“All right, same as before,” Durgin warned Maggie, eyes narrowing. “Mr. Standish and I will do the questioning—and you may watch through the mirrored glass.”
“And, as before,” Maggie countered, “I’d prefer to be in the room and contribute to the interrogation.”
“Sorry, Miss Tiger,” Durgin told her, not unkindly. “And I’m sorry you had to see the sorts of things you found in his apartment.”
Oh, for heaven’s sake. “So, let me get this straight—you’re not worried about my seeing the corpses of murdered women, but you are worried about my seeing writings and photographs about sex? Sex trumps death? I’d say that’s rather puritanical, Detective. And here I thought we Yanks had cornered the market on that.”
“If Roth’s our Blackout Beast, there will be stories disclosed you might not have the stomach for, Miss Tiger.”
“If you hadn’t noticed, Detective, I don’t scare easily.”
“And, as I’ve said before, there are facts he might not disclose in the presence of a young woman.”
There were bigger battles to fight. “Fine.”
—
In the interrogation room, Leonard Roth sat at a wooden table, drumming his fingers.
“I’d like to lodge a complaint against the agents who came for me at the BBC,” he began in plummy tones. “Not only did they manhandle me, but they caused me undue embarrassment. How I’m going to explain this to my producer—”
“Looks like you enjoy a bit of manhandling,” Durgin interrupted. He took the seat across from Roth. “Or is it that you like to do the manhandling yourself?”
“What the devil?” Roth exclaimed.
Mark took the charcoal sketches of the girls in various stages of undress from his briefcase. He set them on the table, fanning the papers out like a deck of cards. “How well did you know these women?”
Roth looked down at the drawings, then gave a short, strangled laugh. “This is a simple misunderstanding—I don’t know them at all.”
“You seem to know them quite…intimately,” Durgin insisted.
Roth crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair. “Well, it’s not my fault the girls don’t close their blinds, now, is it?”
Mark leaned in. “It’s not as if they’re expecting someone across the way to have a bloody telescope!”
“If you ask me, if they left their curtains open, they wanted to be seen.” Roth shrugged. “Probably enjoyed it.”
“Where did you take them?” Durgin pressed. “When you met with these girls—where did you go?”
“I never met these girls—I never even spoke to them!” He tugged at his tie. “I know it might not look like it with everything you’ve seen in my room—but everything I do is, er, solo.”
“Where were you on the nights of March twentieth, twenty-seventh, and twenty-ninth?”
There was a pause as Roth searched his memory. “I was at the studio,” he managed. “I was on the air, live! I daresay you won’t find a more airtight alibi than that.”
“You could have recorded your voice and snuck out while it was playing.”
“Gentlemen, I have a team of sound engineers, writers, and producers, as well as scores of adoring fans. Believe me, if I’d left the studio, it would have been noted!”
Durgin turned to Mark. “Confirm his story with the appropriate people at the BBC.” He turned back to Roth. “We’re releasing you,” he told him, standing. “For now. Don’t leave London.”
—
The two men met Maggie back in the observation room.
“Well, so much for that,” she said, disappointed. “Just because he’s a Peeping Tom with distinctive taste in literature doesn’t make him our murderer.”
“Do you want to go with me to the BBC?” Mark asked. “Verify his alibi?”
“I told you yesterday,” she chided, giving them both a mysterious smile. “This afternoon I have an appointment—tea with the Queen. But first I need to change.”
—
“And how’s your day going, young sir?” Maggie asked Griffin. From his bassinet fashioned from a dresser drawer lined with blankets on the kitchen table, the baby waved his chubby fists and drooled. “Ga!” he called.
“Yes, my sweet—‘ga,’ ” Maggie answered, bending to kiss his head.
K rubbed his face against her ankles, and she reached down to pet him.
Chuck was heating up leftover Woolton pie. “Do you want some?”
“I’d love a piece,” Maggie replied. “Skipped breakfast.”
