The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(103)

Sarah and Hugh nodded.

“And your wedding rings?”

They held out their left hands, gold bands glinting in the overhead fluorescent light.

“All right then—let’s get on with it.” She completed their disguises with a packet of French cigarettes for Hugh, and a recent French newspaper for Sarah.

Sarah took a trembling breath. “Are you all right, dear?” the older woman asked.

“Excited, mostly,” Sarah answered, dark eyes sparkling. “I’m sorry we’re not jumping—those three terrifying jumps in parachute school, for naught!”

“We ordered a landing to save your pretty ankles for dancing. And wear and tear on Monsieur’s cello.”

Hugh glanced up from his papers. “Good to know my cello’s considered more valuable than I in the grand scheme of things,” he deadpanned. Miss Lynd favored him with a rare smile.

Sarah looked to the brooch on Miss Lynd’s lapel, a graceful gold iris set with sapphires, amethysts, and emeralds. “You’re so clever, Miss Lynd. Even though we’re at war, you always make sure to wear something pretty. It does help with morale.”

Miss Lynd responded by unpinning it. “The iris is the national flower of France,” she said, offering it to Sarah. “The fleur-de-lis. May it bring you luck.” She pinned it on the younger woman’s lapel.



A large Army station wagon arrived at the hangar, and the party was driven out to the tarmac in the bright moonlight, where the Lysander waited, casting shadows.

The group got out of the car and huddled together, backs to the icy wind. As Philby reiterated takeoff procedures, their luggage was stowed under hinged wooden seats. When Philby was finished, Miss Lynd moved forward. She embraced Sarah and shook Hugh’s hand. She gave a loud sniff, blinked hard, then took several paces back as the pilot signaled for Sarah and Hugh to climb into the plane.

“This is it,” Hugh told Sarah. “Are you ready?”

She smiled. “Let’s give those bloody Nazis some Wellie, shall we?”

They climbed the ladder into the plane. The engines started and were left ticking over for several minutes. As the pilots carried out their checks, they briefly opened up to full throttle, then returned to fine pitch. Miss Lynd, motionless on the tarmac, looked up toward the windows, her eyes inscrutable.

Before the workmen could remove the ladder and close the plane’s door, there was a blaring of horns and the blink of headlights.

“What on earth?” fumed Miss Lynd, glaring at the driver. The car in question was a black and burgundy Bentley with no license plate. Instead of the Bentley’s usual Flying B bonnet ornament, there was a silver figurine of St. George on a horse, preparing to fight the dragon.

As the car screeched to a stop, a door flew open. Maggie emerged, resplendent in Chanel.

Miss Lynd’s jaw dropped, a singular occurrence. “Miss Hope!” she squeaked. “What are you doing here?”

Maggie gave her a Mona Lisa smile. “Room for one more?”



“Certainly not,” Miss Lynd said, drawing herself up to her full, imperious height.

The car’s driver walked around to open the other passenger door.

He extended his hand and out, onto the tarmac, stepped the Queen, Durgin behind her.

Miss Lynd went pale. “Your Majesty,” she murmured, bobbing a curtsy. “I—I…” It was the first time Maggie had ever seen Miss Lynd at a loss for words.

“Good evening, Miss Lynd—it is Miss Lynd, isn’t it?” the Queen asked as if she were at a garden party, not on freezing cold tarmac in the dead of night. “I already know a bit about you and your organization.”

“Yes, er, yes, ma’am,” Miss Lynd managed.

“And now Miss Margaret Hope has important business—Royal business, top secret, of course—in Paris.” She fixed clear blue eyes on Miss Lynd. “And it is imperative she take this flight.”

“Your Majesty,” Miss Lynd began, “this is highly—”

“—unusual, yes, of course,” the Queen interrupted with a wave of her plump gloved hand. “However, this is wartime—and extraordinary circumstances seem to abound these days, don’t they?” She looked to Maggie. “Well, go on then, Miss Hope.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty.” Maggie gave a deep curtsy. Then she turned to Durgin. “Thank you—for everything.”

“You promised you’d go to dinner with me,” he said, stepping forward, hugging Maggie tight. “I’m going to hold you to that, when you get back.”

She kissed his cheek. “It’s a date.” Maggie picked up her suitcase, then turned to the plane.

“By the way, Miss Lynd,” the Queen declared, her voice rising above the noise of the engines. “I had an interesting discussion with Miss Hope about female agents and their pay and pensions. I understand you’re the person with whom to follow up? I’d like to see some of these issues sorted, and sooner rather than later.” Her lips pursed. “We shall have a meeting.”



“Y-yes, ma’am.”

Maggie took the stairs two by two, thinking of both Erica Calvert and her half sister Elise. She stopped at the top rung and turned back, calling into the wind, “Vive la France!”