The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(19)

The previous night’s snow had melted and then refrozen, leaving the pavement slick with ice. All the windows they passed were taped to prevent breakage, the iron railings removed for munitions, leaving dangerous gaps. The two jumped aside as they heard a ringing bell, stepping out of the way as a woman in a Wren uniform and bright lipstick sped by on her bicycle.



At last they arrived at the sandbagged entrance of the SOE office on Baker Street. “Probably best if we don’t go up together,” Maggie whispered as two U.S. officers passed. Both doffed their caps.

“I’m early anyway.” Sarah looked across the street and spotted a café. “I’ll have another cuppa and a ciggie first, then come up. Sound good?”

Maggie nodded, then pushed open the heavy door and went upstairs. It was still early and Miss Lynd was the only other person in the office—Maggie could hear the click clack of typing behind her closed door. The air, as usual, was numbingly cold.

The first thing she did was check on Erica Calvert’s latest dispatch. Like the last, it was missing both safety checks, and her tone seemed stilted and off. Oh, Erica—what’s going on over there?

With a nervous knot in her stomach, Maggie looked over the other agent’s file. Calvert had studied geology, specializing in sand eroded from sedimentary rocks, like those found on the coast of northwest France. She’d trained with SOE and had been sent over to investigate the beaches in that area for possible invasion landing places.

Her mission was to collect sand and soil samples, to be brought back to England for examination, so the Allies could plan the proper equipment for the terrain. While old French geological reports showed the coastal land had clay underneath the sand, which could bog down tanks and other military vehicles, Churchill demanded fresh samples and a modern analysis. If Calvert had been compromised, the Germans would know Normandy was being considered as an invasion point.

Maggie looked again at the message in Morse code:





Translated, it read:

Hello!

Everything good here. Left Rouen. Please remember mother’s birthday with gift. Mission going well.





Erica Calvert



And Erica’s not even using her code name, Josephine. How strange. Maggie had a sudden thought: Agents dropped behind enemy lines always left the names and contact information for next of kin. Maggie checked through Erica’s list—her husband, her father, her sister. No mention of a mother.

Erica’s husband was in the Navy and not able to be reached, but her father was a professor of geoscience at the University of Durham, in the northeast of England, south of Newcastle upon Tyne. Maggie called the number in the file and asked for Professor Stephen Calvert.

He wasn’t there, and Maggie left a message with his secretary, requesting him to return her call. She drummed on the desk with her fingers, reading and rereading the message,

“Colonel—” she began when Gaskell arrived.

“Not now, Meggie,” he snapped, taking off his hat and coat, and thrusting them at her. His coat’s collar sported a gold Manchester United pin, with its red devil and pitchfork emblem.

Maggie was undeterred. “It’s about Agent Erica Calvert, sir. She left off her security checks again, and her fist is still irregular. I have serious concerns about her safety.”



Gaskell sneezed. He pulled a rumpled handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped his nose. “What we do here is not an exact science, Meggie.” He glared at her. “When she gets back, you can nag her about Baker Street protocol all you’d like.”

Gritting her teeth, Maggie hung his things on the coatrack. They reeked of smoke. She returned to her desk and looked down at the book, then up at the clock. It was ten past nine. “Sir, your first appointment today is with Miss Bronwyn Parry.”

“Yes, yes,” he mumbled, putting the handkerchief back in his uniform’s jacket pocket. “Jolly good.” He glanced around the reception room. “And just where is our Miss Parry? Her appointment was at nine.”

“She hasn’t arrived yet, sir.”

Gaskell walked to his office, tread heavy. “If that girl can’t make a simple appointment on time, how can we expect her to…” He sighed and rubbed his temples. “Did she at least ring to say she’d be late?”

Maggie knew she hadn’t, but sorted through last evening’s message slips anyway, to appease him. “No, sir.”

“Well then, as far as I’m concerned, she’s a dud. We can’t risk F-Section on some chit who can’t even make her appointment on time.” As he turned the doorknob to his office, he stopped and looked heavenward. “Girls!” He strode in, grumbling. “Their vanity knows no bounds! Keeping grown men waiting!” The door slammed.

Maggie was too concerned about Brynn to be annoyed with Gaskell. She knew Brynn: knew she was a hard worker, conscientious, never absent for drills and lessons at Arisaig House. Always responsible in her assignments. Good-natured. Quick with a joke. She’d never be late for an appointment.



She was planning on spending the night at a hotel, Maggie remembered, rummaging in her top drawer, looking for another one of the cards she’d given Brynn. Damn. The prospective agent had taken the last one with her. Damn, damn, damn…

The telephone warbled. It was Professor Stephen Calvert. “What’s this regarding?” he asked in a low, brusque voice.