“From what I’m hearing,” Chuck said, taking out silverware, plates, and napkins, “the explosion was absolutely preventable.” Maggie noticed her hands were trembling. “The police found evidence someone was tapping the building’s gas main—stealing it. Whoever did it used a hose attached to the gas line, to siphon it off.” She set two places, keeping everything out of Griffin’s reach. “Thank goodness most people were at work, but two mothers and three small children died. I only knew them by sight, but—” She faltered, unable to continue.
Oh, poor Chuck…Maggie got up and put her arms around her. “Shhhh…Now, why don’t you sit down and rest—and I’ll serve up that pie.”
Dazed, Chuck obeyed, sitting at the table and reaching out to hold on to Griffin’s bouncing foot. “We’re lucky this little man didn’t want to take his nap. And I was so angry, Maggie! You should have heard all I was saying as I packed him up in his pram. I was tired and just wanted a lie-down myself. The last thing I wanted to do was go to the park.” She looked down at her gurgling baby in awe. “But he saved both of our lives.”
“Thank goodness,” Maggie said, using pot holders to take the pie out of the oven. “Will there be any funerals? Memorial services?”
“Yes,” Chuck said. “Of course we’re going.” She rubbed at her eyes. “But I don’t want to dwell on it. Tell me about you—what’s going on in your life?”
“Oh, work,” Maggie said, dishing up the pie, steam rising in curls. “Just paperwork, you know—answering the telephones and filing—boring things like that.” She brought two plates over to the table.
“Any news on your sister?”
“Half sister. And not yet. But I am going somewhere rather exciting today.”
“And where’s that?”
“Buckingham Palace.” Maggie grinned. “To take tea with the Queen.”
Chuck dropped her fork. “Blimey O’Riley!” she exclaimed. “And here you are, keeping it so quiet. You could be a spy, you know! One of those Mata Hari secret agent types.”
“Oh”—Maggie took a bite of pie, nearly burning her tongue—“don’t be silly!”
“Well, Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” Chuck exclaimed, pressing her napkin to her mouth, her eyes aglow.
Maggie was glad to see her friend distracted.
“And now let’s talk about the truly important things in life.” Chuck took another forkful of pie and blew on it to cool it. “What are you going to wear?”
—
Maggie tried on dress after dress, as Chuck, Griffin, and K looked on.
Everything she owned was old, worn, and shabby. Most of her clothes were patched, some had holes from moths, while others had been made over using collars and cuffs from other outfits. “I could always wear my ATS uniform.” Maggie pulled out her brown Auxiliary Territorial Service regalia.
Chuck crinkled her nose. “Er, no,” she said. “No offense, but the Wrens have the best outfits. The ATS uniforms…”
Maggie sighed. “I know. They’re not really flattering, are they? I love those black stockings the Wrens get to wear. We get only the loathed lisle.”
“Why didn’t you buy any clothes when you were in America?”
“I was busy with things like toothbrushes and soap. And silk stockings. And chocolate. I did buy a dress, but alas, it’s a gown. I wore it to the New Year’s ball.”
“And books.”
“And books,” she admitted.
“You know,
” Chuck said, “I don’t know how you’ll feel about this, but there are other clothes here. I hope you don’t mind, but I was having a poke around and found Paige’s old things. I know you two used to share clothes. They’re in her old room—well, Elise’s new room, I suppose.”
Maggie left her room for Elise’s, with memories of her late friend and former flatmate, Paige, swirling about her, despite the new paint and construction. She walked to the closet of the yellow bedroom and opened the doors. There were all of Paige’s clothes from the long-ago days before the war. They smelled faintly of mildew and a haunting touch of her Joy perfume. Maggie ran her hand over the pebbly bouclé fabric of a Chanel jacket. Paige always did have wonderful taste. And plenty of money.
Maggie pulled out a Schiaparelli suit. While the skirt was plain black silk, the jacket was black with a bright pink collar, embroidered with silk butterflies and demoiselles. In an instant, she made her decision. The suit was too beautiful not to wear.
“Do you think it’s all right—to wear her old clothes?”
