The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(77)
“We’ve been over her messages already.”
“Colonel Gaskell!” She pushed the paper with the broken code closer to his face. “H-E-L-P M-E. HELP ME. She’s begging for help!”
“That’s no code.” Gaskell blinked pale eyes. “Coincidence, nothing more.”
“Excuse me, sir. But with everything—her not giving her security checks, the mention of a gift for a dead mother, and now HELP ME…”
“Coincidence,” he rumbled. His eyes flashed, and suddenly Maggie felt a stab of fear. He looked as though he wanted to strangle her. She’d always seen Gaskell as a bumbling, incompetent manager—now she realized he definitely had a more dangerous side as well.
He shoved the folder back at her, then turned, revealing a black X made by the crossed suspenders on his back. “You’re still working with MI-Five?”
“Yes, sir,” she said, taking a few steps back in alarm.
“Well, then I suggest you return to them—and get the hell out of here.”
—
“Hello?” Maggie called as she took off her coat, hat, and gloves, and set down her handbag on the front hall’s walnut console table, trying to quell her fear and outrage before seeing Chuck and Griffin.
She could smell the odor of burning bread, and followed it to the kitchen to find Chuck, making toast. Of course she couldn’t say anything to Chuck about Agent Calvert and the SOE’s refusal to take her disappearance seriously or her concerns about Sarah being sent to Paris, and the secret gnawed at her insides. She crossed to one of the high-backed chairs and sat, pressing her curled fist against her lips. Erica. Brynn. Countless other women…
“I was able to speak with Nigel last night,” Chuck began before Maggie could say anything. “Honestly, I don’t like to worry him—if it wasn’t for the change of address and telephone number, I might not have even told him. Poor dear has enough to worry about.”
Griffin lay in his makeshift bassinet on the table, his chubby little arms and legs waving as he babbled. “Well, hello, sweetie,” Maggie cooed, reaching over to kiss his bald head, where fine, wispy hairs were beginning to grow in. He smelled of soap and innocence, and grace—and he had absolutely no knowledge of war and undercover agents and murdered women. “You’re so yummy,” she cooed. The simple joy of having Griffin wrap his pudgy fingers around her thumb could almost—almost—keep her fears for the safety of Erica and Brynn at bay.
“Isn’t baby head smell the most wonderful smell in the entire world?” his mother mused. “I take big whiffs all the time. To me, he smells like Scottish shortbread—although all my Irish ancestors are probably turning in their respective graves at that.”
Maggie heard a string of loud mehs and spun to see K padding into the room, his claws clicking on the tiles. He rubbed up against her, purring loudly. As she reached down to scratch him under the chin, he flopped down, showing his belly.
“He’s missed you,” Chuck observed as K prowled to his food bowl. “Cheeky little bugger. Do you know he’s caught any number of mice—but won’t eat them? Leaves quite the collection at the foot of your bed. I’ve been burying them in the back garden.”
“Lovely.” All this and dead mice, too?
“Meanwhile, to get tins of cat food, I have to wait in yet another queue. With all the crazy cat ladies. The ‘crazy cat lady queue.’ These are dark times, indeed.”
She placed a plate of toast and margarine on the table in front of Maggie, then sat down with one for herself. “There’s some coffee, if you’d like. It’s mostly water, but it’s brown, at least. And hot. And it smells like coffee, even if it is chicory and has no bloody flavor.”
“You’re a miracle worker, Chuck,” Maggie said. Still, she only sipped at the coffee, leaving the toast untouched.
“Well, it’s the least I can do, with your letting us stay here and letting me use your coupons.” Chuck glared down at K, who had settled at Maggie’s feet. “I only wish the moggy would show a little gratitude.”
“Gratitude? From a cat?” Maggie tried her best to smile. “Oh, I think you’ll be waiting quite a long time.”
Chuck finally took a good long look at her friend. “What happened to you? You look bloody terrible.”
“Goodness, thanks.” Maggie shrugged. “Just—just another rough day at work.”
“By the way…” Chuck licked crumbs off her fingers. “Two packages came for you, while you were gone. I left them in your room.”
“Thanks. I’m going to wash up and then call in to the office.”
“Don’t you ever get a day off?”
“Maybe when the war’s over…” Maggie called from the stairs.
K followed close behind, meowing impatiently. “Hush, you,” she told him as she reached her bedroom.
After washing her face with cold water and brushing her teeth with powder from a tin, she went back to the bedroom. With cold fingers, she opened the first package, recognizing not only the rows of U.S. stamps but also the elegant handwriting. It was from Aunt Edith, and filled with tins of pineapple and raspberries, blue cans of Spam, and several thick, heavenly chocolate bars.