The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(73)

Maggie perched on the visitor’s chair. “I have a colleague who stopped drinking. He takes a lot of tea now. Seems to work for him.”

The awkward silence returned. “What are you reading?” Maggie asked, desperate to fill it.

He held up the book, its cover featuring a figure caught in transition between man and beast. “The Werewolf of Paris. Guy Endore.”

“Don’t know it, I’m afraid.”

“It’s set in the nineteenth century—the story of a woman who’s raped by a priest and then delivers the baby, named Bertrand, on Christmas Eve. He’s a werewolf—born with two souls, one of a man and one of a beast. And, occasionally, the beast’s soul takes over and turns him into a wolf, on the prowl for blood.”

Inside, Maggie grimaced. The novel seemed to parallel her father’s own eerie behavior of the past winter—two souls. “Do you think maybe it’s a bit much? I could bring you something lighter? Blithe Spirit, perhaps?”

“Life can’t be fixed with a book. Or even a play.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“And, as we get older, making amends isn’t so simple, either.”

“True,” Maggie said carefully, knowing they were on thin ice. Whatever he wanted to say, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear it.

“I’ve realized you can’t merely say things—you have to mean them. When we met back in the summer of ’forty, I made a lot of promises to you, and I didn’t keep them—”



“Well, as they say, ‘There’s a war on, you know.’?”

“But sometimes there’s just too much damage,” Edmund pressed. “I know early on in your life I abandoned you. I thought at the time it was for good reasons, or at least important reasons, but now as I look back”—his eyes dropped to the book in his hands—“I have my doubts. I was young and heartbroken and completely unprepared to take care of a child—and so I abdicated my responsibility to Edith. But it wasn’t right, Margaret. And you suffered for my passivity and cowardice.”

Pain pierced her heart, but Maggie ignored it. “You, er, had a lot going on in your life.”

“Yes, but then when you came to London as an adult, we had a second chance. And once again I’ve disappointed you, let you down.”

Maggie was not able to absorb the words, true as they were. “It’s—you know—the war. Things are complicated.”

“Your Aunt Edith did her best, I know.”

“I mentioned I saw her in Washington in December. Do you remember that? You were on some pretty powerful drugs at the time. She’s well and sends her regards, too.”

“I’ve caught bits and pieces of your conversations, here and there. I’m glad to hear Edith’s well.” Edmund looked up to the ceiling fan. “I don’t deserve your forgiveness. But I hope you’ll give me the opportunity to prove myself.”

“Er, thank you.” Maggie rose, feeling flustered and confused. Who was this man, really? And how much did she owe him? “I really have to get back to the office now. Big case to solve. Interrogation to get to. Oh, I forgot—Peter Frain sends his regards. By the way, I’m not sure if you know, but Elise is coming to London.”

“Elise?” he asked, momentarily confused.



“Clara Hess’s daughter with Miles Hess. My younger half sister.”

“Ah.” A shadow crossed his face.

All Maggie wanted to do was leave. “Well, congratulations again on your sobriety,” she said. “Good luck!” she called, forcing her mouth into a smile and trying to sound enthused.

He raised one hand from the book as she left. “Good luck to you, too, Margaret.”

—

When the nurse’s aide came in, Edmund barely glanced at her, immersed once again in his book. She was wearing the uniform of a volunteer—a light blue dress with a white cap and apron, each with a thick red cross. They were often in and out of his room. “And how are you doing, Mr. Hope?” came a resonant and smoky voice. “Do you need an extra pillow?”

At the sound of the voice, Edmund looked up in shock. The nurse had dull brown hair pulled back in a tight bun, not cascades of glossy blond waves. And instead of the fashionable made-up look befitting a German opera diva, her face was bare. And she looked older, with lines around her mouth, and a deep slash between her eyebrows.

But he’d know that voice anywhere. It haunted his dreams. “Clara,” he whispered, putting up his hands, as though for protection.

“Our daughter’s looking well,” she said matter-of-factly, nodding in the direction Maggie had exited. “She’s the one thing you ever got right.”

“Clara…”

“If she’s yours, of course. I have my doubts.” She closed the door and locked it. “You tried to kill me, Edmund,” she said sweetly, walking over to his bedside. “But, as usual, you bungled it. Just like you always bungled everything. Apparently, nothing changes. Not even after twenty-seven years.”



“Who told you?” he said, eyes wild. “Peter? Peter Frain? How did you survive the fire? How did you get here?”

Clara leaned over him with the pillow, looking deep into his eyes and baring even white teeth in a smile before covering his face with it. She pressed it down, hard, making sure he couldn’t breathe. “You never wanted me to sing, Edmund,” she said as he struggled. “Do you know how gorgeous my voice is? In Europe, the elite threw me bouquets. But you didn’t even like me to sing to the wireless around the house.