Princess Elizabeth's Spy(56)

“Ready or not—here we come!” she heard Margaret cry and then the sound of laughter.

She waited in the dark and the cold, waited for the first to find her.

It was Gregory.

“Maggie?” he whispered, drawing back the curtains.

“Shhhh …” she said, moving over so that he could step up on the window seat beside her. He did so, and Maggie was aware of him, very close to her, his breath smelling of martinis.

“I must be part bloodhound,” he whispered.

“What?”

“I followed my nose—you always wear something that smells like violets.”

Maggie was suddenly confused. Keep your mind on the keys, she admonished herself.

“It’s Après l’Ondée,” she whispered back. “My friend Sarah gave it to me.”

“Violets after the rain, then,” he said. “Gods, it’s cold!” He rubbed his hands together, then reached out to Maggie and began to rub her arms.

“It’s the wind, the wind blowing against the glass. Simple thermodynamics, really. You can calculate it if you have both the indoor and outdoor conditions, such as convective coefficients, optical properties, and outdoor velocity—”

Without further ado, he pulled her toward him and kissed her. His lips were warm and dry and tasted of gin. Maggie thought of Lily. Had he kissed Lily like that? Was he the father of Lily’s baby? Her murderer? She pulled away.

Gregory pulled her close and held her. “I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I’ve just wanted to do that since I met you, roaming the corridors.…”

Maggie slipped her arms around his waist. Her fingers brushed the keys, still attacked to his belt. “It’s all right,” she said. Now, if I could just get the keys.… “I do really like you, Gregory. Just—not in that way.”

He let out a dramatic sigh. “Story of my life.”

The curtain rustled, and Margaret pressed her way inside. “I knew I heard you two,” she whispered, climbing up on the window seat with them. “Now hush, or they’ll find us!”

As they moved to let Margaret in beside them, Maggie pushed in the metal tab of the ring and slipped the keys off Gregory’s belt. The iron was cold and heavy, and she trapped them in her sweaty hand to silence them. Yes! she thought, making sure he hadn’t noticed, slipping them into her skirt pocket. And then, I’m sorry, Gregory. I’m only borrowing them, I promise.

Which she did. During the next rounds of sardines, when she was alone, she quickly pressed the keys into the clay, making a clear imprint. When the game was over, she placed the keys near the flats they’d been painting.

“Goodness,” he said as he put on his bespoke tweed jacket and saw them glint in the firelight. “I can’t be dropping these!” He picked up the keys and smiled at the Princesses, a winning grin. “Don’t tell the King. He might send me to the dungeons, for good.”


The next morning, Maggie wrapped the key imprint in clay in brown paper and made the prearranged drop-off into the trash barrel near Boswell’s Books, which another agent nonchalantly picked up. The next day, in town, another undercover agent pretended to stumble and surreptitiously slipped a set of keys into her open handbag as she had lunch at a small café.

After midnight, flashlight tucked under her arm, Maggie unlocked the heavy oak door to the King’s Equerry’s office, opened it, went inside, and then closed it behind her with a heavy click. Her heart was pounding. She went to the desk and switched on the stained-glass lamp, the light fighting against the pressing shadows. She turned off the flashlight and put it under the desk and laid down her bag, removing the small camera Hugh had given her.

She went to the files and pulled. Locked, of course. Taking out another, smaller key, she put it in the lock and turned. It popped open with a satisfying click.

Her heart began to pound even faster. She could feel her armpits begin to dampen.

She went through the files to H. There it was, neatly labeled with Howell, Lady Lily typed in black ink.

Maggie took the file to the desk and opened it in the tiny bright circle of lamplight. The edges of the room were veiled in heavy and almost palpable darkness. For a moment, Maggie had a feeling of vertigo, as if the circle of light were the only stable place, and in the dim light the walls had receded, leaving her on a high and perilous platform suspended in the dark. Then she swallowed, took the camera and began shooting, turning pages, then shooting again.

My goodness, Maggie thought, goose bumps prickling on her arms. I’m actually doing this!

As she photographed, she skimmed the file’s contents. Lady Lily Howell had been born in Germany in 1915, moved to London at age five, and was educated at St. Hilda’s at Oxford University, studying history. She made her debut before the King and Queen, with Gregory as her escort. Other than that, and a few letters of recommendation, the file was bereft of anything incriminating. Bugger, Maggie thought. Bugger, bugger, bugger.