“ ‘There’s a war on, you know.’ ” Chuck hugged her. “Carpe diem, my friend,” she said. “Take it from me—carpe the fucking diem.”
—
At the gates of Buckingham Palace, Maggie could see bomb damage to the Neoclassical façade. She smiled as she remembered David’s critique of the palace’s architecture—Excruciatingly dull indeed—like a huge provincial Edwardian bank with the interior of a pretentious railway hotel.
Looking closer, Maggie could see some of the broken windows had been boarded up. The ornate black iron fencing had been removed to make tanks and planes. And there were the huge craters in front of the main gates; workmen in coveralls were filling them in with wheelbarrows full of tar. Like the rest of London, the Palace had seen better days.
Despite the bomb damage, the targeting of Buckingham Palace by the Luftwaffe had resulted in only partial success. Physical damage was limited, and there had been no mass casualties. After one of the attacks, the Queen had expressed her solidarity with fellow Londoners, remarking, “I am glad we have been bombed. It makes me feel I can look the East End in the face.”
Still, as Maggie eyed the balcony she was keenly aware this war would end in one of two ways: with the victorious King and Queen waving to crowds of their beloved people from above with the Union Jack waving proudly—or, instead, with them being hanged publicly from the same balcony, under red swastika banners.
Maggie showed her engraved invitation to the guard on duty and was directed beyond the façade to the inner quadrangle, decorated with symmetrical yellow stone panels, with oeils-de-boeuf, roses, garlands, and angels.
Another security check at the stairs of the entrance, and Maggie was escorted up the crimson carpet of the dramatic double staircase, then through the Grand Hall, with its gilt and mirrors.
Queen Elizabeth stood near the door of the Blue Drawing Room, flanked by ladies-in-waiting, greeting her guests. Petite yet commanding, Elizabeth wore a trademark Norman Hartnell–designed dress in powder blue, light brown hair coiffed in perfect marcel waves with a wispy fringe of bangs. Her jewelry was her usual triple strand of graduated pearls, swaying teardrop earrings, and a diamond-and-pearl shell brooch. At her feet swirled a number of corgis, their eyes button-shiny and fur glossy.
Maggie tried not to startle, as she remembered one of those dogs had once given her hand a good chomp at Windsor Castle. The corgis appraised her, but didn’t approach. Well, that’s a relief.
“Good afternoon, Miss Hope,” the Queen declared in her silvery, high-pitched voice. “Thank you so much for coming. It’s delightful to see you again.”
Maggie curtsied. “Your Majesty, thank you for inviting me. I’m honored to be here.”
When the Queen extended her delicate gloved hand and gave Maggie’s a gentle squeeze, the younger woman tried not to giggle at a sudden vision of the Queen eating Mrs. Roosevelt’s proffered hot dogs at Hyde Park.
“The Princesses are here at the Palace today,” the Queen told her.
“How are they, ma’am?”
A cloud passed over the Queen’s face. “They’re strong and resilient young women,” she answered firmly. “The King and I are proud of them and all they’re doing for the war effort. Although”—here the Queen leaned in, and Maggie detected the faint scent of lavender water—“between us, Lilibet’s knitting is still rather lumpy.”
Maggie repressed a smile. “It always was a bit, ma’am.”
“However, there is some cheerful news,” the Queen added with a proud smile. “Princess Elizabeth is to be Colonel of the Grenadier Guards!”
“Oh, how perfectly wonderful! Please convey my congratulations to the Princess.”
“And speaking of women doing their all for the war effort, what are you doing these days, Miss Hope? Only what you’re allowed to share, of course.”
“I’ve recently returned from the White House, ma’am, where I worked for the Prime Minister during his trip to see President Roosevelt. And now I’m with SOE here in London, while waiting for the arrival of my sister—half sister.”
The Queen clapped her hands together. “How wonderful! When I see how close Lilibet and Margaret are…Well, I think everyone should have a sister.”
I only hope Elise and I will be that close. Maybe someday.
A line of guests was starting to grow behind Maggie, and the Queen took notice. “We’ll chat more later, Miss Hope,” she told her. “Enjoy the tea.”
