well. It was raining hard in Mossley by Sea, a small village on the coast of the North Sea, not far from Grimsby. Mossley was tiny—there were only a few blocks of what was considered the main street, with the chemist, hardware store, grocer, the Royal Oak and Six Bells pubs, and the gray-steepled church with its neighboring graveyard, the stones crumbling, covered in velvety moss and damp lichen.
Christopher Boothby had taken the train from Bletchley, reaching Mossley as the cold driving rains became their heaviest. It had taken the residents a while to get used to him—they weren’t used to strangers—but his story of being a veteran of the Battle of Norway, now doing clerical work in Bletchley, needing a weekend place, stirred their maternal instincts, despite their official classification as a restricted military zone. Adding to the tale were rumors of his being a widower—wife and baby buried in the Blitz, don’t you know—which had the village’s matrons clucking. Why shouldn’t he buy that little cottage on the shore and fix it up? Didn’t he deserve a little peace after all he’d done for his country, after all he’d lost?
From the train, Boothby walked through the downpour, protected by his oilskin coat, heavy boots and nor’easter, striped Trinity scarf at his throat. He unchained his bicycle, waiting where he’d left it at the fence, and started off, struggling to keep upright in the punishing wind on the pitted and potholed roads.
He was an ordinary-looking man of about thirty—light hair, light eyes, average height and weight, clean-shaven. His nose was ordinary as well; it had once been patrician, but he’d broken it in a fight with the communist Reds when he’d been a follower of Walter Mosley and the Fascist party at Oxford, and now the bridge was just slightly flattened and off-center. He was a chameleon, adept at blending into any environment, including wounded veteran and grieving husband and father.
The brackish cold air assaulted his face as he rode, turning it mottled and red, his breath coming in short bursts.
As he pedaled, chain clanking, the rains abated. Cresting the top of the low-rising hill, Boothby could see the brown fields, the mudflats, the salt marshes with their tall feathery dying reeds, adapted to live in either fresh or salt water. Beyond the salt marshes was the gray-green ocean, waves roaring faintly upon the rocky shore in the distance.
From his vista he could see the cottage. It was small and dilapidated, but it was his, along with the battered van alongside it. He turned off the main road, onto a side one, and then into the gravel drive, getting off the bicycle and walking it to a protected space under the eaves. Stomping his boots on the mat, he reached into his oilskin’s coat pocket and drew out a heavy brass key. Then he let himself in. “Audrey?” he called into the shadows. “Audrey, are you there?”
It hadn’t been hard for the Nazis to convince Audrey Moreau to work for them. After they’d invaded Paris, she’d been harassed by groups of German soldiers as she went to and from her job at a local café. There, German officers would order pastries and coffee, talking and laughing. Audrey would clear the dishes of half-eaten palmiers, chausson aux pommes, and iced mille-feuille and take them back to the kitchen, where she and the rest of the staff would fall on them, famished, not caring that there were bite marks or that cigarettes had been crushed out in the custard.
When one of the officers, a young man with shocking white-blond hair and a cleft chin, had begun to harass her, she kept her eyes down and stayed silent. Day after day she endured his assaults, patting her derrière, pinching her cheek, asking her if she liked it on her back or on all fours, while his fellow officers egged him on and laughed.
The next week, his commanding officer, Otto Graf, appeared. He was closer to fifty than forty, with black hair and green eyes. When the cleft-chinned boy began his antics with Audrey, Graf strode across the room and slapped him across the face, hard, with his black leather glove.
“I’m sorry, Commandant,” the boy said.
“Don’t apologize to me,” Graf said, in a soft voice, “apologize to her. We are guests in her country. “
He did, turning red and stammering.
“Now leave,” Graf said. As the boy made his way out the door, Graf said, “And you have my apologies as well, Fräulein. Why don’t you sit down with us and have some coffee?”
Audrey looked over to the owner, her boss, a bald middle-aged man with a shiny pate. He nodded. Whatever the Germans wanted, the Germans got.
Graf patted the empty chair, and she sat down. “Now, tell me about yourself, Liebchen.”
Of course they became lovers. One night, in bed at his suite at the Ritz, when he learned she had relatives in England, he was thrilled. “It would be so easy,” he said, rubbing her cold hands with his, to warm them. “Your cousin married an English woman—who’s a cook for the British King and Queen, no less—let me see what I can do.”
A few weeks later, Audrey arrived in Windsor, feigning gratitude that her cousin was able to get her out. She knew who was already in place, and she awaited further instructions. Commandant Graf had no worries about Audrey’s cooperation—he knew very well where her parents and brother and sister lived. And he’d made it clear what would happen to them if she didn’t oblige.
In the cottage, Boothby called out again, “Audrey?” He fumbled for a lantern.
“I’m here,” she responded from the shadows.
