She sighed. It was the only decent book in the bunch. She looked upward, saying, “Would you mind terribly, Lily?”
The corridor didn’t answer; neither did any ghosts. “Thank you.” And she tucked the book under her arm as she walked away.
Back in her room, Maggie kicked off her shoes and curled up on the sofa in front of the radiator with Le Fantôme de l’Opéra. As she opened it to the first page, she noticed the endpaper on the book’s inside cover didn’t lie smoothly.
What on earth—
Heart beating faster now, Maggie ran her fingers over the paper. There was definitely something in there.
With a hatpin from the stand on her dresser, she made a neat slit in the endpaper, then pulled out a folded piece of paper. Maggie read it. She read it again. A third time, for good measure.
She sat perfectly still, overcome with shock. It was a decrypt of a German cipher: “U-boat commander Hempelmann, in grid square 4498, had sunk one tanker.…”
Oh, Lily, Lily, Lily, Maggie thought. Where did you get this? Who gave it to you? And then, with the shock of realization, And what were you going to do with it?
She checked the date: It was a recent decrypt, dated November 17, 1940. The Friday the Ladies-in-Waiting had all gone to London for the weekend.
The day the woman at Claridge’s had been murdered.
Oh, Lily—what were you involved with?
And what happened to you, as a result?
Chapter Ten
The memorial service for Lady Lily Georgina Howell at Windsor Castle’s St. George’s Chapel was well attended by somber-looking castle residents, all dressed in black from head to toe. In the pews, Maggie saw recognizable faces mixed with the unfamiliar. Alah and Crawfie. Sir Owen, Lord Clive, and Mrs. Beesley, and Mr. Berners, who’d cleaned up fairly well. Ainslie, Audrey, and the winking footman. Louisa and Polly, who caught her eye and then began whispering behind their hands. Maggie was sure they were saying nothing good. There was Gregory, across the aisle from the two girls; he gave her a quick nod.
Maggie turned back to observe the architecture. St. George’s showed the same concern for bombing that the rest of the castle did. The stained-glass windows and quatrefoils were taped and boarded, and much of the statuary had been removed for safekeeping. However, nothing could diminish the beauty of the vertical lines of the Late Gothic soaring stone arches and the fan-vaulted ceiling, built in the English Perpendicular style, or the black-and-white chessboard marble floors in the Quire. The icy air inside the chapel’s thick stone walls smelled of piety and pomp.
As the priest’s voice rang out as he began his homily, Maggie first thought of her flatmate, who’d died during the summer—twice. And then of John. Will we ever be able to find a body? Have enough closure for a memorial service? Then she shook her head. No, he’s alive. Alive. I’m sure of it. She stood in prayer with the other congregants.
As the choristers in their ruby robes and white collars sang the last bars of Vivaldi’s “Cum Sancto Spiritu,” the great organ thundered out the magnificent closing notes and the final Amen echoed against the vaulted ceiling. The congregation rose as the Royal Family left their pew and began to walk down the aisle. Then the rest of the people began to follow, row by row. Outside, large and low gray clouds darkened the hazy white sky. The chapel’s bells chimed relentlessly as the stern wind caused overcoats and dresses to billow.
“Wonderful music, the Vivaldi Gloria.” Gregory fell into step beside her, wearing a raincoat and a Trinity College scarf. His limp was more pronounced than it had been the previous night, and one hand held his hat against the wind. “ ‘Cum Sancto Spiritu’ is joyful and yet somehow defiant, with that wonderful section of syncopation. I think Lily would have approved. I’d like it played at my own funeral, someday.” He laughed, a small and bitter laugh. “Someday, a very, very long time from now.” Maggie noticed his pallor and how much the scars pulled on his face.
“Were you very close to Lily?” she asked as they walked together on one of the gravel paths of the Lower Ward, heading to the Henry VIII Gate. Overhead, geese flew by with their long necks outstretched, honking mournfully.
“We grew up together,” he replied. “Although I went off to Eton and then to Cambridge. We met up again here, at the castle.”
“It must have been nice to see a familiar face.”
“It was.” They walked in silence for a while, as Maggie debated what she could ask without tipping her hand.
“I’m afraid I need to get back to the Equerry’s office, even on a Saturday,” Gregory said, finally, lifting his hat. “A somber morning, to be sure. But better for having seen you.”