Maggie bobbed another curtsy. “Thank you, ma’am.”
The Blue Drawing Room was ornamented in the Georgian style, in crimson and gilt. The walls were covered in cobalt flock wallpaper punctuated by tall columns painted to resemble onyx. Maggie suppressed another smile as she looked at the assorted curly, gold-legged furniture with sculpted backs, knowing David had called similar pieces “Ministry of Works Louis XIV.” The tall windows overlooked private gardens, and Maggie could see the snow falling heavily now, collecting in the tufts of grass on the lawn.
The room was set up for afternoon tea, with silver urns, platters of sandwiches, scones, and cakes on a large plantation table, and armchairs with low side tables provided for informal seating. A harpist plucked arpeggios in a corner.
Upon closer inspection, Maggie saw little ivory cards with calligraphy that proclaimed the sandwiches beetroot and faux mayonnaise, liver pâté and celery with mustard, and cucumber and margarine. The scones were potato, with mock cream, and the cakes were eggless, made from carrots with spices. Forced yellow jonquils decorated the tables, and the china service for the austere meal, she was amused to see, was venerable Minton.
As she selected a few sandwiches and a scone, she heard a low voice behind her. “Ah, it’s the infamous Spinster Tartlet!”
Maggie turned. “Mr. Thornton—good afternoon. I believe the last time we met I was throwing you out of my party.”
Max Thornton made a low bow. “Forgive me, Miss Hope. I perhaps had too much to drink that evening.” He used silver tongs with lions and unicorns to place a piece of cake on his plate.
“What brings you to Buckingham Palace, Mr. Thornton?” Maggie asked as they made their way down the table, selecting various tidbits. “I do hope you won’t be turned out of here as well.”
Max smiled. “I’m on the Women’s Advisory Committee for Aviation.”
Maggie tried not to gasp. “You?”
“Yes, I.” He added in a low voice, “It’s a wonderful way to meet pretty young ladies, you know.” As they made their way to the delicate chairs, he asked, “May I sit with you, Miss Hope?”
“Suit yourself.” As she took a bite of a beet sandwich, she was mortified to see red and white cat hair on Paige’s skirt.
Their table was near a taped-up window looking out at the lawn, enormous urns empty and statuary stark and cold against the hazy gray sky. As the snow flew thicker and faster, Max took a sip of tea and looked around. “Rather flash, no?”
“I woul
d call it…theatrical,” Maggie countered, trying to be diplomatic. As they ate, they were surrounded by more guests, ladies of all ages in flowered dresses, hats, and waxy lipstick, and a few older men in well-worn Jermyn Street tweed suits.
When the crowd had finished their tea, the Queen, who’d been making the rounds, stopped in the front of the room, corgis at her feet. She drew the guests’ collective attention and silence without having to say a word.
One of the corgis gave a huge yawn, then settled with his head on his paws and closed his eyes.
“I speak to you, the women—and yes, I see we have a few men here as well!—of the British Empire, who have been forced into war.”
All attention was focused on the Queen. “Let us not forget those on whom the first cruel and shattering blows of war have fallen—the women of Poland,” Elizabeth continued in her singsong way. “Nor do we forget the gallant womanhood of France, who are called on to share with us again the hardships of war. War has at all times called for the fortitude of women.
“When it was an affair of the fighting forces only, wives and mothers at home suffered constant anxiety for their dear ones, and too often the misery of bereavement. They could do so little for the men at the Front. Now, this is all changed.
“For we, no less than the men, have real and vital work to do. To us also is given the proud privilege of serving our country in her hour of need. The tasks that you have undertaken are in every field of national service.
“I would like to thank you for giving your help in these trying times. When war is over we will continue to work for the continued well-being of all mankind.”
She gifted them with a brilliant smile. “Thank you all.”
When the applause had died down, Max told Maggie, “Of course, when the men come back from battle, it will be quite a different story.”
“Yes,” Maggie replied in kind, “they’ll have a lot of changes to get used to, won’t they?”
The Queen's Accomplice Page 17
