She took the train from the red-brick Victorian Windsor and Eton Central Station over Brunel’s bowstring bridge to Slough, then walked over the pedestrian crossing and waited in the cool clammy air until the next train arrived. This one took her from Slough to London’s cavernous and loud Paddington Station, with its high arched glass-and-iron ceiling and grubby pigeons pecking for crumbs on the damp cement floors. From Paddington, she took the Bakerloo line on the Tube to Baker Street. From Baker, she walked a few blocks to Regent’s Park.
She and Hugh met in Queen Mary’s Rose Garden, a lush, carefully tended section of the park. The skies were leaden, the grass brown, the bark of the bare trees the color of bruises. The last of the rambling, winding, climbing, and clustered red, pink, and golden roses were dying. The cold air smelled of earth and frost and impending winter. A few plump pigeons strutted and cooed, waiting for someone, anyone, to leave crumbs.
Besides the occasional pedestrian and twittering sparrow, they had a wooden bench in the garden with a fine view of William McMillan’s Triton fountain to themselves, knowing there was no way their conversation could be overheard. Still, Hugh was on one end, buried in The Times, and Maggie was at the other, pretending to read Turing.
“Frain’s in Bletchley right now, questioning a cryptographer named Benjamin Batey. He had access to the decrypt. He was also seeing Victoria Keeley.” Hugh’s breath made white clouds in the air.
Maggie took a sharp breath but kept her eyes on her page. “Is there any evidence that he murdered her?”
Hugh shrugged. “Not so far. Frain’s been questioning him. And Frain can be very … persuasive. So far, though, Benjamin Batey seems like a sort of hapless victim. They allegedly had their … tryst … at her flat and then she went to London alone.”
“So, we know somehow, perhaps through Mr. Batey, Victoria Keeley got her hands on a decrypt. We know that she passed it to Lady Lily Howell at Claridge’s. We know Victoria Keeley was murdered. And we know Lily had hidden the decrypt and was then murdered also.”
“Yes.”
“What we need to focus on,” Maggie said, “is how Lily Howell was going to send, or take, that information to Germany. No one found a radio, a way for her to communicate?”
“No, she must have been working with someone else.”
“Possibly someone at the castle.”
Maggie nodded. “Of course, if there’s someone else at Bletchley who’s stealing decrypts …”
“I know, I know.” Hugh folded his paper.
“At any rate, we should get the names of everyone at Claridge’s the night Victoria Keeley was murdered and run them against everyone at Windsor Castle and Bletchley Park. Of course, people might have used aliases, but—”
“I’m sorry,” Hugh said, “but I’ll have to pass along your request—to your new handler.”
“New handler?” The book nearly fell out of Maggie’s hands.
Hugh ran his hands through his hair. “I’m afraid so. This is getting more serious than Frain anticipated, so he’s pairing you up with someone more senior.”
“That’s unacceptable. You’re an excellent agent. We work well together.” She was filled with an overwhelming sense of disappointment and rage, like a child whose favorite playmate was moving away.
“It’s fine, really. I mean, of course my pride is bruised. But mostly I’ll miss …” He stared at her, searching for the right things to say.
“Yes?” Maggie prompted.
“I’ll miss … the case. It’s been quite the roller coaster already. And I think we’ve just scratched the surface.” He continued to look at her. “But I’m afraid it can’t be helped.” He rose and tipped his hat. “Good luck, Maggie Hope.” And then he walked away, swallowed up by the park.
“And good luck to you, too,” she replied to herself, feeling lost and alone once again.
Maggie wasn’t the only resident of Windsor Castle spending the day in London. Audrey Moreau was there as well. It was her one day off a month from her maid’s duties, and she had told Cook that she was taking the train to London to do some sightseeing.
London was a city of smoking ruins, but many of the shops were open, and what architecture remained was still magnificent. Cold rain was falling, and water gushed in the gutters, filled with fallen yellow leaves.
Audrey had left off her black-and-white maid’s uniform and was wearing a woolen dress with her winter coat, which she’d tailored to accentuate her slim figure. A hat with a silk orchid one of the castle’s guests had left behind topped off her ensemble. She was rewarded by men smiling and tipping their hats.