The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(20)

“This is Miss Hope, with the Inter-Services Research Bureau. Sir, I’ve received a message from your daughter Erica, and she mentioned sending a birthday gift to her mother. Since she’s…working…I can pick up and post the gift for Erica. I was wondering what sort of present her mother would like, and where I can send it?”

There was a series of hisses and crackles on the telephone line. “Her mother’s been dead for over ten years” was the curt reply.

Dead? It didn’t sound that way in the message, at least. “Is—is there something Erica did on the anniversary of her mother’s birthday? A gift she might have left at the cemetery, perhaps? Flowers?”

“No, no—nothing of the sort. Erica’s not a sentimental girl, not at all. And her mother left us without so much as a goodbye, year before she did us the favor of dying. No gift necessary!” He slammed down the telephone.

Maggie winced and pulled the receiver away from her ear. Something’s wrong.

But before she could get any further, Sarah opened the door and stepped inside, poised as any Vogue model.

As she did, Gaskell opened his door, folder in hand. He froze, slack-jawed, gazing at Sarah in what could only be described as awe and perhaps even terror.

Maggie tried not to laugh as she saw Gaskell react to Sarah’s beauty. He stared, opening and closing his mouth like a hooked fish.



Finally he managed in his gruff voice, “And are you Miss Parry?”

“Non, monsieur,” Sarah replied in a cloud of clove cigarette smoke and L’Heure Bleue.

“Well, then—who are you, young lady?”

“Sarah Sanderson,” she replied coolly, with a mischievous side wink to Maggie. “Here to be interviewed by Miss Lynd.”

“Of course, of course,” the colonel backtracked, hastily retreating to his office. “Bonne chance, Miss Sanderson.”

“Welcome.” Maggie grinned up at her friend. But the smile faded from her lips as soon as she caught sight of the man coming through the door. Hugh Thompson, her former MI-5 partner, looked the same: tall, with green eyes and a high forehead—perhaps a bit higher now as his hairline was beginning to recede—but handsome as ever. It had been a long time since she’d seen him last, at least. Her heart turned over, and she had no idea what to do with her hands.

“Maggie!” Hugh exclaimed, whipping off his hat and twisting the brim in his hands. “Er, I mean, Miss Hope.”

“Mr. Thompson.”

“Let me guess.” Sarah angled a plucked eyebrow. “You two know each other.” She did not look pleased.

“We—worked together once,” Maggie admitted. “A long time ago.”

Sarah would not be distracted. “When?” she demanded.

Maggie was startled by her tone. “The less information we all have, the better,” she said, falling back on the standard SOE answer.

“Well.” Sarah’s eyes narrowed. “I bet it’s ‘a long story.’?”

“We, ah—” Hugh cleared his throat. “That is, Miss Sanderson and I, have an appointment to see Miss Lynd.”



“Of course,” Maggie replied. She scooped up the telephone receiver and dialed the extension. “Miss Sanderson and Mr. Thompson to see you, ma’am.” Maggie listened, then replaced the receiver. “Miss Lynd is ready for you now. Second door on the right.”

“Thanks,” Hugh said to Maggie. “It’s…er, good to see you again, Miss Hope.”

Sarah began to walk down the hall. “Come on!” she called back to Hugh. “Miss Lynd is waiting!”

“Don’t mention it.” Maggie did her best not to blush. “It’s good to see you again, too, Mr. Thompson.”

—

Miss Lynd rose and proffered a heavily ringed hand to both Sarah and Hugh, then settled herself back behind her desk, glowing in the thin strips of feeble sunlight allowed in by the wooden venetian blinds. She lit a cigarette, eyes fixed upon the new recruits as they removed their coats—Hugh helping Sarah with hers—and then took seats across from her. Sarah tried to rub some warmth into her hands through her gloves.

“You’ve been training in Arisaig?” Miss Lynd asked, already knowing the answer.

“Yes,” Sarah answered for both of them.

“Well, you might as well know each other’s real names now. Sarah Sanderson, meet—officially now—Hugh Thompson.”

“A pleasure,” Hugh said.

Sarah colored. “Likewise.”

“Miss Sanderson,” Miss Lynd said, “according to your file, you’ve spent a lot of time in France, Paris, on the ?le St.-Louis specifically.”

“Yes. My grandmother lived there. We would visit her every summer when I was younger.”

“You speak French well?”



“Je suis bilingue, Madame. Ma grand-mère m’a tout appris.”

Miss Lynd opened a folder. “Your reports are good,” she stated, paging through. “Your physicals, your psychological examinations.” She looked to Hugh. “And how is your French, Mr. Thompson?”

“J’ai passé deux ans à la Sorbonne, Madame. Ca, c’est à vous de me dire.”