The Queen's Accomplice Page 3

  Gaskell ran his hands through what was left of his hair. “Miss Lynd.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In addition to your other roles, I’m making you responsible for this”—he waved a hand—“female problem. Report back to me next week.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Jolly good, Miss Lynd. Thank you. All right, we’re done here. Carry on!”

  Once again, Maggie ground her teeth and left for her desk. It’s like bloody Sisyphus pushing the bloody boulder up the bloody mountain—only to have it slide right back, rolling over you on its way down just for good measure. No wonder Aunt Edith’s so bitter, she fumed. And has those deep frown lines between her eyebrows.

  She caught Brody looking at her. “I’m fine.”

  “It’s not you, it’s him,” he said, leaning on her desk. “You must realize he lost his mind during the Dunkirk evacuation. Shell shock, they call it—startles at loud noises and all that. I’ve seen your file, you know,” Brody continued softly. “You served bravely in Berlin. You’re a credit to England.”

  “Thank you.” She rose and walked the length of the icy hall to Miss Lynd’s office. It was smaller than Colonel Gaskell’s, the window with slatted blinds looking out on a red-brick wall across an alley, a lone bare sapling’s branches whipped by the rising wind. It was tidy, though, with papers, pens, and reference books rigidly organized. At her elbow, Miss Lynd had a row of flip-flop card indexes, an inventory of names, addresses, and aliases of every F-Section agent, each with a small photograph attached. If she wanted to confirm a detail of an agent, she could run a fingernail along the top of the index, and little faces would appear, flipping over on the roller. The office’s only decoration was a silver-framed photograph of the King.

  Miss Lynd settled herself at her desk, scrutinizing a document, underlining a word here and there with a black fountain pen. It was almost six, and most of the staff were leaving or had already left—only the occasional clatter of a typewriter could be heard, and the intermittent call of “Good night!”

  Maggie didn’t like Miss Lynd. She found the older woman abrasive and tiresome, with a “what are you doing here, young upstart?” tone and a “don’t bother me” attitude. Unearned, in Maggie’s opinion, because Miss Lynd had never trained for the SOE or been on a mission. But as Miss Lynd was now in charge of so-called women’s issues, she was the only one for Maggie to talk to.

  Miss Lynd looked up as Maggie entered. “You’re getting quite the reputation around here, you know.” Her jeweled rings flashed as she plucked a cigarette from an engraved silver box. “Do you know what they call you? ‘That talky redheaded bitch.’ ”

  A fine, fine line between “plucky” and “bitchy,” isn’t there? Maggie knew she wasn’t necessarily popular in the office, especially with Colonel Gaskell—but she wasn’t about to let it stop her.

  “Miss Lynd,” she began, choosing her words carefully, “I don’t give a flying fig what ‘they’ say about me—I’m concerned about the safety of the women. They—we—deserve the same protections as the men over there. Not to mention the same pay. And a pension, when this war’s over.”

  “Close the door, Miss Hope.” Maggie obeyed. The older woman stared at the redhead, then gazed over her head, through the small window behind, as she lit her cigarette. “I know you’re concerned. And I am, as well,” she admitted finally. “I’m doing the best I can.”

  “But more and more female agents are being sent over now, especially to France!” Maggie exploded. “Those are our own over there. We can’t just drop them by parachute, cross our fingers for luck, then look the other way when something goes wrong. Britain has a responsibility to them! To their families!”

  “I agree.” Miss Lynd exhaled a mouthful of smoke and gestured in the direction of the conference room. “But you see what we’re up against.”

  “Bad enough we have to fight against the Nazis, but our own agency, too? Why don’t we go higher?” Maggie suggested. “Appeal to Sir Frank Nelson or Lord Wolmer? Sir Charles Hambro? Major Gubbins has always advocated for women agents—as has Mr. Churchill! Why not go to the P.M.?”

  “Perhaps I’ll bring it up the next time I take tea with the King.” Miss Lynd blew smoke from her two nostrils like a dragon, then flicked the ashes of her cigarette into a cut-glass ashtray.

  Maggie hated her, truly hated her, in that moment.

  “Not a bad idea,” was all she allowed herself to say, but she thought, Maybe not the King, but perhaps the Queen? Queen Elizabeth does owe me a favor, after all—and I know after everything that happened at Windsor Castle, she’d at least hear me out….

