The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(87)
“Oh no. I’m delighted,” Durgin said in a tone that sounded anything but.
When he walked to the fireplace and turned to face his audience, there was silence. He swallowed. Then, taking a deep breath, he began to sing in a rich baritone:
“Oh, the summertime is coming
And the trees are sweetly blooming
And the wild mountain thyme
Grows around the blooming heather
Will ye go, lassie, go?
“And we’ll all go together
To pluck wild mountain thyme
All around the blooming heather
Will ye go, lassie, go?”
As he sang, the Queen, originally from Angus in Scotland, leaned forward, her eyes shining. When he began to sing the refrain, she joined him, her voice silvery but strong:
“Oh, the summertime is coming
And the trees are sweetly blooming
And the wild mountain thyme
Grows around the blooming heather
Will ye go, lassie, go?”
There was silence, then enthusiastic applause. The Queen walked over to Durgin to thank him for the song. “That was my favorite when I was younger,” she told him. “And a perfect song for a winter night such as tonight. Thank you, Detective Chief Inspector, for the gift of your beautiful voice.”
Durgin gave a shy smile. “Thank you, Your Majesty. Er, ma’am.”
Once again, a branch thumped at the window and a stiff wind rattled the panes. The Queen moved to the blackout curtains and peeked out. “Why, it’s a blizzard out there!” she exclaimed. “There’s no visibility whatsoever!”
The King cleared his throat. “A b-b-blizzard in a b-blackout!”
The Queen put a dainty hand to her ample, jewel-covered bosom. “The King’s right,” she said. “London in both a storm and the blackout will be a veritable labyrinth. You all must stay. I insist.” She walked to her husband and took his hand. “We insist.”
“Huzzah!” cried Margaret. “Miss Hope will stay!”
“Really,” Maggie demurred, “I don’t live that far….”
“And then there’s that Blackout Beast we’ve all been reading about in the papers,” one of the officers said. “Nasty bit of work.”
“We’ve heard of him,” Durgin said drily.
“And of course we have plenty of bedchambers,” said the Queen. “Fifty-two, I believe. I’ll have the servants make up rooms.” As she yanked on a needlepoint pull, she said with a smile, “You must stay. After all, it’s a royal decree!”
—
The room Maggie was given was decorated in soothing tones of rose and fawn, with a large canopied bed and a small sitting area with a wide, long damask sofa and two wing chairs in front of a recently lit fire. The room was still freezing, and Maggie was grateful when there was a knock at the door and a maid stood there, offering a hot water bottle. “Please let me know if you need anything else, miss. The pull’s on the right-hand side of the bed.”
“Thank you,” Maggie replied, wrapping her hands around the heat of the rubber bottle covered in soft wool. “Good night!”
As she explored the suite, she was amused to see a five-inch water line in the bathtub. Even in Buckingham Palace…she thought. There was also a lace nightgown and peignoir in dark blue velvet lined in silk and quilted satin slippers laid out on the bench at the foot of the bed.
Just as Maggie had finished washing up and changing, there was a knock at the door. She opened it. “Thank you, but I’m fine—” she began.
But it wasn’t the maid, it was Durgin. “Don’t ever open a door without asking who it is!” he fumed.
“Keep your voice down!” Maggie whispered. “Get in before someone sees you!”
He was still in his uniform. Maggie flushed pink and pulled the belt of the robe tighter. “Well, what is it?”
“There’s a maniac out there,” he said, locking and chaining the door. “I wanted to make sure you’re all right.”
“The snowstorm’s given us a bit of a reprieve.”
Durgin roamed the room, checking the closets and the locks on the windows. “Nowhere is safe.”
Maggie’s face darkened. “Not for Brynn, certainly.”
“And since you received that package, not for you, either.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’m serious, Maggie. I don’t think you’re safe here.”
She gave a laugh halfway between a bark and a snort. “It’s Buckingham Palace, for heaven’s sake!”
“They’ve learned to protect themselves against falling bombs, but not a serial killer.”
She smiled. “Oh, and here I’d gotten used to ‘sequential murderer.’?”
“I’m staying,” he announced flatly. “I’ll sleep on the sofa.”
“It’s much, much too short for you. You take the bed, I’ll take the sofa.”
“I won’t hear of it.”
“Well, I’m not tired anyway. Look, they’ve left us an electric kettle. Would you like some tea? There are even biscuits—Scottish shortbread. Although judging by the gray appearance and the oil on the doily, made with national flour and margarine. We can work.”