From the table inside the room, Detective Wilson looked up from his conversation with Audrey Moreau. “It’s all right, Jim,” he said. “That’s Maggie Hope, Princess Elizabeth’s maths tutor. I’ve already spoken with her.”
From the other end of the long corridor, Maggie heard loud yelling, incongruous in the castle, and turned to see who it was. “That’s Sam Berners, Miss Hope,” said the man waiting in line for his turn to be questioned. He was trim, with silvery gold receding hair, a pink scalp, and a kind smile. “By the way, I am Sir Owen Morshead, the castle’s librarian. I must compliment you on the way you handled Sir Clive last night.”
“Oh,” said Maggie. “Yes, well—”
“If you ever find yourself in need of anything for the Princess from the library, please do let me know.”
“Thank you, Sir Owen, that’s very kind of you.”
The loud voice became even louder and was now spouting profanity. “Get yer hands off me—I tell ya I ain’t seen nothin’!”
“Master of the Mews,” Sir Owen said. Then, off Maggie’s confused look, “The Royal Falconer. He keeps to himself, mostly. Bit of an eccentric.”
Maggie saw a large bearded man with rough, unkempt hair being dragged into the hallway by two Coldstream Guards. His clothes were covered in bird excrement, and his right arm and hand were encased in a protective leather gauntlet. “I don’ know nothin’!” he was protesting loudly in a thick Scottish accent. “I din’ see anythin’!”
“Everyone must talk to the Detective, Sam,” one of the footmen waiting to be questioned said. “Even you.” Maggie recognized him as the one who’d winked at her, her first night at the castle.
“Don’ have nothin’ to say,” Berners grumbled, taking his place in line, under the watchful eye of the Coldstream Guards.
“He’s positively medieval,” Sir Owen whispered to Maggie. “Probably a quarter raptor himself. But he’s part of the castle, as much as the Long Walk or the stones of the Great Tower.”
“Where are the birds kept?” Maggie asked, curious.
“Oh, there’s some sort of structure up on the roof,” Sir Owen answered. “Sam has a room in the castle, but he prefers to sleep with the birds—as if you couldn’t tell. He and the largest falcon, Merlin, are inseparable.”
Maggie shook her head. A decapitated Lady-in-Waiting, rabid corgis, and a man who lives with birds? “I thought living in a castle would be interesting, Sir Owen,” she said, “but nothing—absolutely nothing—prepared me for this.”
It wasn’t difficult to find Lady Lily’s room. The police had left the door ajar.
With another look to make sure she was alone, Maggie let herself in. Lady Lily’s sitting room was much like her own. However, since Lily had been at Windsor Castle longer, she’d amassed more possessions. Down powder puffs, half-empty bottles of nail varnish, and tubes of Elizabeth Arden lipstick covered the dressing table. A half-empty bottle of Tabu. A crystal vase of dying red roses, black now, thorny stems decaying in greenish water.
Maggie started in the bathroom. In the medicine chest she found aspirin, antacid, tooth powder, and a worn-down toothbrush. Odor-o-no, a boar-bristle hairbrush, and tweezers. A tin of bluebell-scented powder. Some still-damp lace brassieres and silk panties hung over a line strung across the tub, along with garter belts and several pairs of stockings.
She removed the top of the toilet tank and looked inside. Nothing. She went through the small clothes hamper. Nothing. And nothing on top of the medicine cabinet, either.
In the bedroom, she lifted the mattress as best she could and looked underneath. Nothing. Nothing relevant in the drawers of the bureau or the nightstand, either. Of course, she thought, Detective Wilson and his men have probably already been over everything already.
The closet was crammed with clothes for every occasion, including garment bags stuffed with gowns of nearly every hue imaginable and a number of furs. A search of her many satin shoes turned up nothing either.
Maggie went back into the sitting room. She stopped by the bookcase, which was empty. She squinted at it. The dust indicated books had been there for a time and had recently been removed. Now, that’s odd, she thought. Why would someone take Lily’s books?
She mused for a moment, then realized she’d already met the very person who might be able to help her.
“Hello, Sir Owen!” Maggie said as she entered the King’s Library, a suite of rooms on the north side of the Upper Ward, adjacent to the State Apartments. Sir Owen, who’d returned from the questioning, was sitting at a carved mahogany desk in the first room, which had on it a few silver-framed photographs and a low vase of yellow roses.