  Without warning, the rumble of an explosion rocked the office. The filthy window cracked, and dust from the plaster ceiling sifted down on them. Maggie put a hand to the wooden doorframe until it was over. Outside was deathly silent, then sirens began to wail in the distance.

  Miss Lynd blinked. “Well, it’s either the Nazis or the IRA.” Unruffled, she looked back to the memo. “Regardless, Miss Hope, I suggest you get back to work.” She waved one bejeweled hand. “Off with you!”

  —

  “Hankering Hades! What the devil was that?” demanded a young man in front of the receptionist’s desk in the antechamber, brushing snowflakes off the lapels of his double-breasted cashmere coat.

  Maggie smiled. It was her friend David Greene; they’d worked together in Mr. Churchill’s office at Number 10 during the summer of ’40 and become close friends. “David! What are you doing here?”

  “Apparently, taking my life in my hands,” he said, straightening his polka-dot silk bow tie. He was thirty, slender and fair, with owlish eyes behind silver spectacles.

  “It was probably an unexploded bomb randomly detonating. Wouldn’t be the first. Won’t be the last.”

  “Fantastic,” David said, walking over to give Maggie a brotherly peck on the cheek. “Now that bombs have stopped falling from the sky, we need to worry about the unexploded ones left on the ground?”

  “Not a lot of manpower left for that sort of thing—womanpower either…”

  “I have something to distract you! A surprise!”

  Maggie was on guard. “I don’t like surprises.”

  “You’ll like this one.” He sat on the edge of the reception desk as his smile widened into a grin. “Now, now, don’t be spiky, Mags. You’ll love it, I promise.”

  Maggie eyed the folders on her desk.

  “Oh, it’s after six—surely Smaug will let you go?”

  “David!” Smaug—the dragon of Tolkien’s Lonely Mountain—was their private nickname for the incessantly smoking Miss Lynd.

  David stood and offered his arm in a sweeping gesture. “Come, my dear Maggie—you can’t win the war tonight. I have something quite special, quite special, for you up my sleeve. And I can’t wait for you to see it!”

  Chapter Two

  Not far from Baker Street in Marylebone, there was a row of what used to be handsome houses, now shabby and worn. Most of those that had survived the Blitz had been converted to flats and rooms catering to war workers and an influx of Polish, Canadian, and, more recently, U.S. soldiers.

  In the early spring of 1942, it was a quiet street. But to those who could remember, the bomb-pitted pavements, damaged buildings, and burned brick walls painted a story of the worst of the Blitz—bombs exploding night after night, fires raging, cars and buses tossed about like toys, broken bodies dragged from rubble. In the mornings after the raids, firemen swept ash, broken glass, and severed limbs from the gutters.

  This wasn’t Brynn Parry’s first wartime excursion to London. She thought back to trips the year before, and recalled nights of bombing when the East End was blazing and the sky glowed red, and mornings when ugly clouds of black smoke filtered the light of the rising sun, bathing the city in a depressing gray smog.

  Tonight, though, the air was clear and cold, the sirens were distant, and the searchlights dimmed. Still, it felt like more of an intermission
than an end.

  Halfway down the block, the row of brick houses was broken by the entry to a courtyard. Set back in the shadows was a massive turreted and crenellated building, six stories tall, covered with carved stone gargoyles and grotesques.

  The bitter east wind blew harder, causing the few falling snowflakes to whirl and eddy. Brynn clapped one hand on her hat to keep it from flying away as she peered up at the hulking building, its gables black against the setting sun. She could see a small sign: THE CASTLE HOTEL FOR WOMEN: TEMPORARY LODGING FOR LADIES. Her heart sank. Although it was called a castle, the hotel looked drab and hopelessly dilapidated. She rang the buzzer and then pushed open the etched-glass doors.

  Inside, the lobby was hushed. There was a mahogany hat-and-umbrella stand to the right of the door, and a long dark-red drugget runner, which matched the velvet flock paper on the walls. The shabby Victorian button-back parlor chairs turned to the fireplace were empty. The fire itself had burned down to a bed of glowing coals behind the cast-iron andirons, decorated with goblin talons with sharp claws.