“Good. Let’s go over the plan again.”
During preparations for the three-day Red, White and Blue Christmas weekend, excitement buzzed through the castle like a shot of adrenaline, which was a good thing, as the days were getting shorter and darker. Marquetry floors were waxed, silver polished, carpets taken out of storage and beaten, chandeliers washed and rehung, guest rooms aired. The enormous kitchen was filled with aroma of bread and cakes and roasts, and servants picked bouquets of flowers from the greenhouse to arrange and display throu
ghout the State Apartments.
After everything she had learned about her father and what she’d had to share with Hugh, Maggie was grateful for the distraction of seeing David and Mrs. Tinsley from the Prime Minister’s office, in addition to Mr. Churchill himself, of course. Frain was coming as well. Maggie felt as though her worlds—No. 10, MI-5, and Windsor Castle—were all about to collide.
Chapter Twenty-two
The morning’s long procession of black cars from London—Daimlers and Bentleys and Rolls-Royces—rolled slowly up the Long Walk, through an avenue of elm trees planted by Charles II. Maggie watched from one of the high lancet windows in the York Tower as, finally, they reached the Sovereign’s Entrance. Drivers in livery came around to the passenger side of the cars, opening the doors, and helping their occupants out. When she saw Mr. Churchill and David walk up the stone stairs to the entrance and the doors swing open, she gave a small gasp, then ran to the entrance.
Footmen in white-powdered wigs and dress uniforms flanked the Grand Staircase, dominated by an enormous white marble statue of King George IV. At the very top, under the glazed gothic lantern ceiling, were the royal couple, the King in dress uniform, the Queen in a becoming wisteria wool dress and a bib of glistening graduated pearls. Next to them were the two Princesses, dressed alike in matching plaid skirts, white blouses, and red wool cardigans.
Maggie peeked from around a corner as Mr. Churchill made his way up the stairs. The P.M.’s face looked thinner than she remembered; the strain of war had aged him. He bowed to the king and then the two shook hands with great vigor. Maggie could see the twinkling blue eyes she remembered. He bowed low to the Queen, kissing her bejeweled hand with great reverence. And then he bowed gravely to the two Princesses, making them giggle and blush.
While more of the War Cabinet continued to march in—Lord Hastings Ismay, Clement Attlee, Arthur Greenwood—those already greeted milled about in the Grand Vestibule under the watchful eye of the marble Queen Victoria, before moving on to the Crimson Drawing Room.
There, in red silk and golden gilded splendor, guests congregated in front of the enormous black marble fireplace with its bronze satyrs, the dancing carroty flames trying to cheer the room and provide heat, although there was a still a damp creeping chill in the air. The room was decorated with great boughs of fragrant evergreens, white roses, and holly with bright red berries.
As the hall rapidly filled with guests—men in uniforms or dark suits and a few women here and there in dark day dresses—Maggie found David. “You came!” she cried above the growing din of upper-class accents and the chords of a harpsichordist playing a Handel gigue in the background.
“Magster!” he exclaimed, kissing her on both cheeks.
“Welcome to Windsor Castle.”
“Love what they’ve done to the place,” David said, looking around.
“It’s not as glamorous as it might seem today. Mostly it’s like living in a very cold museum in the off-season.” Maggie noticed that David was carrying a briefcase. And that it was chained to his wrist. “I’ve heard of being chained to your desk—but, really.…”
“Just until I can get it to the safe,” he assured her. “I won’t be attending the ball with a briefcase as my escort, I can assure you.”
“Well, good. Because I’d like a dance.”
“Don’t suppose there’s anything to drink?” David said. “Long ride from London, you know.” He spied a long table at the other end of the room, covered in white linen and piled high with porcelain tea settings and silver urns, etched trays piled high with pastries. “Suffering Sukra, I suppose tea will have to do. Come on!”
Lilibet and Margaret appeared at Maggie’s side. “We’re making the butter pats for the dinners,” Margaret announced proudly.
“They have little crowns on them,” Lilibet added. “We’re making ever so many—and we’re not allowed to eat any of them.”
“You don’t say, Your Highnesses,” David said, bowing. “I don’t know how I shall eat any butter pats at all during my stay, knowing that your Royal hands have touched them.”
The girls giggled.
David asked Lilibet, “And how is Miss Hope doing as your maths teacher? Is she any good?”
“She’s terrible!” Margaret exclaimed, pulling on Maggie’s skirt and laughing. “We need to send her to the dungeons, where she’ll be eaten alive by a horrible dragon!”
“She’s quite wonderful.” Lilibet glared down at her sister. “I’ve learned ever so much. Not just maths but codes and things.”
“Codes?” David raised an eyebrow. “Really, now.”
“Lilibet’s an excellent student,” Maggie said.
