The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(84)
There was a knock at the door—shave and a haircut, two bits! Maggie jumped up, startled. “Who is it?” she called, her voice pitched higher than usual. Is it Mark? Is he back?
“Durgin.”
She blinked away tears and pressed at her wet cheek with the cuff of her sleeve before she opened the door.
His eyebrows shot up as he took in her red eyes and nose. “Everything all right?”
“Perfectly fine,” Maggie answered in clipped tones. Durgin placed steaming newspapers smelling of fried fish and potatoes on the desk. Her stomach lurched. “Mr. Standish was here. He is…still not well…and I convinced him to take a few more days off.”
“Hmmmph.” Durgin gave a suspicious look, then took off his coat and hat. He came back to the table, opening up the grease-stained papers. “Only thing newspapers are good for, in my opinion,” he declared, grabbing for a chip. “At least we’ve been able to keep most of the details on this case from Fleet Street.”
Maggie ignored the food. She walked to the map, running her fingers over the pushpins that indicated each victim found: Joanna Metcalf—Mary Ann Nichols, and Doreen Leighton—Annie Chapman. Gladys Chorley—Martha Tabram, Olivia Sutherland—Elizabeth Stride. There were two ominous spaces left underneath Catherine Eddowes—and Mary Jane Kelly…
When she saw Buckingham Palace on the map, Maggie gasped, remembering. It was the night of the Queen’s dinner. “I’m supposed to be somewhere tonight—but I’ll cancel, of course.”
“I think you should go. Take a break, and get your mind off things. Come back refreshed. Quite frankly, I’d advise it. You’ve had one hell of a day.” Durgin took a bite of chip. “Where are you off to?”
“Dinner with the Royal Family at Buckingham Palace, actually.” As she patted back loose tendrils of red-gold hair, she flashed a sudden smile. “Why, DCI Durgin—would you care to join me?”
Chapter Sixteen
“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Durgin muttered under his breath to Maggie as servants soundlessly cleared away china and crystal in Buckingham Palace’s Chinese Dining Room. It was decorated in flamboyant gold and jade-green papers, red silks, and chinoiserie panels originally bought by George IV for the Brighton Pavilion. The storybook oriental splendor—golden dragons, enamel pagodas, and shining lacquerwork—all illuminated by tall beeswax candles, was a universe away from the cold and dreary and dangerous London outside the palace walls.
Maggie and Durgin were seated at a table set for ten, who included King George and Queen Elizabeth, as well as various high-ranking government officials, their wives, and a few lesser royals. Dinner had been cream of barley à la reine soup, matelote of eels, and cutlets made from mutton purée Maggie decided tasted like old socks. Dessert was Tarte de Pommes.
From behind the blackout shades and rich crimson draperies, the windows rattled in their frames. “A storm’s brewing,” intoned an ancient duchess, her black, arched eyebrows painted on like two commas, her heavy emerald earrings swaying.
“The wind’s picking up,” the Queen said, her voice rising over the rattle. She was wearing a sapphire-blue silk gown and dripping in diamonds. Maggie was amused to see that none of the other women were in blue, a nod to the Queen’s authority that she’d learned during her days at Windsor—only the Queen wears blue. Maggie herself was in a long white gown she’d bought in Washington, D.C., which she’d worn only once before, to a New Year’s ball at the White House. And Durgin, seated next to her, was in his Scotland Yard dress uniform. He’d been quiet all evening. Maggie was disappointed none of the other guests had gone out of their way to make him feel welcome. It wasn’t that they’d been rude; they’d simply ignored him. And Maggie and Durgin were seated too far from the King and Queen for them to ask him any questions.
“And I daresay the temperature’s dropping. Shall we retire to the anteroom?” The Queen stood, and her guests scrambled to their feet. “There’s a lovely fire there. And the Princesses will meet us. They’re quite keen to reenact one of their pantomimes for you all!”
Durgin offered his arm, and Maggie took it; it was strong and solid. She felt better since they’d reached the palace. It was only a temporary respite, she knew. But it felt as if they were suddenly miles away from London, the case, and everything else going on.
They followed the rest of the group into the drawing room. The Queen was correct. A huge roaring fire had been lit and a tea service had been set up. The ladies’ jewels—rubies, diamonds, and sapphires set in gold and platinum—sparked and glowed in the flickering light.
Suddenly, there was the sound of running footsteps. “Miss Hope! Miss Hope!” Maggie heard. It was Princess Margaret, with her creamy cheeks and mischievous grin.
Behind her, walking more sedately, was Princess Elizabeth, her gentian eyes clear and bright. “Welcome, Miss Hope,” the older princess said. “It’s lovely to see you again.”
“This is Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin,” Maggie told the two girls as around her people poured tea from a silver urn and took seats. Durgin bowed gravely, while the Princesses greeted him and giggled. Then, to Durgin, Maggie said, “And these young ladies are the Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret. They let me teach them mathematics at Windsor Castle, two years ago.”