The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(59)

The chewing corgis all plopped themselves down on the carpet with a collective sigh.

“Yes, Miss Hope?” the Queen prompted.

“They’re doing the same job as the men, but not being paid the same salary or receiving the same benefits. Not all of them return, of course, from their missions—and their families are cheated out of a pension.”

“Hmmm…” The Queen pondered. “I’ll look into it. I don’t know the details of what you actually do for the war effort, Miss Hope, but I know—and Lilibet certainly knows!—all you have done and how much you’ve sacrificed for the Royal Family. I can’t even imagine working in such a male-dominated profession—which is why I want to say to you as a fellow Briton, a fellow woman, and a grateful mother, if there’s anything I can ever do to help you—anything—please don’t hesitate to ask.”

Maggie felt the enormity of this offer. It was dizzying, as if she were a knight having a Queen’s token bestowed on her before battle. “Th-thank you, ma’am.”

Once again, the Queen reached into her handbag. This time, she pulled out a guilloche and gold card case, and removed a thick white card, engraved with black lettering. “Should you ever need to see me, dear—in an emergency—merely show this.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Maggie accepted the card with awe and gratitude. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“And I’m very glad this is not goodbye; we will meet again tomorrow night.”

“Ma’am?”

“For dinner! Just a small one, but the Princesses are here at Buck House and they do so want to see you. What? You didn’t receive that invitation? It’s for you and a guest—”



“I’ve been traveling—and changing addresses, ma’am.”

“Well, then, let me extend a personal invitation—come to Buckingham Palace tomorrow evening at seven-thirty, for dinner. Formal dress, of course.”





Chapter Eleven


By the time Maggie passed back through Buckingham Palace’s gates and into the dingy gray afternoon, the snow had stopped falling, but the slicing cold wind had once again picked up. The marble statue of Queen Victoria looked down worriedly at her subjects as the streets filled with people making their way through the slushy snow, desperate to get home before the sun set and blackout commenced. There was always an urgency at this time of day, to find safe haven.

“Ah, there you are!” Max approached, red-striped university scarf flapping. “This is a dangerous wind.”

“You caught me, Mr. Thornton,” Maggie said, her voice lost in the gusts. And here I thought I was getting away….

“Max, please. And, again, I’d like to take you to dinner. To make up for my beastly behavior. Would you let me, Maggie?” He turned the full force of his charisma on her.

“Dinner, fine,” she said loudly, almost shouting. “But it’s going to have to be an early night.”

They took a taxi to Covent Garden as the sun set, transforming London into an unfamiliar shadow world. “This place is one of my favorites,” Max announced, seizing Maggie’s arm in a viselike grip and steering her up the stairs of the Market’s gray stone piazza to the Punch and Judy pub. As they walked, snow, leaves, newspaper pages, cigarette stubs eddied and swirled at their feet. She fought the urge to shake off his grasp. Her gut was telling her to. But there is no “gut,” she admonished. Think like the mathematician you were trained to be. Aunt Edith would be appalled at the very idea of “the gut.”



And you don’t want to be rude, after all.

The bright, bustling dining room of the pub seemed far removed from the dark, windy world outside, with its ornate gilded mirrors and shining brass chandeliers with frosted globe shades. The waxed, wooden walls glowed.

Maggie and Max checked their coats with a young woman with lank brown hair drawn back in a velvet snood, then maneuvered between the front tables near the bar, where diners sat with gas masks at their feet. Finally, they found a small table in the corner.

Beneath the high-beamed ceiling, framed posters of Punch and Judy shows through the years lined the walls, and puppets were displayed over the long oak bar. The mosaic floor was made of tiny black and red tiles, and the room thrummed with the clatter of metal against china, the clink of glasses, and the low rumble of conversation. It smelled of beer and cabbage. SOYA LINK SAUSAGES ONLY, warned the chalkboard menu.

“Would you like a drink?” Max asked her. “I find in these dark times, alcohol is often the solution.”

“Actually,” Maggie replied with a smile, trying to be gracious, “alcohol is not a solution—alcohol plus tonic is a solution.” It was one of chemistry professor Aunt Edith’s favorite quips.

He looked aghast. “There’s certainly no tonic available now—”

Poor Max. He doesn’t get it. “Actually, I’d prefer tea, please.”

“Surely something a bit stronger!”

“No,” Maggie countered. “I’d like tea. Thank you.”

As Max went up to the crowded bar, she idly looked over to a dartboard. A game was in progress, with a cluster of white-haired men in the middle of a heated contest, their calls to one another growing more boisterous the more beer was consumed. Still, regardless of drink, they were good shots, and Maggie watched as player after player’s darts hit the red bull’s-eye, one flushed man in the corner keeping score.