The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(102)

The Queen blinked. “Of course,” she said, standing. “Where does this flight leave from?”



“Tangmere Aerodrome, ma’am. In Tangmere village, about three miles east of Chichester in West Sussex.”

The Queen rang an embroidered pull cord, and in moments her butler reappeared. “Yes, ma’am?”

“I’ll need a car and driver,” she announced. “Miss Hope and I—and Detective Durgin—will be going to the Tangmere Aerodrome in West Sussex.”

The butler looked perplexed. “Er, tonight, ma’am?”

“Yes, tonight. Immediately, in fact.” There was no brooking disagreement with the Queen.

“Yes, ma’am.” He backed away. “Very good, ma’am.”

The Queen looked to Maggie. “Miss Hope,” she said, walking to the door, “you will explain everything to me in the car.”

Maggie and Durgin exchanged glances.

“That’s—that’s it?” Maggie asked, trailing after the Queen somewhat like a lost corgi puppy. “You don’t have any questions? Concerns?”

“Of course I do,” the Queen replied. “But there’s no need for dramatics. I trust you when you say this is important, and I’m sure we can manage to get you on that flight. Not only do I owe you for saving my daughter, but”—she looked to Maggie with her deep blue eyes and gave a conspiratorial, and quite unroyal, wink—“we women need to stick together.”

—

Maggie finally had a chance to catch her breath and think as the Queen’s Bentley wended its way to the aerodrome through the dark. Sitting pressed against Durgin, she had told her long and convoluted story, and the Queen had listened. And now Her Majesty was leaning her head back on her seat’s embroidered doily, had closed her eyes, and was snoring lightly.



Maggie rested her head on Durgin’s shoulder and looked out into the shadows. Is there such a thing as evil? Or is “evil” a disease? Is Nicholas Reitter evil? Is Hitler evil? Or are they sick, mentally ill? Are they curable? Or, in spiritual terms, can they be “saved”?

Why even try to understand? But then, that was nihilism. Wasn’t it better to struggle for some glimmer of understanding than to flounder in total darkness? Wasn’t it better to hope than to be cynical?

I can’t fight everything, Maggie realized. But I can do some things. And those I’ll do to the best of my ability and strength.

As she looked up at the silvery moon and the dusting of stars across the violet sky, she remembered some lines from a Dante class she had taken:

We mounted up, he first and I the second,

Till I beheld through a round aperture

Some of the beauteous things that Heaven doth bear;

Thence we came forth to rebehold the stars.

It was good to see the stars again.

—

Sarah and Hugh arrived at the aerodrome. The hangar was enormous, and they shivered as they walked to a large table that had been set up in preparation for their departure. “Before you leave,” Miss Lynd was saying to the pair, “we need to know your wishes in regard to your families.”

“We’ve already made our wills,” Sarah reminded her.

“No, I mean in terms of communication while you’re away,” Miss Lynd clarified. “Obviously, you won’t be able to communicate with them, but is there anything I can do?”



“If you could send a postcard to my mum, letting her know I’m all right, that would be lovely,” Sarah answered steadily.

Miss Lynd affected nonchalance. “Of course.”

“My mother’s birthday is in two weeks,” Hugh realized. “Would you be able to send a card to her from me?”

“Should I go missing,” Sarah said slowly, “I’d like to avoid worrying anyone as much as possible.”

“How would you like me to handle things, dear?”

“I don’t want you to worry my mother unnecessarily. Only tell her anything if—if the worst happens.”

“Yes, same for me,” agreed Hugh, jaw clenched.

“And of course that’s not going to happen,” replied Miss Lynd with false bravado, “but I do like to have all wishes and requests on file.”

Philby arrived and walked up to the group. “Remember,” he said, pulling Hugh aside, pressing something into his hand, “you need to work closely with the French Communists. We’re all on the same team now. Give this to a stagehand named Jean Paul Dunois, will you? He works at the Palais Garnier.”

Hugh looked down at the covered wooden bowl in his hand. “What is it? Soap?”

“That’s prewar, triple-milled French shaving soap, my friend.” Philby smirked. “And if you unscrew the false wooden bottom, you’ll find a note inside. That’s what I want you to pass to Monsieur Dunois.”

Hugh brought it up to his nose to sniff. “It smells like violets,” he said slowly, as if flooded by memories. “Maggie used to smell like violets.”

“Your girl?” Philby asked

“Ex-girl.” Hugh placed the bowl in his rucksack.

As Philby went to speak to the pilot, Miss Lynd once more inspected their pockets, checked clothing labels and laundry tags. She also went through their bags and suitcases, examining every article they were bringing for any signs that would betray them as British. They were given the requisite identification, ration cards, clothing coupons, and 50,000 French francs. “You each have your cyanide tablet?” she asked.