“Have you run the list of names of Windsor Castle and Bletchley Park employees against the list of guests at Claridge’s for the night Victoria Keeley was murdered? I asked Hugh, and he said he’d pass the request to you.”
Nevins laughed. “So, that was your idea, was it? A regular Mata Hari you are. Well, darling, you’ll find I’m not like Hugh Thompson. I, for one, don’t take orders from a woman. In fact, let’s set this straight—I’m the boss. You’ll be taking orders from me.”
“Are you insane?” Maggie hissed. “What are you doing here? And out in the open? Stopping by for tea? Already one woman’s been shot in London and one’s been decapitated here. Since I’m new, there are any number of people at the castle suspicious of me. You’re abusing the privilege of the handler position.”
“This is why I don’t like to work with women,” Nevins said softly, “no matter how attractive the package. You women may be clever—and you’re reputed to be quite clever—but you’re not intelligent. You may be able to obtain information in a given situation, but you can’t put it all together.” He smiled. “It’s why you have me, of course.”
Maggie felt her face grow hot, and started walking again. “That’s not how I see things. Or Mr. Frain.”
Nevins laughed, a pinched, mean laugh. “Frain’s a pragmatist. He saw that he could get you into Windsor, and because of your sex, you’d be less obvious—especially when dealing with a child. A good role for a woman, I suppose. But honestly, I’d rather see Thompson or Standish in the field on this one, not you. Although I wouldn’t mind your sitting just outside my office. You’d dress the place up nicely.”
“Are you joking?” Maggie managed. “Look, Mr. Nevins, I’m a professional. And I expect to be treated as such. Understood?”
Nevins looked as though Cupid’s arrow had just pierced his heart. “You have pluck, Maggie,” he managed, finally. “So very American. And you like the chase, it seems. I just hope you haven’t picked up any of your father’s habits.”
“My father? What’s he got to do with anything?”
“You don’t know?” Nevins whistled. “He was investigated for being a double agent for Germany in the last war. Now, in this one, he’s supposed to be ferreting out a spy at Bletchley. Been on the case for years and still no spy.… Do you think dear old Dad might be working for Abwehr? That’s what the boys in the back room whisper, at any rate.”
“Stop it, Mr. Nevins. Stop it right now.” Maggie’s head was spinning. Her father was a spy during the last war? He’d never told her that. And he’d been suspected of being a double agent back then? And now, once again, he was suspected of spying for Germany?
From a nearby black rooftop, a falcon began his mad laughing caw, then flew off. Maggie turned and watched him sail through the air until he reached the top of one of the castle’s high walls. It was a fair distance away, but Maggie squinted to see him land on the shoulder of a man. Probably Sam Berners, the Royal Falconer. She gave a grim smile. If only I could get the falcon to go for Nevins. “Unless you have some actual information to impart, we’re finished, Mr. Nevins.”
“It was good to meet you, Miss Hope. I look forward to using the information you bring me to crack the case.”
Maggie turned and started tramping back to the castle, blood boiling, leaving Nevins to stare after her. “Yes,” she muttered to herself. “Yes, Nevins, you’re finished. Quite finished.”
Later, in the Octagon Room, still seething at Nevins and wondering about her father, Maggie picked at her dinner, letting the conversation of the others flow and swirl around her.
She heard her name being called. It was Crawfie. “Miss Hope!” she was saying.
She cleared her thoughts of Nevins. “Yes, Miss Crawford.”
“I want to include the Princesses somehow in this year’s Red, White, and Blue Christmas celebration,” she began. “And I was thinking a performance might be in order. They’re going to be making public appearances soon enough, and some practice on a stage, in front of family and friends, might help them make the transition.”
Maggie nodded, listening.
“I was thinking of a pantomime. Sleeping Beauty, in fact. Princess Margaret can play Briar Rose and Princess Elizabeth can be the Prince. I spoke with Mr. Tanner, who’s a teacher at the Royal School, in the Great Park, where the other children of Windsor Castle attend school—and it turns out he was a Gilbert and Sullivan player back in the day, and would be delighted to direct. We can charge admission and the ticket money can go to the Queen’s Wool Fund.” She sighed. “It’s been so dull for the Princesses here, and I think it would do them a world of good.… May I count on your help, Miss Hope?” Crawfie asked. “For scenery, especially?”