Princess Elizabeth's Spy(42)

Her own screaming woke her up. It was still dark. She was trembling, drenched in cold sweat, heart thumping, limbs cramping. She lay there for a few minutes, gasping for breath, blinking away the images of the dream.

Finally, her heart slowed and she was able to see the shadows in her room for what they were—just shadows, and not terrible birds of prey with sharp talons and beaks. She rubbed her eyes, hard, pinpoints of light breaking through. Pull yourself together, Hope.


She was able to go back to sleep, but woke up tired and disoriented. At least it was her day off. After completing her daily morning exercise regime, learned at Camp Spook—push-ups, sit-ups, leg lifts, and jumping jacks—preparing her lesson plans for the Princess, and lunch, Maggie put on her wool coat and hat and went to the police station.

It was raining, a cold, damp drizzle that showed no sign of letting up, and a stiff wind blew her large black umbrella inside out, showing its inner spine like a skeleton for a brief moment before she was able to right it. Finally, she reached the red-brick station. “I’d like to speak with Detective Wilson, please,” she said to the older sandy-haired man in uniform behind the wooden counter as she began to feel the warmth from the coal heater in the corner. “It’s in regard to the Lily Howell case.”

“Just a moment, Miss.”

Maggie looked around the station. There were the usual posters in primary colors: National Service Needs You, ARP Auxiliary Firemen Needed, and Dig for Victory!

Detective Wilson appeared. “Ah, hello, there. It’s Miss, ah, Hope, isn’t it?”

“It is, Detective Wilson.”

“Miss Hope, please follow me.”


In Detective Wilson’s tidy office, Maggie took a seat in front of his desk, noting he had no personal photos there, just a wilting aspidistra. “I’ve remembered something that Lady Lily mentioned,” she began.

“Yes?”

“She was … with child.” Maggie would have liked to have used the proper medical term—pregnant—but it was considered impolite.

Detective Wilson looked up and smiled. “We know.”

“How …?”

“Autopsy.”

I’m an idiot—obviously they would know. “Of course.”

“How did you know?”

“She told me, the night I met her.”

“She would have had to. Someone only three months along wouldn’t be showing. Any idea who the father might be?”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Maggie said. “I’ve asked around—apparently, she was a ‘popular girl.’ ”

“I had an interesting telephone call—from a Mr. Frain. You know him?”

“Yes,” Maggie said. Frain’s made contact, of course. She tried to see where the conversation was heading.

“He mentioned the complications in the case and that MI-Five had a … particular interest. And we should help you as much as possible.” He cleared his throat. “And we, the local police, request the same from you.”

“Of course, sir,” Maggie said. She realized some toes had been stepped on in establishing the jurisdiction of MI-5 and the local police. “We’re all on the same side, after all.”


Maggie walked to Windsor and Eton Central Station, to get the train to Slough. It was raining harder, nearly sleeting—but it was Thursday, the day she was supposed to meet her father for dinner. She waited under the eaves of the arched glass roof in the cold for the train.

At Slough, Maggie walked until she found Bell’s Tavern. She was early, so she had some tea.

She waited.

The clock ticked on, until the heavy black hands reached six, Maggie and her father’s agreed-on meeting time.

She waited. Of course he might be late. Doesn’t mean he forgot our dinner, just that something came up.

Then she ordered and ate some squash-apple soup and bread and margarine.

She waited. The clock’s hands went to seven.

Then a cider. The clock’s hands reached eight.

Finally, close to nine, the waitress came over. “Will that be all, love?”

Maggie looked up at the clock, which now read 8:10. “Yes. I’m done.” She pulled out her purse to get her wallet to pay the bill, tears threatening to flood her eyes. “I’m really, truly, absolutely done.”


On the way to the Slough train station in the dark, Maggie saw three men stagger out of one of the pubs. They walked toward her, pushing one another and laughing, until they blocked her way.

“And what do we have here?” The tall one sniggered.

Maggie clamped her pocketbook under her arm and tried to walk around them.

“Not so fast, love,” the one with a beard said. “Fancy a drink?”