The Queen's Accomplice (Maggie Hope Mystery #6)(9)
The birdcage was still six inches below floor level. “You can make the step, yes?” she asked, hoisting Brynn’s valise out first.
“Of—of course.”
“This way, please!” Scrambling up and following May on the faded Persian runner, Brynn surveyed the shadowy hall. It was awkward and narrow, and smelled of new construction and something vaguely chemical. The air was freezing, even colder than outside. The wallpaper was a faded red silk, while lights contrived to look like Victorian gas lamps lined the corridor. As the two women walked the twisting and turning halls in the gloom, Brynn had the sudden image of the Minotaur’s labyrinth.
May stopped. “Ta-da!” she announced, opening one of the doors.
Except the door opened onto a brick wall. “Oops,” she apologized. “Er, not that one.”
Brynn was confused. “What is—?”
“Oh, they’re always building and rebuilding here, especially after the Blitz took out so much.” May shrugged. “I can scarcely find my way around these days. Only Nicholas has the master plan.”
Across the hall was the correct room. May fumbled with the heavy key, but eventually forced the door open. It was small, with a high water-stained ceiling. The walls were covered in faded wallpaper with blowsy blue roses against a crimson background, the pockmarked floor mostly hidden beneath a fussy floral rug. The room itself was outfitted with mismatched furniture—a twin bed, a washbasin, a chest of drawers, a chair, and a tiny desk with a gooseneck reading lamp. From the walls, a series of engravings, portraits of early Victorian belles clad in lace and tarlatan gowns, frowned down at them.
Like the hallway, the room was freezing.
May set down Brynn’s bag. “I’ll let you get settled.”
Brynn closed the door firmly, then twisted the dead-bolt lock. The loose windows rattled in the wind, and she walked over to cover them with the heavy blackout curtains. She hesitated.
A man in the building directly across the darkening street stared at her, lit by his desk lamp. Slim and dark-haired, he held a paper and pencil, and gazed at her intently, as though she were a specimen under a microscope.
Brynn yanked the blackout curtains closed, her hands shaking, then flipped on the overhead light. She took a book from her bag and curled herself up on the bed under the covers, shivering. It’s only one night, she thought, trying to reassure herself. Just one night.
—
Maggie Hope was blindfolded.
“I don’t like this, you know, not one little bit,” she told David, leaning on his arm as he helped her up a short flight of steps. Her heart was beating fast, and the freezing wind whipped hard, icy snowflakes against her face. She knew they were still in Marylebone, but that was all. She thought back to her training in Arisaig and how she’d learned to rely on all her senses, not just sight. Listening for any ambient noise, she heard only branches tossed in the wind, a creaky bicycle going by, and a dog’s howl in the distance.
“Oh, just you wait, Mags!”
There was the sound of a doorknob turning and then the exhaling squeak of hinges as a door opened and he led her forward. It sounded familiar. It smelled familiar.
And, best of all, it was blessedly warm.
“Surprise!”
As David tugged off Maggie’s blindfold, she gasped. A crowd of faces beamed at her through arched double doors. A white sheet came down from the wall to reveal a hand-painted mural of the Union Jack and the Stars and Stripes, side by side in brilliant colors.
Maggie stiffened, her heart pounding. This is not the sort of thing one does to an agent, even for fun. She stepped forward, still bewildered. An ornate curved wooden staircase dominated the foyer, with a grand dining room to the left, parlor to the right. And there were people, lots and lots of people.
“Oh, come on, Mags! Don’t you recognize it?” David prodded, his hand still guiding her. “Don’t you know where you are?”
Yes, yes, she did—it was…home. Her grandmother’s house and now hers—although she hadn’t been back in ages.
The crowd broke into applause. “Welcome back!” a woman from the back called. Maggie recognized Mrs. Tinsley from the Prime Minister’s office and managed a smile.
“Satan’s whiskers,” David whispered in her ear, poking her in the ribs as they walked through clouds of blue smoke, “I thought you’d be over the moon!”
“Just…shocked, is all,” she whispered, giving him a peck on the cheek. She gazed around, trying to take it all in. At first glance, under the dim lights, the pressed-together bodies looked like a Doré etching from Dante’s Inferno—but no, on closer look, she realized she recognized many of the faces. Friends from her first days in London: Mr. Churchill’s office, the Vic-Wells Ballet, SOE. There was David’s Freddie Wright, of course—with Maggie’s dancer friend Sarah Sanderson, ensconced in a window seat—then Richard Snodgrass, Mrs. Tinsley, and Miss Stewart from the offices at Number 10 and the underground War Rooms. The rest of the pale faces looked more or less familiar under the veil of cigarette smoke, speaking loudly with pantomime-like animation.
The old pile looks good. Miraculously, the wood paneling and the medallions on the plaster ceiling seemed to have survived the bombing. From out of the wreckage of stars…Maggie shivered despite the warmth, overwhelmed by memories and conflicting emotions, as David led her through the crowd. Sidestepping, she smiled until her jaw ached, mouthed greetings, and kissed proffered cheeks as the low rumble of happy conversation resumed, along with the throaty tones of a tenor saxophone emanating from the gramophone in the corner. Maggie thought she could pick out the melody of Coleman Hawkins’s “How Strange.”