The Queen's Accomplice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  And then flies were everywhere, surging over dead bodies and shattered glass in a street that looked like London after a brutal night of bombing. The flies gathered in a swarm and lit on the body of a woman, her throat slashed and her abdomen mutilated, wet blood pooling on the pavement.

  Kneeling on the rough bricks, Maggie saw the woman’s face. It was Brynn, with her brown curls and freckles, the gap between her front teeth.

  In panic, Maggie looked up at Paige. “Help me!” she pleaded.

  The blonde smiled sweetly. “You’re on your own now.”

  Something moved in the shadows. As Maggie watched, helpless, the Minotaur turned and lowered its head, snorting. The massive beast saw her watching, and its face became animated with sadistic joy. As it ran toward her, the ground shaking, she tried to scream—but nothing came out. The beast charged at her, hooves thundering.

  Maggie picked up her spear and stood, braced and ready. As the beast ran, in the long moment of the charge, she asked Paige: “Am I the hunter or the prey?”

  The other woman’s smile was cryptic. “You must decide.”

  Maggie woke with a gasp and jumped bolt upright, the bedclothes coiled around her like adders. She sat, panting, chilled by the horrific images of her dream.

  She had once stared into the abyss—and the abyss, through the blue eyes of the young man she’d killed in Berlin, had stared back at her. To defend what they love, people allow themselves to become what they hate, like a hall of mirrors, folding in on itself….But to look into the eyes of a beast?

  At the touch of a velvety-soft paw on her cheek, she turned her head. K stared at her with glowing green eyes, pupils huge in the morning light filtering through the edges of the blackout curtains.

  It’s the house, Maggie realized. Being back in this house where it all began. Where Chuck and Sarah and I lived with Paige. It’s the reminders of Paige, just that, nothing more….

  She regarded the sleepy cat. “Why, hello there, K. You never told me—how was your sabbatical at Number Ten? Did Rufus and Nelson behave? Or the more important question is—did you?”

  K blinked. “Meh,” he meowed in his odd way and dropped his paw. Then he marched toward the foot of the bed and turned his back on her.

  “What? Wait—where are you going? Didn’t you miss me?”

  When Maggie reached over to pet him, he wheeled with ears pinned back and hissed. Then he went a bit farther across the bed to turn his back on her once again.

  “I am sorry I left you, K,” she offered in a small voice.

  There was only silence and his sleek silhouette against the shadows.

  “I had no choice—they wouldn’t let me take you to America. You would only have been seasick on the voyage over, anyway.”

  He ignored her and began grooming, his pink tongue rasping against orange fur.

  “And I missed you desperately, you know,” Maggie persisted. “There’s even a street named for you in Washington—K Street. I thought of you every time I crossed it—which was every day.”

  At this he stopped, turned, and met her eyes again, his expression suspicious.

  “It’s true. I missed you terribly, Fur Face.” At this admission, the ice melted and he began to purr. Low at first, but growing into a loud rumble. He stalked toward her, deigned to sniff her outstretched hand, then allowed her to pet him. He then paraded onto her chest, and once again, they bumped foreheads.

  “We’re together again now, K,” Maggie murmured, cuddling him close, his glossy fur fragrant and warm. “And we’re home. I solemnly promise not to leave again unless it’s absolutely necessary.”

  She looked around, taking in the details of her old bedroom. Same walls, same fireplace, same furniture—but the dark Victorian wallpaper had been stripped away and the walls were now painted in a bright blue. Gilded picture frames that once held gloomy hunt scenes now displayed recent covers of Vogue, Look, and even the Wonder Woman comic Tom O’Brian had given her in Washington. Ah, David—thank you. All the bad memories cleared away.

  It was good to be back in London, and she had to admit it was also good to be back in her grandmother’s—her—house again. Months earlier, when she’d left for the United States, she knew she could have stayed there—doing war work but enjoying more safety and less deprivation—but her heart was in Britain. She’d started the war with the Brits and she’d end with them.