  “It’s not safe to leave doors open in London.”

  Brynn looked up. She saw a dour young woman behind the reception desk, an open book in front of her. For a moment, their eyes locked.

  “Please close them behind you. It’s far too easy for anyone to slip in.” The receptionist was no more than twenty, sallow and sickly, with limp hair and too much lipstick, sitting behind an ornate desk. “May I help you?”

  Brynn crossed the black-and-white marble chessboard floor. “I rang earlier, but there was no answer. I need a room, please. Do you have any vacancies?”

  The girl pushed aside her novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray. Brynn noticed she had a maroon port-wine stain on her right cheek. “How many nights?”

  “Just one.”

  She looked through a binder. “We happen to have an opening for tonight.”

  “Fantastic,” Brynn said. “I’ll take it.”

  “How did you hear of us?”

  “I was given one of your business cards.”

  “Where?”

  “Special Operations Executive offices—on Baker Street.”

  “Ah, yes—the SOE. I dropped those cards off myself. Now, we do have a few rules here at the Castle Hotel.” She spoke by rote: “No smoking, no drinking, no swearing, and, most importantly, no men beyond the lobby.”

  “That’s fine,” Brynn said, staring up at the immense ebony clock mounted on the wall behind the desk. Its black pendulum swung back and forth with a weighty click and clack; when it chimed the hour, both women startled.

  The girl gave a short laugh at her own nervousness. “You’d think I’d get used to it by now—but no. My fiancé loves it, though—says it makes him think of Edgar Allan Poe.”

  As the girl pushed forward a large leather registry book to sign, Brynn caught the twinkle of a diamond and gold ring on the girl’s left hand. “Congratulations on your engagement.” Brynn smiled as she wrote, the nib of the pen scratching at the thin paper. “Or is it best wishes? I’m never sure.”

  “Thank you.” The girl flushed. She gestured to a silver-framed photo of an ordinary-looking man, short, with medium-brown hair and small eyes. His features were undefined, as though the cartilage had never hardened properly. “That’s my fiancé, Nicholas Reitter. He studied engineering and architecture—and helped redesign and renovate this place, for my father. He’s going to be sent to the Mideast soon. War work, you know.” She turned to grasp a key from the rack behind her. “All right then, Miss—”

  “Brynn is fine.”

  “Brynn. My name is May, May Frank.” She smiled, revealing a dead front tooth turned gray. “My father’s in charge of the hotel. He’s a practicing psychoanalyst—trained in Vienna and everything—his office is over there.” She jutted her chin at glossy black double doors adorned with an engraved bronze nameplate, then came around the desk and picked up Brynn’s suitcase. “Let me show you to your room.”

  “Oh, I can manage—”

  “Nonsense! I’m delighted to help! Plus, I get to stretch my legs a bit.” Suitcase in hand, May led the way to the birdcage elevator. She pressed an ivory button and they waited as gears and levers began to click and grind. When the ornate cage arrived, they stepped in—and it sank noticeably under their weight.

  “Safe as houses,” May stated with confidence. “Nick assures me, and he’d know—he’s an architect and he’s done all of the repairs and new additions to my father’s buildings.” She slid the rickety gate shut with a bang. “Back in the old days, there were men in white gloves to open and close the doors and press the buttons.” She jabbed at the scratched knob marked 5. “Now they’re all off fighting—and we’re left to do it ourselves.”

  For a long moment there was no movement. The elevator was frozen. “ ‘Abandon hope all ye who enter,’ ” Brynn joked. “Maybe we should take the stairs?”

  But with a jolt and a whine, the lift began to rise, shaking and shuddering. Brynn bit her lip and stared up at the wavering hand of the indicator, with a vision of being trapped between floors without anyone finding them for days. Finally, the elevator screeched to a stop. May retracted the gate and opened the door.

  The birdcage was still six inches below floor level. “You can make the step, yes?” she asked, hoisting Brynn’s valise out first.

  “Of—of course.”

  “This way, please!” Scrambling up and following May on the faded Persian runner, Brynn surveyed the shadowy hall. It was awkward and narrow, and smelled of new construction and something vaguely chemical. The air was freezing, even colder than outside. The wallpaper was a faded red silk, while lights contrived to look like Victorian gas lamps lined the corridor. As the two women walked the twisting and turning halls in the gloom, Brynn had the sudden image of the Minotaur’s labyrinth.

