The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(62)

“No, no—I’m sorry,” Maggie countered, laying a hand on her friend’s arm. “Not used to babies, I’m afraid. And I was worried. This place has quite a history—plus with what’s going on out there…”

“Let’s go to your room so we can talk.”

Maggie led the way, pulling the blackout curtains closed, then turning on a bedside lamp. K had followed closely at her heels. She went into the bathroom and turned on the water in the tub. “It’s been a long day,” she called out to Chuck. “A very, very long day.”

“How was tea with the Queen?”

“Lovely,” Maggie answered, coming back to the doorway. “The palace is…ornate.”

“How was the food? Were there lots of delicious things to eat?”

“Alas, no—the Royal Family believes in keeping to the same strict rations as the rest of us. But it was well presented—served on the very best china.”

“Well, that’s no fun.”

“Tell me about it.”

Chuck looked at her closely. “No offense, Mags, but you look like shite.”

“As I said, long day.”

Chuck walked to Maggie and turned her around. “Bloody hell, woman! What happened to your throat?”

“A man—he got a bit frisky.”



“Frisky? Frisky?” Chuck, a pediatric nurse before she’d had Griffin, began to do a cursory examination. “If that’s frisky, I’ll eat my garters. No,” she said, her fingers cold but gentle on Maggie’s bruised neck. “That’s evil, is what it is.”

“A bad date is all,” Maggie said, turning and changing out of her borrowed finery, then slipping on her robe.

“I’ll let you take your bath, but after you finish, come downstairs so I can take a better look at your neck and put some ice on it.”

“Fine,” Maggie agreed wearily. “Thank you. You’re a lifesaver.”

“Are you going to report him to the police?”

“No, I don’t think that’s necessary.” Maggie remembered the blood dripping from Max’s nose and the lost tooth. “He’s learned his lesson.”

Chuck shook her head in disapproval. “I’d have him hanged by his pretentious university scarf. Oh, and I’m so sorry to have to tell you this, but there’s no hot water.”

“What?”

“I took the liberty of checking the furnace today. We’re completely out of coal. And while there’s some coke left, it’s not enough to last us to the next delivery. So—if it’s all right with you—we’re doing hot water on an alternating-day basis. This happens to be a ‘cold’ day, but I found some hot water bottles and left you one on your bed. We can boil water in the kettle and fill them up tonight.”

Bloody hell. Bloody, bloody hell.

“I’ll heat you up something for supper,” Chuck continued. “I made a veggie mash—all right, it’s mostly all turnips and cauliflower with margarine and some bread crumbs, but it’s not half bad, really….” She left the room, heading for the stairs.



“Sounds perfect.” She’d postpone the bath for another day. One with hot water. “I’m just going to wash up at the sink and come downstairs. And then you can tell me about your day.”

“And I can treat your neck!” she called from the stairwell. “I don’t like the look of those bruises!”

K was still winding around her ankles, and as Maggie washed her face, trying to rinse off the horrible evening, he jumped up on the closed lid of the toilet to keep watch. “Bold little thing, aren’t you?” she scolded, and he gave her slow blinks. Her hands went to her neck as she peered at it in the mirror. The marks were red and growing darker.

K began to purr.

Maggie met her own eyes in the mirror. You were afraid, she realized. But not afraid of him—afraid of being rude. Rude! Afraid of trusting your gut. How many women are raped and worse because they’ve—we’ve—been taught to be pleasant, to be a good girl, to keep the men happy?

She gave her reflection a grim parody of a smile. Never again, she vowed, splashing cold water on her face and darkening bruises. “I do solemnly swear I will trust my instincts—my ‘gut’—from now on,” she told the cat. “No matter how unscientific it may seem.”

—

It was slightly warmer down in the kitchen and smelled of mashed potatoes; the wireless was on, playing “Chattanooga Choo Choo.”

“Well, your breathing’s fine, your eyes are fine, and your voice is fine,” Chuck reported once she’d examined Maggie. “Here,” she said, going to the icebox. “I got some snow and wrapped it in a tea towel. Wrap that around your neck. It will take down the swelling.”

Maggie did as she was told, then began eating the vegetable mash Chuck put in front of her. It was plain, but hot. And she was unexpectedly starving.



Chuck pulled down the bottle of Jameson whiskey David had procured for her the night of the party. “Saving it for a special occasion—but I think this might be it.” She poured both Maggie and herself a glass. “What the devil’s this world coming to?” She pointed to the newspaper. “You probably haven’t had time to read the paper yet—what with tea with the Queen and the attempted strangulation and all that—but there’s more news from the East about the Jewish camps.”