The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(8)

Halfway down the block, the row of brick houses was broken by the entry to a courtyard. Set back in the shadows was a massive turreted and crenellated building, six stories tall, covered with carved stone gargoyles and grotesques.



The bitter east wind blew harder, causing the few falling snowflakes to whirl and eddy. Brynn clapped one hand on her hat to keep it from flying away as she peered up at the hulking building, its gables black against the setting sun. She could see a small sign: THE CASTLE HOTEL FOR WOMEN: TEMPORARY LODGING FOR LADIES. Her heart sank. Although it was called a castle, the hotel looked drab and hopelessly dilapidated. She rang the buzzer and then pushed open the etched-glass doors.

Inside, the lobby was hushed. There was a mahogany hat-and-umbrella stand to the right of the door, and a long dark-red drugget runner, which matched the velvet flock paper on the walls. The shabby Victorian button-back parlor chairs turned to the fireplace were empty. The fire itself had burned down to a bed of glowing coals behind the cast-iron andirons, decorated with goblin talons with sharp claws.

“It’s not safe to leave doors open in London.”

Brynn looked up. She saw a dour young woman behind the reception desk, an open book in front of her. For a moment, their eyes locked.

“Please close them behind you. It’s far too easy for anyone to slip in.” The receptionist was no more than twenty, sallow and sickly, with limp hair and too much lipstick, sitting behind an ornate desk. “May I help you?”

Brynn crossed the black-and-white marble chessboard floor. “I rang earlier, but there was no answer. I need a room, please. Do you have any vacancies?”

The girl pushed aside her novel, The Picture of Dorian Gray. Brynn noticed she had a maroon port-wine stain on her right cheek. “How many nights?”



“Just one.”

She looked through a binder. “We happen to have an opening for tonight.”

“Fantastic,” Brynn said. “I’ll take it.”

“How did you hear of us?”

“I was given one of your business cards.”

“Where?”

“Special Operations Executive offices—on Baker Street.”

“Ah, yes—the SOE. I dropped those cards off myself. Now, we do have a few rules here at the Castle Hotel.” She spoke by rote: “No smoking, no drinking, no swearing, and, most importantly, no men beyond the lobby.”

“That’s fine,” Brynn said, staring up at the immense ebony clock mounted on the wall behind the desk. Its black pendulum swung back and forth with a weighty click and clack; when it chimed the hour, both women startled.

The girl gave a short laugh at her own nervousness. “You’d think I’d get used to it by now—but no. My fiancé loves it, though—says it makes him think of Edgar Allan Poe.”

As the girl pushed forward a large leather registry book to sign, Brynn caught the twinkle of a diamond and gold ring on the girl’s left hand. “Congratulations on your engagement.” Brynn smiled as she wrote, the nib of the pen scratching at the thin paper. “Or is it best wishes? I’m never sure.”

“Thank you.” The girl flushed. She gestured to a silver-framed photo of an ordinary-looking man, short, with medium-brown hair and small eyes. His features were undefined, as though the cartilage had never hardened properly. “That’s my fiancé, Nicholas Reitter. He studied engineering and architecture—and helped redesign and renovate this place, for my father. He’s going to be sent to the Mideast soon. War work, you know.” She turned to grasp a key from the rack behind her. “All right then, Miss—”



“Brynn is fine.”

“Brynn. My name is May, May Frank.” She smiled, revealing a dead front tooth turned gray. “My father’s in charge of the hotel. He’s a practicing psychoanalyst—trained in Vienna and everything—his office is over there.” She jutted her chin at glossy black double doors adorned with an engraved bronze nameplate, then came around the desk and picked up Brynn’s suitcase. “Let me show you to your room.”

“Oh, I can manage—”

“Nonsense! I’m delighted to help! Plus, I get to stretch my legs a bit.” Suitcase in hand, May led the way to the birdcage elevator. She pressed an ivory button and they waited as gears and levers began to click and grind. When the ornate cage arrived, they stepped in—and it sank noticeably under their weight.

“Safe as houses,” May stated with confidence. “Nick assures me, and he’d know—he’s an architect and he’s done all of the repairs and new additions to my father’s buildings.” She slid the rickety gate shut with a bang. “Back in the old days, there were men in white gloves to open and close the doors and press the buttons.” She jabbed at the scratched knob marked 5. “Now they’re all off fighting—and we’re left to do it ourselves.”

For a long moment there was no movement. The elevator was frozen. “?‘Abandon hope all ye who enter,’?” Brynn joked. “Maybe we should take the stairs?”

But with a jolt and a whine, the lift began to rise, shaking and shuddering. Brynn bit her lip and stared up at the wavering hand of the indicator, with a vision of being trapped between floors without anyone finding them for days. Finally, the elevator screeched to a stop. May retracted the gate and opened the door.