The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(14)

When David returned with the water and cloth, Chuck stirred. “I don’t suppose you have any whiskey?” she managed. “Jameson’s, not that bloody Protestant stuff.” Chuck was Irish, and Catholic, and proud of it. And inordinately fond of profanity.



“I’ll see what we have.” David raced back to the kitchen.

“Gone.” Chuck fought back her tears. “Our home is gone,” she whispered. “Gone.”

“What do you mean, ‘gone’?” Maggie was confused. The bombings were over, at least for the moment. What Chuck was saying didn’t make sense.

Chuck worried at the damp cloth with her fingers. “When we got home from the park this afternoon, there was smoke and we could see flames. There were fire trucks everywhere—and ambulances. Gawkers and reporters with cameras. There was such a crowd, I couldn’t see what happened at first. Then I realized—there was nothing to see. Our building is gone, just—gone. As in—poof.

“I never trusted our building’s owner,” Chuck muttered. “Always having problems with the gas. There were always inspections, and then his son, or whoever it was, would go down into the basement and ‘fix things.’ We knew something was a bit off. But with housing so dear nowadays—”

“What happened, Chuck?” Maggie demanded.

“Gone!” her friend repeated. “Aren’t you bloody well listening? I keep telling you—everything’s gone. We would be ‘gone,’ too, except”—her hands trembled as they twisted the cloth—“we were at the park this afternoon. Griffin wasn’t going down for his nap, so I thought I’d take him outside for some fresh air and push him in the pram until he dropped off—”

“Oh, God.” Maggie put her arms around her friend, realizing how close she’d been to death. And little Griffin, too. “You’re safe. You’re both safe now.”

David arrived with a glass of whiskey, and Chuck gulped it. “We don’t even have a change of clothes!” She shook her head in disbelief. “Everything we own, you see. Oh, I left the pram outside—but if someone pinches it, at this point, does it even matter?” She looked to Maggie. “How are we supposed to get letters from Nigel? If he writes us—the address doesn’t even exist anymore!”



“We’ll write to Nigel tonight and tell him you’re staying here. With me.”

“Griffin’s baby pictures,” Chuck moaned. “My engagement ring…”

Gently, Maggie said, “Chuck, you’re alive. Griffin’s alive. And you’re here, safe, and with us. Everything else can be replaced. Now, sip your drink.”

Chuck did as she was told.

“Good girl. Now, you can borrow my clothes and things, and tomorrow we’ll pool all of our coupons and go shopping. We’ll be flatmates, just like old times.”

“And Griffin?”

“And Griffin will be a flatmate, too. Small in body, but large in spirit.”

“Large in lungs. He cries at night, you know. Sometimes all bloody night.”

“I cry all night myself once in a while, dearest girl. Not to worry.”

“I think there are some baby things in the cellar,” David interjected.

Chuck laid her head on Maggie’s shoulder. “I don’t think we have a choice. But only for tonight—”

“Nonsense,” Maggie interrupted firmly. “Do you know how grateful I am to have some company in this big old manse? You’ll be doing me the favor—stay for as long as you’d like. Yes, and you, too, young sir,” she told Griffin, still in Aunt Sarah’s lap. He waved a chubby pink fist holding his Judy doll in reply. K had emerged from underneath the armchair and was up on his hind legs, sniffing delicately at the baby’s tiny feet.

“Surely there must be paperwork to file…” Chuck thought out loud, trying to put the pieces together. “And our bank account—that’s still untouched—”



“We can worry about it tomorrow,” Maggie declared.

Freddie nodded. “I’ll ring my solicitor first thing. He’s a predatory hyena of a man, and I loathe him with all my heart and soul—but he’ll get you what you deserve.”

David returned, his arms full of antique toys. “Look, Master Griffin,” he said, setting them down. There was an old-fashioned rocking horse, a puppet stage, and the board game Snakes and Ladders.

“He’s not old enough yet,” Chuck told them.

“Well, they’ll be standing by for when he is. In the meantime, let’s get you both upstairs. Is everything ready?” Maggie asked David.

“Absolutely.”

As Maggie, Chuck, and Sarah made their way up the heavy oak staircase, Sarah chimed in, “Just like old times.”

Maggie had Chuck hold on to her arm for support. “But you know what really gets my goat?” Chuck said. “After all we’ve been through—after everything we’ve been through—it wasn’t the Nazis who took us out. It was one of our bloody own. Some devil of an Englishman.”

“Not on purpose, surely,” Maggie said.

“Oh, the owner of our building would skin a flea for a halfpenny, that one,” Chuck muttered, “and his young minion, as well. Go ndéana an diabhal dréimire de cnámh do dhroma ag piocadh úll i ngairdín Ifrinn, as my sainted grandmother used to say—‘May the Devil make a ladder of your backbones while picking apples in the garden of hell!’?”