The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(108)

“They should not have let you.”

Like all other SOE agents, Erica had been issued a cyanide capsule, in case of situations such as this. But hers was concealed in a fountain pen in her handbag, which had been confiscated.

“You know there is nothing you won’t tell me when we’re through, Mademoiselle. Save some time—and your beautiful face—and tell us everything you know.”

Erica stared at him in despair, then slumped over in submission.

His smile was cryptic. “Yes, we know everything. Look—give us the location of the British arms and explosives and we’ll forget the rest. Those arrested as a result will be interred until the end of the war. This is an agreement we will make—you and I.”



Erica was silent, broken.

“If this does not happen, the villages around where we think the depots are will be burned. And all of the inhabitants, including your fellow agents, will be killed.

“We are all afraid in this war, Mademoiselle. But now you can free yourself of fears. There’s nothing dishonorable in it. Help us! Give us the location of your agents, weapons, explosives, safe houses. And no one will be hurt. I give you my word, as an officer of the Third Reich.”

Erica peered up at him. “I think I’ll have that drink now,” she whispered.

He clapped his hands together with delight. “Good, good!” he exclaimed, rising and going to the bar cart. He poured two fingers of scotch into a glass, then handed her the heavy tumbler.

She downed it in one gulp, then shuddered. “I will talk to you,” she told him. “I will tell you everything I know. But I’m exhausted. I need to wash. Change my clothes. To eat.”

“Of course.”

“And I’d like my handbag—I have a compact in there. And some lipstick.”

“I’m afraid that’s not permitted. But we can show you to a place where you can freshen up. And I will have a plate prepared for you, for when you are ready, and some good French wine. And after that, we will chat.”

“Yes,” she said, struggling to her feet.

“You’ve made the right decision.” He opened the door and gestured to the two guards outside. “Please take Mademoiselle Calvert to the prisoners’ lavatory and allow her to freshen up. When she is finished, bring her back here.”

The fifth-floor servants’ quarters had a shared bath. The guards admitted her, then stationed themselves outside the closed door. Erica looked around. There was a dirty tub and a ragged towel on a hook. Over the chipped enamel sink was a mirrored medicine chest. She looked inside—nothing but rust on the shelves.



Grimly, she looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her bruised face grimaced back.

She could break the glass and try to slit her carotid artery—but the guards would hear the crash, and they would stop her before she could achieve her goal. She had already been through days of torture and deprivation. No, she couldn’t take much more. She would break, she knew it. Slowly, she went to the window, opened the curtains, and looked out. From the fifth floor, it was a long drop to the pavement below. No one could survive such a fall.

Striking while her courage still held, she opened the window and crawled out, finding footing on a rain gutter. If she killed herself, the secret of the Normandy sands and soil would die with her. The planned invasion would have a chance. She had confronted death back in Rouen and made her peace with it. She knew what she had to do. Only one thing tormented her: Who was the mole in the SOE? Who’d betrayed her?

The sound she made as her body struck the pavement was swallowed by von Waltz’s bellow of frustrated rage.