The Princesses giggled and wandered off, arm in arm.
Maggie spotted Mrs. Tinsley in the crowd. Mrs. Tinsley was still Mr. Churchill’s head typist and the woman Maggie had once reported to; once upon a time, she had found the older woman intimidating. But now it was a joy to see her, with her customary rope of creamy pearls around her neck. “Mrs. Tinsley!” she exclaimed.
“Why, hello, Miss Hope,” Mrs. Tinsley said, taking the younger girl’s measure over the frames of her glasses.
Just like old times, Maggie thought.
Mrs. Tinsley tucked back a strand of black hair threaded with gray. “You look well. The country air agrees with you.”
“And you look as lovely as always. How is Miss Stewart?”
“She’s well. Back at Number Ten, holding down the proverbial fort. She sends her well wishes to you—and I’ll tell her you asked after her.”
“May I offer you a cup of tea, Mrs. Tinsley?”
“Thank you, that would be delightful,” she said, making a beeline to one of the gilt and red-silk chairs.
Maggie went to the large table and poured a cup of tea, black just the way she took it at No. 10. When she returned with it, handing it to the older woman, she heard, “Well, Hope’s at Windsor Castle now!” in a loud, gruff voice. “And all’s right with the world.”
It was the Prime Minister, wearing a navy blue suit with a burgundy polka-dotted bow tie and a sprig of holly in the buttonhole—probably placed there this morning by Mrs. Churchill, Maggie thought. “Mrs. Pussycat” always takes good care of her “Mr. Pug.”
“Mr. Churchill!” she exclaimed.
“Miss Hope,” he replied, bowing slightly.
“Is Mrs. Churchill with you, sir?”
“She’s joining us this evening.”
Suddenly Gregory was at her elbow. “Maggie, you never told me you traveled in such impressive circles.” As introductions were made, Maggie saw Frain greet Sir Hill across the room but averted her eyes; after all, she was just supposed to be Lilibet’s maths tutor. Hugh was there as well, standing with Mark Standish.
And then the male staff, under the watchful eye of Lord Clive, began to escort the guests to their rooms.
“Toodle pip for now, love,” said David to Maggie, as his escort appeared.
“Maybe we can all get a drink before dinner tonight, yes?” Gregory suggested.
“Suits me,” David replied. “Magster?”
“Of course,” Maggie answered. But she had already spied Frain and Hugh in the crowd. She knew they were coming, of course, but it was still a shock to see them at Windsor. She stood perfectly still, uncertain of how to proceed, her heart beating fast as a hummingbird’s.
David sized up the predicament and called Frain over. “Mr. Frain,” he said, “you remember Maggie Hope, don’t you? One of Mr. Churchill’s typists?”
“Of course,” said Frain. “Miss Hope, a pleasure to see you again.”
“And you, Mr. Frain.”
“This is my associate, Hugh Thompson,” Frain said.
“How do you do, Mr. Thompson,” Maggie said, offering her hand, which he took.
He winked at her. “How do you do, Miss Hope?” As Frain made his way over to the Prime Minister and David and Gregory drifted off, Maggie and Hugh stood, face-to-face, in the crowd. “You
have a little something—” He reached for her hair.
“What?” Maggie said. “What is it?”
“Fairy dust—or so it seems.” She stood very still as he pulled something from her hair, then handed it to her. It was white and sparkling, like an opal. “Oh,” she said, cheeks turning pink, as she took it from him. “It’s the snow they’ve put on the Christmas tree and some of the garlands. Gets onto everything if you’re not careful …” Maggie said, flustered.
“I hope you’ll save me a dance, Miss Hope,” he said, giving an almost imperceptible bow as one of the servants came to lead him to his room.
“Of—of course, Mr. Thompson.”
In the Submarine Tracking Room in the Admiralty Arch, a young man moved a red pushpin on a map-covered table, one of thousands of different colored pins on the turquoise blue areas of the map representing the Atlantic. Donald Kirk was reading a memo, but he caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.
He limped over, leaning heavily on his walking stick, to take a closer look. “That U-boat there,” he said, pointing to the red pin just the young man had just moved, “U-two-forty-six. What’s it doing?”
The man, olive-skinned with a shiny nose and forehead, shrugged. “Seems to be on the move now, sir,” he said. “Heading closer to shore than we’ve seen before.”
Kirk looked at the map, to the Norfolk coast. What’s the captain doing? Kirk thought. He looked up the submarine’s captain, a Captain Jörg Vogt. Vogt might not even know himself, yet, what they were doing there.
“Keep an eye on it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dinner that evening was a formal affair and Maggie got dressed with Polly and Louisa. In Louisa’s rooms in Victoria Tower, with Irving presiding from his glass container, Maggie pulled out her blue dress with the black velvet-tipped flowers.
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