Princess Elizabeth's Spy(41)

“I only met her the once, but she was charming. Was she … engaged?”

Gregory frowned. “Not that I know of, at least. Why do you ask?”

Maggie wasn’t about to tell him she knew Lily had been pregnant.

“Just wondering. She was so beautiful, after all.”

“Plenty of beaux, of course. Popular girl.”

They walked together down the long corridor in silence. “You knew her when she was younger?” Maggie prompted.

“Yes, she lived near us, near Chesterfield in Derbyshire.”

Maggie smiled. “It must have been nice to grow up with a playmate.”

“It was,” he said with a wan smile. “Although I didn’t meet her until she was five. She was born in Germany.”

“Oh, really?” Maggie said, her head spinning, thinking about the decrypt.

“If you don’t mind, I must return to the Equerry’s office.” He gave a small bow. “Good night, Maggie.”

“Good night,” she said, resuming her walk down the drafty corridor.

Could it be that Lily was a spy? A Nazi spy? she thought.

But if Lily was a Nazi spy, then who killed her?

And why?


Admiralty Arch was not only a large office building, it was, in fact, an archway, providing road and pedestrian access between The Mall and Trafalgar Square. Nearly undetectable to those who didn’t know it was there, carved in marble, was a nose. Just a nose, not a face—embedded in one of the archways. Legend was that it was Lord Nelson’s nose, and soldiers passing through on horseback would rub it for good luck.

Just like so many military men before him, Admiral Donald Kirk looked up at the nose and said a short silent prayer to Lord Nelson. Kirk was a trim, smart-looking man with silvery hair and piercing green eyes, wearing a dark blue naval uniform. He leaned heavily on a silver-handled walking stick—a crushed knee in the last war had left him with a stiff, almost mechanical limp. The injury kept him from serving at sea in the current war—which he hated. However, his wife and four daughters, now married and mothers themselves, were grateful he was able to serve his country while staying in London. Sometimes, when they were all together at home and the women were carrying on, he wished for a submarine to command once again.

At the doorway a Royal Marine saluted. Kirk switched the walking stick to his other hand to return the salute, then switched back and proceeded inside. Slowly, for the stairs weren’t easy to navigate for anyone, let alone someone with a damaged leg, he made his way down narrow staircases until he reached the windowless Submarine Tracking Room.

Many Londoners were wrapping up work and going home for the evening, but the Submarine Tracking Room buzzed with excitement around the clock. The gray-painted walls were covered with maps studded with different colored pushpins, charts, and photographs of German submarine commanders. Several men in uniform repositioned the colored pins, according to information they received. The centerpiece of the room was a large table, covered with a map of Britain and the Atlantic Ocean and North Sea. Colored pushpins represented every freighter, warship, and submarine in the waters, both British and German.

A few officers were repositioning some of those pins, to reflect the day’s movement. Kirk limped over to take a closer look.

“That U-boat there.” He pointed to a red pin just off the Lincolnshire coast. “What’s it been doing?”

The man, young, with a five-o’clock shadow, shrugged. “It’s been there for a while—not doing much of anything, sir.”

Donald Kirk hadn’t reached the position he had by being the strongest or the fastest. His injuries early in the last war had seen to that. No, what he was known for was a rigorous intellect, coupled with the ability to think like the enemy. He squinted at the map on the table. Something was not right. The submarine’s movements had been puzzling him for days. It seemed to be on a purposeless patrol of the North Sea. The sub hadn’t surfaced, it hadn’t attacked, it hadn’t seen action of any kind.

“U-two-forty-six,” Kirk said, reaching out to run his index finger over the tip of the metal pin. It was cold and hard. “What are you doing there?”





Chapter Twelve


Maggie had another nightmare.

This time, she was out walking the grounds hand in hand with Lilibet, the sky a greenish gray that threatened thunderstorms. A large falcon flew overhead, almost a pterodactyl, huge, with skeletal wings. He swooped down and grabbed the Princess by the back of her coat.

Maggie felt the girl’s small hand ripped from hers and began crying as the bird flew higher and higher, taking her away to what Maggie knew was a horrible fate.