  She wanted to be like Dante and go into her own private hell and emerge, victorious—maybe that way, by gazing unflinching at her inner demons, she might escape them, conquer them. But the more she tried to sort out her past and make some sense of it, the more she felt trapped in a web of unwelcome questions no one could or would answer for her.

  What if, for instance, she had grown up like most people, with two parents? Why had she been led to believe they were dead? What had made her mother embrace Nazi ideology? Why had her father abruptly disappeared when she was born? Was it because of her father she hadn’t truly given John a chance in Washington, D.C.? Was that why she’d turned to Tom O’Brian, a soldier about to be shipped off? Do I have problems with men? Abandonment issues, as a psychoanalyst might say?

  And, if she did, who could she talk to about it? What if her Aunt Edith had been a warm and maternal figure, who could have advised her on such things, instead of cold and authoritative? What if she’d had a sister to confide in? Speaking of sisters, would her half sister Elise ever forgive her for what had happened in Berlin? Would—

  A soft knock at the door interrupted these questions. “Maggie? Are you up?”

  Maggie lifted her head and released K. “Yes, come in.”

  It was Chuck, deep shadows under her eyes, her brown hair flattened by sleep, her borrowed tartan flannel dressing gown straining across her impressive breasts.

  The horrors of what had happened to her friend the day before came rushing back to Maggie. “Were you able to get any sleep at all?” she asked, sitting up and crossing her legs. K jumped in and settled himself in her lap.

  Chuck went to open the blackout curtains. Outside, the sun was beginning to rise and the horizon was gunmetal gray. “Some. I nursed Griffin and put him down for his nap, so I suppose I could try to sleep now. But I just can’t. In shock, I suppose—it’s how our minds protect us from horrible news, isn’t it?” She tried to finger-comb the snarls out of her hair, then gave up. “I’m trying to look on the fucking bright side—Griffin’s here, you’re here—we’ll post a letter to Nigel today, and to my parents as well….” Chuck’s lip trembled. “Sorry,” she said.

  “It’s impossible to have a stiff upper lip before tea and breakfast,” Maggie said lightly. K leapt off her lap and then off the bed to take a sunbath in the slanted rectangle of light on the threadbare carpet. “I’ll talk to Sarah when she gets up. Between us, we’ll get you and Griffin everything you need.”

  Chuck rolled her eyes and took a seat in a tattered wing chair. “First of all, I won’t take your clothes—and second, they wouldn’t fit me anyway. Although you did put on a bit of weight in the U.S.”

  “The food there…” Maggie tried unsuccessfully to dispel memories of real coffee, hamburgers, French fries, and chocolate bars. “Look, we’ll pool our rations, so we can get you and Griffin the basics. And there must be something in place for the people from your building….You’re not the only one who’s affected, after all.” It had been a horrible event, but the British excelled at surviving. And organizing. “Certainly your ARP warden must know something by now. We can check in today.”

  Chuck slumped. “I’m dreading finding out about the neighbors,” she confessed, avoiding Maggie’s eyes. Her alto voice trembled. “I’m not sure all of them made it.”

  “Don’t give up before you know the facts.”

  “Well, you’re right: That’s something to do today, stop by the block. I still have the pram and I’ll take Griffin and we’ll go by and see if there’s anyone to speak with about…well, anything.” Chuck straightened and scrubbed
at her eyes with her fists.

  “Knock knock!” called a raspy voice. Sarah was at the door in her red satin dressing gown, mouth open wide in a yawn, graceful hands stretching up to the ceiling. Her long dark hair was tangled, and there were black smudges under her eyes and a rose stain on her lips—remains of the previous evening’s makeup.

  “I thought I heard voices….” she mumbled as she swept in, still half asleep. “Hello, Sir K, remember me?” she asked, bending down and offering her hand.

  K raised his head to sniff her fingers and allowed her to pet him, then curled back up in a regal circle to continue his nap.

  “Goodness gracious, Sarah!” Maggie gasped. “I’d forgotten about your feet!” Sarah’s toes were distended by bunions and disfigured with calluses.

  “Bloody hell, girl!” For a moment, Chuck was her old self. “Did you put your tootsies through a meat grinder?”