  May stopped. “Ta-da!” she announced, opening one of the doors.

  Except the door opened onto a brick wall. “Oops,” she apologized. “Er, not that one.”

  Brynn was confused. “What is—?”

  “Oh, they’re always building and rebuilding here, especially after the Blitz took out so much.” May shrugged. “I can scarcely find my way around these days. Only Nicholas has the master plan.”

  Across the hall was the correct room. May fumbled with the heavy key, but eventually forced the door open. It was small, with a high water-stained ceiling. The walls were covered in faded wallpaper with blowsy blue roses against a crimson background, the pockmarked floor mostly hidden beneath a fussy floral rug. The room itself was outfitted with mismatched furniture—a twin bed, a washbasin, a chest of drawers, a chair, and a tiny desk with a gooseneck reading lamp. From the walls, a series of engravings, portraits of early Victorian belles clad in lace and tarlatan gowns, frowned down at them.

  Like the hallway, the room was freezing.

  May set down Brynn’s bag. “I’ll let you get settled.”

  Brynn closed the door firmly, then twisted the dead-bolt lock. The loose windows rattled in the wind, and she walked over to cover them with the heavy blackout curtains. She hesitated.

  A man in the building directly across the darkening street stared at her, lit by his desk lamp. Slim and dark-haired, he held a paper and pencil, and gazed at her intently, as though she were a specimen under a microscope.

  Brynn yanked the blackout curtains closed, her hands shaking, then flipped on the overhead light. She took a book from her bag and curled herself up on the bed under the covers, shivering. It’s only one night, she thought, trying to reassure herself. Just one night.

  —

  Maggie Hope was blindfolded.

  “I don’t like this, you know, not one little bit,” she told David, leaning on his arm as he helped her up a short flight of steps. Her heart was beating fast, and the freezing wind whipped hard, icy snowflakes against her face. She knew they were still in Marylebone, but that was all. She thought back to her training in Arisaig and how she’
d learned to rely on all her senses, not just sight. Listening for any ambient noise, she heard only branches tossed in the wind, a creaky bicycle going by, and a dog’s howl in the distance.

  “Oh, just you wait, Mags!”

  There was the sound of a doorknob turning and then the exhaling squeak of hinges as a door opened and he led her forward. It sounded familiar. It smelled familiar.

  And, best of all, it was blessedly warm.

  “Surprise!”

  As David tugged off Maggie’s blindfold, she gasped. A crowd of faces beamed at her through arched double doors. A white sheet came down from the wall to reveal a hand-painted mural of the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes, side by side in brilliant colors.

  Maggie stiffened, her heart pounding. This is not the sort of thing one does to an agent, even for fun. She stepped forward, still bewildered. An ornate curved wooden staircase dominated the foyer, with a grand dining room to the left, parlor to the right. And there were people, lots and lots of people.

  “Oh, come on, Mags! Don’t you recognize it?” David prodded, his hand still guiding her. “Don’t you know where you are?”

  Yes, yes, she did—it was…home. Her grandmother’s house and now hers—although she hadn’t been back in ages.

  The crowd broke into applause. “Welcome back!” a woman from the back called. Maggie recognized Mrs. Tinsley from the Prime Minister’s office and managed a smile.

  “Satan’s whiskers,” David whispered in her ear, poking her in the ribs as they walked through clouds of blue smoke, “I thought you’d be over the moon!”

  “Just…shocked, is all,” she whispered, giving him a peck on the cheek. She gazed around, trying to take it all in. At first glance, under the dim lights, the pressed-together bodies looked like a Doré etching from Dante’s Inferno—but no, on closer look, she realized she recognized many of the faces. Friends from her first days in London: Mr. Churchill’s office, the Vic-Wells Ballet, SOE. There was David’s Freddie Wright, of course—with Maggie’s dancer friend Sarah Sanderson, ensconced in a window seat—then Richard Snodgrass, Mrs. Tinsley, and Miss Stewart from the offices at Number 10 and the underground War Rooms. The rest of the pale faces looked more or less familiar under the veil of cigarette smoke, speaking loudly with pantomime-like animation.