The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(51)

—

Maggie turned to Mark when they reached the front door to the SOE offices. “Do you mind waiting while I run inside?” she asked.

They both ducked as a line of housewives in matching head scarves, on bicycles with wicker shopping baskets, pedaled down the street laughing and ringing their bells. When they were out of harm’s way, Maggie explained, “They’re understandably a bit edgy about people not associated with ‘the Firm’ skulking about.”

“Of course not.” Mark gestured at the café across the street. “I’ll get a cup of whatever’s passing for coffee. By the way, have you noticed how keen Durgin is on tea? I mean, I’m a fellow Englishman and even I find his zeal for it excessive.”

“He does seem to enjoy it,” Maggie agreed. “But I always find the Brits a bit odd when it comes to tea. Thanks—shouldn’t be too long.”

Upstairs, Maggie saw Miss Lynd making her way to the kitchen. “Wondering if you’d heard anything from Brynn Parry?”

“Afraid not, Miss Hope.” The older blonde turned on the gas underneath the kettle. “You girls come and go so freely these days—speaking of which, where have you been, young lady?”



“Oh, a side job,” Maggie responded, wanting to keep things simple. “And how is Agent Calvert?”

Miss Lynd examined her rings. “We haven’t heard anything new from her. The communiqué you saw was the last she wrote.”

“What?” Maggie was angry. No, furious. Enraged. “And what does Colonel Gaskell say about her radio silence?”

“He says she’s fine and will contact us when she can. And that we shouldn’t worry.”

“Shouldn’t worry?”

“I’m sure it’s fine, Miss Hope,” Miss Lynd said. But her eyes didn’t meet Maggie’s.

“Why didn’t you listen to me? None of you have been over there on a mission—I have. And I knew something was wrong. I knew it. We’re letting one of our own down.”

“Miss Hope, please—not so dramatic. We’re waiting for her to reach out to us.”

“Well, what a bloody, bloody mess!” Maggie exploded.

“Miss Hope!”

Something had changed in Maggie. An agent’s life was on the line. “No, I will not apologize for using profanity. If ever there was a time for some good, honest swearing, it’s now, with an agent missing and perhaps dead! We’ve been trained to live on the land—if she’s alive, she might be doing just that, in the Rouen area. But it’s still winter—it’s a hard time to be out. If I were her, I’d try to get to Paris somehow. Connect with some of the other agents. Try to get a message out.”

Maggie thought back to Erica Calvert’s files. “She has extended family in Paris. If she’s on the run, I bet she’ll try to go there and make contact. You need to get word to the Paris team she may be arriving,” she said with authority.

“Y-yes,” Miss Lynd agreed, accepting Maggie’s direction.



Heading out of the kitchen, Maggie turned. “I need to use the telephone, in private. I trust I may use the one in your office?”

Miss Lynd blinked, still in shock at the abrupt turn of the tables. “Y-yes. Of course.”

“Thank you.”

Inside Miss Lynd’s office, with the door closed, Maggie dialed SOE’s main number at Beaulieu. “Hello, yes, I’m trying to reach a trainee named Sarah Sanderson. This is Margaret Hope with both SOE and MI-Five. It’s important.”

On the other end of the telephone line, there were crackles and splutters.

“Can you send someone to fetch her?” Maggie wrapped the black cord around her wrist. “Yes, I’m afraid it is urgent.”

—

Sarah and Hugh were rehearsing. The ancient gray-stone Domus was part of the original Beaulieu Abbey, built in the year 1204, with high, beamed, sloping ceilings. As Hugh played scales in one corner, Sarah rested her hand on the ancient stone of the windowsill and went through her barre exercises.

It was not going well.

First, she was out of shape—out of ballet shape, at least.

Second, she had to master new French-made pointe shoes. Philby had procured a few pair from one J. Crait, the shoemaker for the Paris Opéra Ballet. Sarah wasn’t used to the cut, shank, sole, or top of the box, and had to wet them down and crush them in a door before they were fit to use. And even then, she still felt odd without her usual Freeds. Furthermore, they were pale pink instead of peach satin, quelle horreur! “Well, if Yvette Chauviré can dance in them,” she murmured, invoking the name of one of the Opéra Ballet’s danseuses étoiles, “then so can I.”



Sarah had seen the Paris Opéra Ballet perform in London after Serge Lifar had taken over the company, and she was familiar with the French style. Each country had its own ballet style. The Vic-Wells, where Sarah performed, was known for its softer and subtle arms, romantic arabesque placement, and serenity. Russian dancers had great drama, jumps, and upper-body movement. The Americans were fast, with flexibility and musicality. But French dancers were known by their impeccable turnout, their relaxed arms, strong backs, and chic, sophisticated, even witty elegance.

And so as Sarah went through her barre exercises, she worked on the clarity of her épaulement and port de bras, and the precision of her pointe work, especially petite batterie. She focused on cleanliness and clarity, and struggled with a tight fifth position. She still had her long, tapering legs, flexible feet, and musicality—even if she was frustrated with extensions that weren’t as high as she was used to and falling out of pirouettes as she tried to remember how to place her weight.