  “Once a dancer, always a dancer.” The brunette shrugged. “I don’t care about my feet as long as my derriere’s in decent shape.” She smiled and turned to wiggle her bottom, then plopped down on the bed next to Maggie.

  “What time’s your meeting today, Sarah?”

  “Nine sharp. And I’m hoping my friend will be there, too.”

  “Do you mean the one who’s the bee’s knees?”

  Sarah gave a girlish smile, one Maggie had never seen before. “One and the same!”

  “Oh, my,” Maggie said, trying not to tease. “Nine’s when I’m due in, too. Let’s have some tea here, then we can walk over together. And I’ll give Mr. Knees the once-over.”

  “You two go on,” Chuck said wearily, leaning back on the chair and closing her eyes. “While Master Griffin is sleeping, I’ll try to catch a few winks as well.”

  —

  Even though the nightly bombings had stopped, the trappings of war were everywhere. Barrage balloons—massive zeppelin-shaped bulks—hovered over the city. Canvas sandbags were piled around building entrances. Emergency pontoon bridges stretched across the Thames, and brick bomb shelters cluttered the icy pavement. The Victoria Embankment bristled with pillboxes, while government buildings and other vital targets were tangled in barbed wire.

  The newspaper stands trumpeted the latest: British forces were slugging it out in a back-and-forth campaign against the Germans and Italians in North Africa. The influx of American troops to Great Britain was ongoing in the wake of Pearl Harbor and the German declaration of war upon the United States. The Japanese were threatening to invade Australia, but descending first on small Pacific islands like locusts. Meanwhile, despite the bitter cold in the East, the Russians fought on.

  “Wait a moment,” Maggie said, catching a glimpse of a smaller article. She gave a few coins to the newspaper boy. “Look,” she said to Sarah, pointing at a story titled Pimlico Explosion Ignites Fire, Fells Buildings and Injures at Least 19. As they walked through the stinging cold, Maggie read aloud: “A powerful gas pipe explosion yesterday in Pimlico caused a building to collapse and ignited a large fire that quickly spread to neighboring buildings, leaving at least 19 people injured and 5 dead. At least one person was reported missing. The building is one of many in the area owned by Dr. Iain Frank, a practicing psychoanalyst.”

  Sarah shook her head. “Chuck and Griffin were lucky.”

  Maggie continued to walk and read: “ ‘Based on records, the building has had some work done inside; new gas service pipes; a lot of things, piping and such, Mr. Clendenin from Westminster Gas Light and Coke Company said.’ ” Maggie looked up from the newspaper. “Didn’t Chuck say she saw some dodgy people siphoning off the gas lines? Sounds a bit iffy. And now we’ll probably never know the truth.”

  The previous night’s snow had melted and then refrozen, leaving the pavement slick with ice. All the windows they passed were taped to prevent breakage, the iron railings removed for munitions, leaving dangerous gaps. The two jumped aside as they heard a ringing bell, stepping out of the way as a woman in a Wren uniform and bright lipstick sped by on her bicycle.

  At last they arrived at the sandbagged entrance of the SOE office on Baker Street. “Probably best if we don’t go up together,” Maggie whispered as two U.S. officers passed. Both doffed their caps.

  “I’m early anyway.” Sarah looked across the street and spotted a café. “I’ll have another cuppa and a ciggie first, then come up. Sound good?”

  Maggie nodded, then pushed open the heavy door and went upstairs. It was still early and Miss Lynd was the only other person in the office—Maggie could hear the click clack of typing behind her closed door. The air, as usual, was numbingly cold.

  The first thing she did was check on Erica Calvert’s latest dispatch. Like the last, it was missing both safety checks, and her tone seemed stilted and off. Oh, Erica—what’s going on over there?

  With a nervous knot in her stomach, Maggie looked over the other agent’s file. Calvert had studied geology, specializing in sand eroded from sedimentary rocks, like those found on the coast of northwest France. She’d trained with SOE and had been sent over to investigate the beaches in that area for possible invasion landing places.

