The woman stared at the photograph. “No, love, I ain’t seen ’er.” Maggie pulled out the pound notes again. This time, they had the intended effect. The woman looked around and caught sight of one of her fellow maids. “She might know. Maude! Maude! Come over ’ere?”
“What?” Maude barked. She was a large, burly woman with surprisingly delicate features.
“Miss ’ere ’as a question,” she said, looking pointedly at the pound notes.
“Do you recognize the woman in the photo?” Maggie asked.
The woman stared. “Yeah,” she said. “Always asking for more towels, that one. What she does with all them towels, I ’ave no idea, ’cept we’ve gotta wash ’em.”
Maggie’s heart leapt. “Did you ever see her with anyone?”
The woman squinted at the photo. “Oh, she got around, all right. I know, ’cause I bring her the extra towels to ’er room, and also some others’ rooms. Probably took a bath in every bloody room at the hotel. Sorry, Miss.”
“That’s all right. Do you happen to remember who she was with?”
The woman sighed. “There was a woman, actually. Pretty, with black ’air.” She lowered her voice. “The one ’oo was murdered ’ere.” She crossed herself.
The link to Victoria confirmed! Maggie thought. “Anyone else?”
“A young man. Tall, thin.”
“Can you describe him?”
“Oh, I dunno, Miss. All those young men look alike to me. Tall, pale, nose in the air.”
“Was he blond or dark?” Maggie pressed. “Did he have scars on his face?” She waited for the answer, heart in her throat. Because she liked Gregory, she really did. And she didn’t want him to have anything to do with Lily’s murder or the decrypt.
“No, Miss, no scars—I would ’ave remembered that.” She thought a bit. “ ’E ’ad one a those scarves, you know, the fancy university scarves?”
“What were the colors?”
“Blue. Dark blue with red and yellow. I remember it—ugly as sin.”
By the time Maggie returned to the castle, snow was falling in earnest and a light dusting had collected on the ground. As she walked up the gravel path, her feet making crunching noises in the still, cold air and the bells from St. George’s Chapel clanging, she saw that a truck had pulled up in front of the castle’s entrance. In the back was an enormous evergreen from the Great Park, at least twenty-two feet tall and nearly as wide at the tree’s foot—the Royal Christmas tree. How appropriate, Maggie thought, since the first Christmas tree in England was the one Prince Albert brought to Windsor Castle from Germany.
Mr. Tooke was overseeing the men untying the ropes and wrestling with it. He caught Maggie’s eye and lifted his tweed cap. “Hello, Mr. Tooke!” Maggie called. She recognized her winking footman, out of uniform. “Hello,” she said to him. “It’s silly to keep seeing each other and not be introduced. I’m Maggie Hope.”
“George Poulter,” he said, tipping his cap. “How d’you do?”
“Have you been at Windsor long, Mr. Poulter?”
“Came with Lord Gregory. Lord Gregory Strathcliffe? I used to be his manservant back in the day, at his family’s estate. That was before the injuries, of course. He found me a place at Windsor Castle when he came, he did. Good man, Lord Gregory.”
“Yes,” Maggie said, thoughtful. “Yes, he is.”
Inside, the castle was a buzz of activity. Servants arranged boughs of evergreen on fireplace mantels, releasing their sharp, piney smell. There was holly as well, with glossy leaves and bright red berries. Even through the corridors were as long and cold as ever, the decorations lent a homey touch to the place. Maggie was amused to see that, where grand oil paintings used to hang, large posters for Sleeping Beauty, featuring Lilibet and Margaret’s artwork, were displayed.
Maggie made her way to the vast Waterloo Chamber, where the stage was set up. The room was magnificent: a soaring clerestory ceiling, paneled walls decorated with lime-wood carvings by Grinling Gibbons, an enormous Indian carpet.
Lilibet and Margaret were rehearsing the final ballroom scene with the other children, the sons and daughters of the castle’s staff. “Stop it, Margaret,” Maggie heard. It was Lilibet, her high, sweet voice echoing through the vast chamber. “You’re stepping on my toes.”
“Oooooh, wouldn’t want to step on the Royal Toesies, now, would we?” Margaret retorted.
Crawfie clapped her hands. “All right, children,” she said in her Scottish lilt. “Let’s take a break, shall we? Audrey’s setting up tea and biscuits in the nursery—come back in half an hour, please.”