Maggie smiled. Further questions could wait. “I agree. And I have a most pressing errand in town.” She displayed her corgi-bitten glove. “In this cold, it would be foolish not to pick up another pair. I only hope I have enough clothing rations.”
Arms crossed over her chest in the face of the frigid wind, Maggie walked out the Henry VIII Gate and down the cobblestone drive. She passed the blackened, bronzed statue of Queen Victoria, plump and proud with her orb and scepter, and turned onto High Street. It was early Sunday afternoon, and she and Hugh Thompson were supposed to meet at Boswell’s Books around three. Very well, Maggie thought. Might as well pick up a new pair of gloves while I’m at it.
The town of Windsor in daylight was charming, with narrow stone streets and bright, tidy shop fronts. The architecture was quirky and whimsical, with buildings nestled close to one another, sporting an assortment of small ivy-covered turrets, Corinthian columns, cupolas, high round windows, sloped slate-tiled roofs, and windowboxes of fading flowers. Unlike London, it was still unscathed by bombing. Maggie heard the occasional car engine and the clip-clop of horses’ hooves on cobblestones in the distance. The air was fresh and sweet compared to London’s, but when the wind blew a certain way, there was the unmistakable smell of horse dung.
Maggie bought, with her allotted rations, a new pair of leather gloves at W. J. Daniel, then picked up a copy of The Times at a newsstand and went into a narrow café for a cup of fragrant tea. After finishing a number of articles on the bombing of Coventry, she looked at her small watch and realized it was nearly three. She braced herself against the cold and went back onto Peascod Street, then saw a bookshop. BOSWELL’S BOOKS, the sign read. As she opened the door, a tiny silver bell jingled.
Inside, it was warm and cozy. Books lined the walls from floor to ceiling, and there were tall sliding wooden ladders for reaching the top shelves. The shop was long and went on, with a long aisle down the center, bisected by rows and rows of bookshelves. A worn blue Persian rug lay on the floor and, in a patch of weak sunlight, a fat ginger cat groomed himself.
Maggie smiled at the bent older man with tiny silver spectacles behind the register. The retired MI-5 agent? Archibald Higgins? “Boswell, I presume?” she asked, gesturing to the cat.
“The one and only,” he replied. “Cheeky devil. May I help you find anything, Miss?”
“No, thank you,” Maggie answered. “Just browsing.”
“As you wish,” he said. “Back room’s nice and quiet if you want to catch up on your reading.”
“Thank you.” Maggie walked from the front of the store to the back room, perusing titles, looking for any sign of Hugh. In the stacks, she found a section of mathematics books and journals, including Princeton University’s Annals of Mathematics. Maggie pushed aside a wave of bitterness. Once upon a time, she’d wanted, more than anything, to do her postgraduate work at Princeton—with people like James Christopherander, Albert Einstein, Luther Eisenhart, John von Neumann, and Alonzo Church. Not to mention Alan Turing, who’d been at Princeton but returned to England in ’38 when war was declared. However, they didn’t admit women. And M.I.T. wasn’t exactly second tier.
Maggie pulled out a copy of Turing’s Systems of Logic Based on Ordinals, found the back room, settled into a worn leather armchair, and began to read. Eventually, she became aware of a figure in the aisle behind her.
Maggie looked up. It was Hugh, dressed in a heavy wool overcoat, Anthony Eden hat in hand. He looked down at her book. “Turing!” He whistled through his teeth. “A little light reading?”
Maggie smiled. “I find computability theory fascinating.”
Hugh leaned against the bookcase. “So, how goes it?” he asked in low tones. “Are you, er, I mean, is everything—that is—all right?”
“It’s been … interesting,” she answered. “You heard about what happened?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “We also know you were one of the last people to see the victim alive.”
“I met Lily at the Carpenters Arms. She was just coming back from her weekend in London, at Claridge’s. There was a possible suicide there, over the same weekend.”
Hugh looked at her, startled. “How the …?” Then, “Yes, there was a suicide at Claridge’s that weekend.”
“Well,” Maggie pressed, “don’t you think it’s significant? What if it wasn’t a suicide? What if the woman saw something? Or knew something? And what if Lily’s death wasn’t a suicide? There could be a connection.”