Princess Elizabeth's Spy (13 page)

In the conference room at Bletchley, which used to be the manor house’s formal dining room, cryptographer Benjamin Batey was sweating, his face pale.

Peter Frain was sitting across the wooden table from him. “Exactly when did your relationship with Miss Victoria Keeley begin?” he asked.

“A—a month ago. I mean, I’ve known her for more than a year—that is, I knew who she was. But I didn’t start to get to know her until about, maybe, six months ago. We started walking out about a month ago.”

“Who approached whom?”

“She, well, she approached me,” Benjamin said, fingers of one hand picking at the cuticles of the other. “In the canteen. She asked if she could sit with me. Asked for my help with a crossword puzzle.”

“Did she ever mention a woman named Lily Howell?”

Benjamin looked puzzled. “No,” he said. “No, she didn’t.”

Frain made a mental note. “When did you first become intimate?”

“Well, we went to one of the Bletchley concerts together for the first time last month.…”

Frain cut to the chase. “When did you sleep with her?”

“I’m afraid—”

“Yes, Mr. Batey, you should be afraid. You should be
very
afraid. When did you sleep with her?”

“That—that night,” Benjamin said, his face reddening.

“Did you ever take work out of the office with you?”

Benjamin looked shocked. “No! Of course not!”

Frain narrowed his gray eyes. “Then how do you explain that Victoria Keeley passed one of the decrypts that you were working on to a third party?”

Benjamin gasped. “It’s impossible!”

“I’m afraid not,” Frain replied, lighting up a cigarette with his heavy monogrammed silver lighter. As he inhaled, the tip glowed orange and red. “Very few things are truly impossible, Mr. Batey. Two women are dead and a top-secret decrypt made its way from your office to London. Let’s go over your story again, shall we?”

Hugh Thompson was leaving his office at MI-5. “Please tell Mr. Standish I’m on my way to a meeting,” he called out to his secretary, when he heard the urgent ring of the telephone. “And if Caroline calls, just—”

“It’s Mr. Frain, sir,” she said. “He wants to speak with you.”

Hugh went back to his desk. Over the hiss of the line, he could hear Frain light a cigarette and inhale.

“You’re being pulled off the Windsor assignment,” Frain said without preamble.

Hugh was gobsmacked. “What?” Then, “Why?”

“I want someone older, with more experience. As it turns out, this is an important case. Even more important than I’d originally thought.”

“Yes sir, I know—”

“I’d like you on something different. Mr. Standish will fill you in on the details. In the meantime, I’d like you to see Mr. Nevins today, to brief him on Miss Hope.”

“Nevins?” Hugh couldn’t conceal his shock. “Archer
Nevins
?”

“He’ll be her new handler. He’s a senior member of our staff, and I trust you’ll treat him with the respect he deserves. That is all.” And then the phone went dead.

“Nevins,” Hugh muttered, as he replaced the heavy green Bakelite receiver. “Just perfect!”

A message alerted her that the book she’d ordered from Foyle’s in London was in, the signal she and Hugh had agreed on to meet in Queen Mary’s Rose Garden in Regent’s Park. Around noon, Maggie left the castle. It was a relief to leave those oppressive stone walls, six feet thick in some places, and to be out in the open air, even if it was chilly and overhead there were swollen gray clouds.

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 Kelley 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.

She made her way to a bus stop near Piccadilly Circus. The statue of Eros was gone, but the circle was still a popular place for people to meet—sailors in uniform on leave shouting to one another and smoking, WAAFs and FANYs in bright red lipstick, men in dark suits and bowler hats under black umbrellas.

The Circus was surrounded by huge billboards from the Ministry of Propaganda:
Join the Wrens!, It Is Far Better to Face the Bullets than to Be Killed at Home by a Bomb,
and
God Save the King.

The rain stopped, and Audrey folded up her umbrella. She waited for the red double-decker bus, and when it arrived she took the narrow stairs to the top deck. As the vehicle made its slow way up Regent Street, she was joined by a man wearing a dark gray coat, a gray bowler hat, and a Trinity college scarf in navy, red, and yellow stripes. He sat next to her, despite the fact that the deck was nearly empty.

She looked up and smiled, beginning what was to be a long conversation in whispered French.

It was sunset at Windsor Castle—red, rose, and tangerine bled out into the western sky, leaving long violet shadows.

Behind battlements on top of the castle stood a large structure, the Royal Mews, a wooden construction with mesh screened doors and windows. Inside were perches with goshawks and peregrine falcons in hoods, tethered with heavy leather jesses.

“There, now, Merlin,” Sam Berners crooned, as he slipped the tooled leather hood over the falcon’s head. He took a moment to look out over the grounds of the castle, with the Thames and Eton in the shadowy distance.

