The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(56)
“Any news on your sister?”
“Half sister. And not yet. But I am going somewhere rather exciting today.”
“And where’s that?”
“Buckingham Palace.” Maggie grinned. “To take tea with the Queen.”
Chuck dropped her fork. “Blimey O’Riley!” she exclaimed. “And here you are, keeping it so quiet. You could be a spy, you know! One of those Mata Hari secret agent types.”
“Oh”—Maggie took a bite of pie, nearly burning her tongue—“don’t be silly!”
“Well, Jesus H. Roosevelt Christ!” Chuck exclaimed, pressing her napkin to her mouth, her eyes aglow.
Maggie was glad to see her friend distracted.
“And now let’s talk about the truly important things in life.” Chuck took another forkful of pie and blew on it to cool it. “What are you going to wear?”
—
Maggie tried on dress after dress, as Chuck, Griffin, and K looked on.
Everything she owned was old, worn, and shabby. Most of her clothes were patched, some had holes from moths, while others had been made over using collars and cuffs from other outfits. “I could always wear my ATS uniform.” Maggie pulled out her brown Auxiliary Territorial Service regalia.
Chuck crinkled her nose. “Er, no,” she said. “No offense, but the Wrens have the best outfits. The ATS uniforms…”
Maggie sighed. “I know. They’re not really flattering, are they? I love those black stockings the Wrens get to wear. We get only the loathed lisle.”
“Why didn’t you buy any clothes when you were in America?”
“I was busy with things like toothbrushes and soap. And silk stockings. And chocolate. I did buy a dress, but alas, it’s a gown. I wore it to the New Year’s ball.”
“And books.”
“And books,” she admitted.
“You know,” Chuck said, “I don’t know how you’ll feel about this, but there are other clothes here. I hope you don’t mind, but I was having a poke around and found Paige’s old things. I know you two used to share clothes. They’re in her old room—well, Elise’s new room, I suppose.”
Maggie left her room for Elise’s, with memories of her late friend and former flatmate, Paige, swirling about her, despite the new paint and construction. She walked to the closet of the yellow bedroom and opened the doors. There were all of Paige’s clothes from the long-ago days before the war. They smelled faintly of mildew and a haunting touch of her Joy perfume. Maggie ran her hand over the pebbly bouclé fabric of a Chanel jacket. Paige always did have wonderful taste. And plenty of money.
Maggie pulled out a Schiaparelli suit. While the skirt was plain black silk, the jacket was black with a bright pink collar, embroidered with silk butterflies and demoiselles. In an instant, she made her decision. The suit was too beautiful not to wear.
“Do you think it’s all right—to wear her old clothes?”
“?‘There’s a war on, you know.’?” Chuck hugged her. “Carpe diem, my friend,” she said. “Take it from me—carpe the fucking diem.”
—
At the gates of Buckingham Palace, Maggie could see bomb damage to the Neoclassical fa?ade. She smiled as she remembered David’s critique of the palace’s architecture—Excruciatingly dull indeed—like a huge provincial Edwardian bank with the interior of a pretentious railway hotel.
Looking closer, Maggie could see some of the broken windows had been boarded up. The ornate black iron fencing had been removed to make tanks and planes. And there were the huge craters in front of the main gates; workmen in coveralls were filling them in with wheelbarrows full of tar. Like the rest of London, the Palace had seen better days.
Despite the bomb damage, the targeting of Buckingham Palace by the Luftwaffe had resulted in only partial success. Physical damage was limited, and there had been no mass casualties. After one of the attacks, the Queen had expressed her solidarity with fellow Londoners, remarking, “I am glad we have been bombed. It makes me feel I can look the East End in the face.”
Still, as Maggie eyed the balcony she was keenly aware this war would end in one of two ways: with the victorious King and Queen waving to crowds of their beloved people from above with the Union Jack waving proudly—or, instead, with them being hanged publicly from the same balcony, under red swastika banners.
Maggie showed her engraved invitation to the guard on duty and was directed beyond the fa?ade to the inner quadrangle, decorated with symmetrical yellow stone panels, with oeils-de-boeuf, roses, garlands, and angels.
Another security check at the stairs of the entrance, and Maggie was escorted up the crimson carpet of the dramatic double staircase, then through the Grand Hall, with its gilt and mirrors.
Queen Elizabeth stood near the door of the Blue Drawing Room, flanked by ladies-in-waiting, greeting her guests. Petite yet commanding, Elizabeth wore a trademark Norman Hartnell–designed dress in powder blue, light brown hair coiffed in perfect marcel waves with a wispy fringe of bangs. Her jewelry was her usual triple strand of graduated pearls, swaying teardrop earrings, and a diamond-and-pearl shell brooch. At her feet swirled a number of corgis, their eyes button-shiny and fur glossy.
Maggie tried not to startle, as she remembered one of those dogs had once given her hand a good chomp at Windsor Castle. The corgis appraised her, but didn’t approach. Well, that’s a relief.