  Her mission was to collect sand and soil samples, to be brought back to England for examination, so the Allies could plan the proper equipment for the terrain. While old French geological reports showed the coastal land had clay underneath the sand, which could bog down tanks and other military vehicles, Churchill demanded fresh samples and a modern analysis. If Calvert had been compromised, the Germans would know Normandy was being considered as an invasion point.

  Maggie looked again at the message in Morse code:

  Translated, it read:

  Hello!

  Everything good here. Left Rouen. Please remember mother’s birthday with gift. Mission going well.

  Erica Calvert

  And Erica’s not even using her code name, Josephine. How strange. Maggie had a sudden thought: Agents dropped behind enemy lines always left the names and contact information for next of kin. Maggie checked through Erica’s list—her husband, her father, her sister. No mention of a mother.

  Erica’s husband was in the Navy and not able to be reached, but her father was a professor of geoscience at the University of Durham, in the northeast of England, south of Newcastle upon Tyne. Maggie called the number in the file and asked for Professor Stephen Calvert.

  He wasn’t there, and Maggie left a message with his secretary, requesting him to return her call. She drummed on the desk with her fingers, reading and rereading the message,

  “Colonel—” she began when Gaskell arrived.

  “Not now, Meggie,” he snapped, taking off his hat and coat, and thrusting them at her. His coat’s collar sported a gold Manchester United pin, with its red devil and pitchfork emblem.

  Maggie was undeterred. “It’s about Agent Erica Calvert, sir. She left off her security checks again, and her fist is still irregular. I have serious concerns about her safety.”

  Gaskell sneezed. He pulled a rumpled handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his nose. “What we do here is not an exact science, Meggie.” He glared at her. “When she gets back, you can nag her about Baker Street protocol all you’d like.”

  Gritting her teeth, Maggie hung his things on the coatrack. They reeked of smoke. She returned to her desk and looked down at the book, then up at the clock. It was ten past nine. “Sir, your first appointment today is with Miss Bronwyn Parry.”

  “Yes, yes,” he mumbled, putting the handkerchief back in his uniform’s jacket pocket. “Jolly good.” He glanced around the reception room. “And just where is our Miss Parry? Her appointment was at nine.”

  “She hasn’t arrived yet, sir.”

  Gaskell walked to his office, tread heavy. “If that girl can’t make a simple appointment on time, how can we expect her to…” He sighed and rubbed his temples. “Did she at least ring to say she’d be late?”

  Maggie knew she hadn’t, but sorted through last evening’s messag
e slips anyway, to appease him. “No, sir.”

  “Well then, as far as I’m concerned, she’s a dud. We can’t risk F-Section on some chit who can’t even make her appointment on time.” As he turned the doorknob to his office, he stopped and looked heavenward. “Girls!” He strode in, grumbling. “Their vanity knows no bounds! Keeping grown men waiting!” The door slammed.

  Maggie was too concerned about Brynn to be annoyed with Gaskell. She knew Brynn: knew she was a hard worker, conscientious, never absent for drills and lessons at Arisaig House. Always responsible in her assignments. Good-natured. Quick with a joke. She’d never be late for an appointment.

  She was planning on spending the night at a hotel, Maggie remembered, rummaging in her top drawer, looking for another one of the cards she’d given Brynn. Damn. The prospective agent had taken the last one with her. Damn, damn, damn…

  The telephone warbled. It was Professor Stephen Calvert. “What’s this regarding?” he asked in a low, brusque voice.

  “This is Miss Hope, with the Inter-Services Research Bureau. Sir, I’ve received a message from your daughter Erica, and she mentioned sending a birthday gift to her mother. Since she’s…working…I can pick up and post the gift for Erica. I was wondering what sort of present her mother would like, and where I can send it?”

  There was a series of hisses and crackles on the telephone line. “Her mother’s been dead for over ten years” was the curt reply.

  Dead? It didn’t sound that way in the message, at least. “Is—is there something Erica did on the anniversary of her mother’s birthday? A gift she might have left at the cemetery, perhaps? Flowers?”

  “No, no—nothing of the sort. Erica’s not a sentimental girl, not at all. And her mother left us without so much as a goodbye, year before she did us the favor of dying. No gift necessary!” He slammed down the telephone.