The Prime Minister's Secret Agent(35)

“Clara is my friend. I don’t have any other friends. Real friends.”

“Doesn’t your mother want you to have friends?”

“No, just Clara. And my books. And I like to sing. I have that.” She smiled, an utterly guileless smile. She began to sing, not in an operatic soprano’s voice, but in the dulcet tones of a child, the traditional song “Eins, zwei, Polizei”:

One, two, police

three, four, officer

five, six, old witch

seven, eight, good night!

nine, ten, good-bye!



And with that, she fell back down to the pillow, breathing heavily, eyes closed—as if asleep.


After a restless night, Maggie woke. She slipped from the bed and pulled back the blackout curtains. Outside she could see, in the gray just before the breaking of the dawn, the dark outline of Edinburgh Castle, perched atop the sheer Castle Rock. Ha—I’d like to see any invading Nazis try and climb that! For this was where Edinburgh’s last stand would take place—if it came to that.

She had breakfast at the hotel’s dining room, and then started out for St. Leonard’s Police Station. As the sun rose in a pearly lavender sky, she had a chance to actually see Edinburgh, which had been blacked out the night before.

It was quieter and the streets were less crowded than London. Chimneys in a row belched thick black smoke, while a lone seagull flew high overhead, giving a faint cry. The architecture felt heavier, darker, more Victorian; most buildings were made from porous sandstone, which absorbed the soot and smog carried back down by the rain before it could drift away.

The gray sky began to snow, big lacy flakes that melted as soon as they hit the dark wet pavement. Maggie did her best to avoid the slushy puddles, bird droppings, and burned-out cigarette butts as the flakes flew thicker and faster. She saw a young boy and girl tucked into an alley to huddle together for warmth, sneaking a few kisses. How long will it be until he volunteers or is called up? Maggie wondered. In Princes Street Gardens, in the shadows of the castle, boys threw snowballs through the twisted trees. And how long before they’ll be throwing bombs?

At St. Leonard’s she opened the main door and heard raised voices coming from the front desk. “And I don’t care if you’re the Pope of Rome,” a deep, booming voice shouted, “MI-Five is taking over this case!”

Maggie could only see the man from the back. He was wearing a black coat and hat, his shoulders wide and sturdy.

“It’s a murder, it happened in Edinburgh, and so it’s our jurisdiction!” she heard Officer Craig snap back.

“It may have started out as a local crime, but now it’s a matter of national security,” the man in the black hat retorted. “And I’ve instructed the Director General of MI-Five, Peter Frain, to take over the case of the murder of Estelle Crawford.”

Maggie was sure she recognized the man’s voice. And he’d mentioned Peter Frain and MI-5 … She took a few steps closer. “Agent Standish? Agent Mark Standish?”

The man spun around to face her. His eyes widened in recognition and shock. “Miss Hope?” Then, “What on God’s green earth are you doing here?”

“I’d ask you the same thing, except I just overheard most of your conversation with Officer Craig.”

“You two—know each other?” Officer Craig had a bewildered look on his face.

“We’ve met,” Mark Standish said tersely.

“We were colleagues,” Maggie corrected.

Craig’s eyebrows rose with surprise and respect.

Mark glared. “And, Miss Hope, I’ll ask you again—what are you doing here?”

“I came to Edinburgh to see Sarah Sanderson perform in the Vic-Wells’s La Sylphide.”

“Sarah Sanderson?”

Maggie felt a hot wave of impatience wash over her. He should remember Sarah. After all, she’d nearly died helping them catch the IRA thugs trying to assassinate Winston Churchill in the summer of 1940.

“Sarah,” Maggie repeated. “Sarah Sanderson.” She enunciated clearly, as though to a small child. “Remember? Ballet dancer?” She tried not to pull a face. “The ballet dancer who’s being held here on suspicion of murder?”

Mark looked confused. “How on earth do you know her?”

“May we have a moment in private?” Maggie asked Officer Craig.

“Of course,” he replied, turning on his heel to walk down one of the corridors.

When he was out of earshot, Maggie turned back to Mark. “Sarah Sanderson,” she hissed. “Nearly killed by Paige Claire Kelly? Helped save St. Paul’s Cathedral from being bombed? Helped save the Prime Minister from being murdered? That Sarah Sanderson?” Maggie gave him a hard look. “When I was working as Mr. Churchill’s secretary?” She tried very hard not to roll her eyes. “Really, Mark, it’s only been—what—a year and a half.”