Alistair Tooke entered the Mews and stood for a moment at the entranceway, repulsed by the smell. “Berners!” Tooke said, his boots crunching on the fresh straw laid down on the floor.

“Got nothin’ to say to you,” Berners replied, transferring Merlin to his arm.

“Just as long as you don’t say anything to the police,” Tooke warned. “If you won’t, I won’t.”

Berners looked at his falcon, Merlin, blind in his tooled and painted leather hood. “We’re all hunters, then, aren’t we?”

“We are, indeed. And I’ll keep your secret, if you keep mine.”

Hugh grabbed the hilt of his épée as he began to advance on the piste that covered a long strip of the highly polished floor of the Reform Club. “Nevins.
Nevins
!” Behind his metal mesh mask, his eyes narrowed as he paced. “Fantastic. Absolutely fantastic.”

Mark was dressed, as was Hugh, in the traditional white fencers’ uniform. He advanced and lunged as Hugh continued to rant, his voice echoing in the high-celinged wood-paneled room, decorated with suits of armor and historical swords, its large windows overlooking Pall Mall.

Hugh deftly parried, the clicks and scrapes of metal on metal echoing under the brass and ormolu chandeliers. His breathing was heavy with the intense effort. “Nevins is an
idiot
! And so is Frain, for that matter, for replacing me—with
him,
of all people!”

Mark counterattacked with a passata-sotto, his épée whistling through the air. “Look,” he said and grunted. “May I say something?”

Hugh put down his épée and took off his mask. “What?” Perspiration glistened on his face.

Mark took off his mask as well, and wiped drops of sweat out of his eyes with his sleeve. “Nevins is a good agent. He has more experience than you do. And he may be a pompous ass at times, and get a little too friendly with the female staff, but he does his job and does it well. I believe you’re letting this get personal.”

“Oh, not this again—”

“It’s true! You obviously think about Miss Hope more than any handler should—”

They both put their masks back on. “I’m a consummate professional, and you know it,” Hugh said as he went back to en garde. “And I’m a better fencer than you too,” he gasped.

“Possibly,” Mark said as they parried and their blades clicked. “Well, then take it from the chap who’s worked in a small closet with you for over three years—I think you miss her. Not the mission.
Her.
”

“Ha!” Hugh exploded, their blades meeting again. “She’s a good agent is all. A bit green, but good—smart, intuitive. We had a … rapport.”

Mark feinted, then thrust, moving in against Hugh now, driving him back. “And now Nevins is going to have that … ‘rapport’ … with her. And it’s driving you bonkers.”

Hugh countered the best he could. “That’s rubbish!”

Mark pushed forward for the victory, the tip of his sword against Hugh’s heart, winning the point. “No, not it’s not.”

Hugh was absolutely still. Then, “Prat.”

“Ass.”

They each lowered their swords and took off their masks.

“So, what do I do?” Hugh said, when he’d caught his breath.

They returned to the garde line, saluted, then stepped forward and shook hands, as tradition dictated.

“I don’t think there’s all that much you can do, really, if Frain’s set on using Nevins,” Mark said, as they walked together to the door. “But you might want to start thinking about breaking things off with Caroline. Because if you feel this strongly about another girl, it’s not fair to string Caroline along.”

Hugh raised his hands in mock surrender. “You’re right, damn you.”

“Back to the
real
fight, then?” Mark said, clapping his friend on the back.

“Indeed.”

A few hours later, Hugh stood in Archer Nevins’s office, a thick manila file in hand. He handed it over to Nevins, a charismatic man with glossed-back hair, just a decade older than Hugh. He had a winning toothy grin, like a politician’s, and the confidence that came from successfully running a number of spy-finding operations. While he was married and had two sons at Harrow, he was infamous, among the female staff at least, at MI-5 for his wandering hands and for seducing any number of receptionists, telephone operators, and typists. Nevins opened the file and flipped through the pages. “The infamous Maggie Hope,” he said.

“As you can see, her current assignment—”

“I do,” Nevins said.

“She already has the clay and the camera, so—”

“And that’s why I’m on this case now, Thompson. Anything else I need to know about her? One man to another?”

“No.”

“What about Frain?”

“What
about
Frain?”

Nevins looked at Hugh. “Is he still sleeping with her? Or has he moved on?”

Hugh took a deep breath and overcame the urge to punch Nevins in the jaw. “There’s nothing unprofessional between Miss Hope and Mr. Frain.”

“Oh, come, now, Thompson,” Nevins said. “Surely you’re not that naïve. How do you think she got this job?”

“Her intelligence and skills.”

Nevins laughed. “I think you’re just jealous.”

