The Paris Spy (Maggie Hope Mystery #7)(92)

At that, Bishop nearly smiled. “Let’s see if Miss Hope is willing to take over his job.”





Chapter Twenty-two




Martens pulled the Vauxhall to the curb in front of Maggie’s house on Portland Place. Sarah, who’d been sitting in the backseat, left the car without a word. She’d been fighting back tears the entire way and looked relieved finally to be let free from the confined space.

“Thank you for the ride,” Maggie said, reaching for the door handle and stepping out of the car.

“Of course,” Martens replied.

Maggie closed the door and began to walk up the pavement to the entrance.

Martens reached over and rolled down the window. “Miss Hope!”

She turned. “Yes?”

“I—er, nothing. Sorry.” As Maggie stood and watched, bewildered, he drove off.

Inside, things were unchanged—David’s hand-painted mural of the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes in brilliant colors brightened one wall. A curved staircase dominated the foyer, with a grand dining room to the left, parlor to the right. “Maggie!” she heard.

“Chuck!” They hugged tightly. “And where is Master Griffin?” Chuck—really Charlotte—as well as her young son, Griffin, had been living with Maggie since their own flat was destroyed in a gas main explosion. Chuck’s husband, Nigel, was serving with the RAF in the Middle East.

“Taking a nap right now, thank heavens. Oh, you’ll see—and hear—him soon enough. His Nibs learned to sleep through the night—and then promptly forgot. Be warned.” Chuck leaned close to Maggie. “Sarah ran through here without even saying hello. Is she all right? She looked god-awful.” Chuck was never one to mince words.

“She’s—she’s had a big shock.”

“Understood.” Chuck nodded. “When—if—she’s ready, she’ll tell me. In the meantime, lots of tea, a good meal, and as much alcohol as we can beg, borrow, and steal.”

Maggie felt the softness of fur around her ankles, then heard the unmistakable, odd “Meh,” of her cat, K. She scooped him up. “You!” she exclaimed, kissing the top of his head. “I’ve missed you so! Have you missed me?”

“Meh!”

Maggie looked to Chuck. “Has he been good for you?”

“Define good.”

“Ah.”

“Why don’t you go up and change? I’ll put the kettle on and we’ll have tea.”

Tea, Maggie thought. Home.

“And I’ll bring some up to Sarah, too. It might not help, but it can’t hurt. By the way,” Chuck added, a twinkle in her eyes, “that charming Detective Durgin called while you were gone. I told him you’d call him back when you arrived home. Left the number on the notepad in the kitchen.”

“I’ll call him back later,” Maggie said. “Right now, all I want is to change and have that cup of tea.”

—

That evening, after dinner, there was a knock at the door.

It was Henrik Martens, hat in hand, blond hair glimmering in the moonlight. “I know this is quite unusual,” he began, looking sheepish, “but I didn’t have your number, and I wanted to speak with you again.”

“Oh,” Maggie said, surprised.

“I’d like to take you and Miss Sanderson out, to say thank you. And welcome home.”

“I’m a bit knackered, actually…”

“It’s, well, it’s important. Official.”

“Well, please come in, then. I’ll check on Sarah.”

She ran up the stairs and knocked at her friend’s door. “Sarah? It’s Maggie—may I come in?”

There was only silence.

Maggie called through the door. “Colonel Martens is here, Sarah. He’s invited us both out for a drink.”

More silence.

“Don’t you think it would do you good to get out?”

Maggie heard the rustle of bedclothes and then a sniffle. “Leave me the hell alone!” There was the sound of something hitting the door and then smashing.

Guess that’s a no, then. “All right, darling, I’ll check in on you later.” There was no response.

Maggie hesitated, then went back downstairs. “I’m afraid Sarah’s not up to coming.”

“Of course,” said Martens. “I’m sorry to hear that, but it’s completely understandable, all things considered. Would you like to go to the bar at the Ritz?”

“No,” Maggie replied, her voice firm. “Not the Ritz. Anywhere but the Ritz.”

—

“Actually, it’s just as well Miss Sanderson isn’t joining us,” Martens said as they drove slowly through the blackout.

“Oh?”

“There’s something I want to ask you.”

Maggie raised an eyebrow. “At your flat?” She was well acquainted with the tactics of lonesome soldiers. “No, thank you.”

“No! Nothing like that! At the Cabinet War Rooms,” he amended.

“Drive on then, Colonel Martens. You’ve certainly piqued my curiosity.”

He was silent for the remainder of the trip. It gave Maggie time to soak up the sight of London in the moonlight. How keenly she’d missed this city, bombed and battered as she was.