Nevins came to the photograph of Maggie, clipped to the back page of the folder. “Well, well, well!” He whistled through his teeth. “Now I know why Frain hired her. Wouldn’t kick that out of bed for eating biscuits.”

Hugh bit the inside of his cheek. “Try anything funny, and she just might kick
you.
”

“Oh, feisty, is she?”

Hugh silently counted to ten. “Will that be all—sir?”

“What? Oh, yes.” Nevins was still staring at the picture. “ He waved one hand without looking up. “That will be all, Thompson. Dismissed.”

After the Princess’s maths lesson and lunch, Maggie received a message saying the book she’d ordered from Boswell’s had arrived. She left the castle grounds through the King Henry VIII Gate, heels clicking on the cobblestones, walked past the statue of Queen Victoria, then turned right down Peascod Street under the low silvery clouds. But she wasn’t alone.

“Miss Hope!” a man called, catching up to her. She didn’t recognize him from the castle, and she felt a moment of alarm.

“Miss Hope!” he called again, panting and falling into step alongside her. “I’m Archer Nevins.” His breath made clouds in the cold air. “I want to let you know that we’re going to make a fantastic duo.”

Maggie stopped, her eyes narrowing. So
this
was her new handler. She felt … cheated.

“Mr. Frain’s assigned Mr. Thompson to a less important case.” He wiped at his nose with a linen handkerchief, his monogram embroidered in large ornate letters. “I have more seniority—more experience—and Frain thought you’d be better suited to working with me.”

Maggie started walking again. Since arriving at Windsor, she’d gotten into the habit of taking either an early-morning run or a long afternoon walk on the grounds. She’d began her regime to build up her strength and endurance, but really she just liked to get away from the confines of the castle for a least a few hours a day. In the time she’d been there, she was already getting stronger and faster, and she put her speed to her advantage as they walked down the cobblestoned street.

As Nevins followed, struggling to keep up in his slippery-soled shoes, Maggie felt a wave of anger wash through her. She stopped and faced him, bringing him up short. “Mr. Nevins, I have a question.”

“Yes?”

“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?” Maggie spluttered. “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?”

“Of course!” Maggie exclaimed. It was, after all, just the thing to keep an eye on the Princesses and their circle during the time she wasn’t tutoring. “Crawfie, I’d be happy—in fact,
thrilled
—to help. Thank you.”

Maggie attended the first read-through that night in the nursery. The sheer scope of work the production would entail was staggering. There were sets to be built and painted, costumes to sew, props to make, lights to be hung, and only a few weeks in which to do it. Maggie sat, listening to the Princesses read through the script, taking notes on what would be needed. Mr. Tanner clapped his hands after they’d finished Act I, saying in plummy Welsh tones, “All right, Your Highnesses, that’s enough for the night.”

Maggie was amused there were no auditions for the roles; it was simply assumed the two Princesses would play the leads—Margaret as the Sleeping Princess and Elizabeth as the Prince.

A resounding bell stood in for the wailing air-raid siren Maggie was used to. Lilibet and Margaret rushed to the windows. “Theirs,” they said matter-of-factly, as German planes roared overhead, on their way to London or beyond. The corgis all crowded around the windows but were too well trained to bark. Still, a few of them growled softly.

Margaret went over to Maggie and took her hand. “We can tell the difference, you know,” she said, quite seriously, “even in the dark—by the sound of the engines.”

Mrs. Tuffts, another tiny and wizened A.R.P. Warden, fluttered in. “Come!” she said, her bony wrists waving and wisps of white hair escaping from under her metal helmet, “to the dungeons! Crawfie, would you please hurry them along?”

“Come, girls,” Crawfie urged. “Take your suitcases and gas masks, and we’ll be on our way.” And true enough, two small suitcases stood by the nursery door, as though the Princesses were off to Paddington Station instead of to a makeshift air-raid shelter in the castle’s dungeon.

“Can you believe those suitcases are real Vuitton?” Crawfie confided to Maggie. “They belong to France and Marionne.”

“France and Marionne?” Maggie didn’t think she’d met them yet.

“Oh, they’re dolls. Literal dolls. They were given to the Princesses to mark the King and Queen’s state visit to France.”

“Aha,” said Maggie.

“Come, pups!” Lilibet said to the corgis in motherly tones. Dutifully, they all got up and filed after her. Together, they all traveled through the corridors of the castle, until they reached the kitchen. There, down a flight of stairs, was the Royal wine cellar. In the back rooms of the wine cellar, Mrs. Tuffts rolled a carpet out of the way, revealing a trap door in the floor. Crawfie took hold of the iron ring and pulled. The door came up easily, revealing a steep staircase. “I’ll go first,” said Mrs. Tuffts, turning on a flashlight. “Watch your step, now.”