Lilibet’s eyes were huge. “Yes?”
“Well, luckily, she had on her side a brilliant mathematician, Sir Francis Walsingham, her principal secretary. Walsingham was an expert at breaking codes and ciphers.”
“But what does this have to do with maths?”
“We’re getting there!” Maggie said, pleased that she now had her young charge’s interest. “Mary’s letters to her supporters were in cipher—and it would take maths, some pretty sophisticated maths, to break the code.” She got up, went to her bookcase, and pulled out a book about Mary, Queen of Scots, in which she’d bookmarked of one of Anthony Babington’s messages to Mary, written in code. “What do you make of this?” Maggie asked.
[Art TK Here]
“It’s … gibberish. Those aren’t even real numbers or letters.” She sighed in exasperation. “It doesn’t make sense.”
“Ah, but if you know maths, it just might. Not only was it a secret message about the assassination of Queen Elizabeth, written in code, but it, like their other messages, was smuggled in and out of prison through beer-barrel stoppers. Queen Mary’s servants would retrieve the messages from the beer-barrels and place messages back into the hollow of the stopper.”
“But how did they figure it out?”
“Sir Francis, Queen Elizabeth’s Royal Spy Master, intercepted all of the messages between Queen Mary and Anthony Babington. Each message was copied by the Spy Master and then sent on to its destination intact. Then Sir Francis decoded each message, using the frequency analysis—the frequency of common characters—until a readable text was found. The rest of the message was guessed at by the message context until the entire cipher was understood.”
“What’s—what did you say? ‘Frequency analysis’?”
“Well, think about the alphabet. What are some letters that are used most frequently in words?”
Lilibet considered for a moment. “E, of course. And some of the other vowels.”
“Yes!” Maggie exclaimed, gratified. “And what are some letters that aren’t used very much?”
“Well, Zed, of course. And X. And Q.”
“And Q always is followed by a—”
“U!” the Princess exclaimed.
“What Queen Elizabeth’s code breaker did was figure out which symbols Queen Mary used that appeared with the same frequency as letters of the alphabet. He proposed values for the symbols that appeared most often. By figuring out the symbol used most frequently, he could deduce it was an e. And so on. Using math and common sense, he was able to break the code.”
“Goodness,” Lilibet said. “It probably saved Queen Elizabeth’s life.”
“It did. And cost Queen Mary hers. Now—I have an idea for something fun to do.”
The princess looked wary. “What is it?”
“Well, how would you and Princess Margaret like to have your own ultra-secret code to communicate in? That no one, not even Crawfie or Alah, could read?”
“Oh, yes, yes, please, Maggie.”
“Then let’s get started, shall we?”
It took a while, but Lilibet created a cipher. Like Queen Mary’s code, it wasn’t just a simple monoalphabetic substitution and code words. Maggie had a decoder, a giveaway from a long-ago jar of Ovaltine. It might have been a toy intended for children, but it was a descendant of the cipher disk, developed in the fifteenth century by Leon Battista Alberti. The center wheel had a circle of numbers, which turned to match a stationary outer circle of letters.
Maggie gave it to Lilibet, who took it with a sort of awe, twisting the dial this way and that.
“The decoder—really a cipher disk—can be used in one of two ways,” Maggie said. “The code can be a consistent monoalphabetic substitution for the entire cipher—or the disks can be moved periodically throughout the cipher, making it polyalphabetic.”
“What?” Lilibet said, knitting her brows.
“Hmmmm …” Maggie remembered her young charge was only fourteen. “The sender and the person receiving the messages would need to agree on a cipher key setting. The entire message is then encoded according to this key. You also could use a character to mean ‘end of word,’ although this makes the code less secure.…”
Lilibet looked concerned.
“Oh, come on, we’ll make one up and then you’ll see how fun it is,” Maggie said.
After a bit of thinking and moving the rings, Lilibet dipped her pen in a bottle of Parker Quink Black and wrote her first note, in code, to Margaret. The code was set for the 1 to indicate the start of the alphabet, set at E, for Elizabeth. “+” was to indicate the end of a word.
And so, “Meet me in the garden” became “9 1 1 16 + 9 1 + 5 10 + 16 4 1 + 3 23 14 26 1 10”—and by twisting the dial, and remembering the E setting, Lilibet could get to the correct letters to spell out the message.
“May I go and show Margaret, Maggie? Please? It will make her laugh, and she loves to laugh so much.”
“Of course,” Maggie said. “We’re done for the day. And be sure to teach her how the code works, so she can write back to you.”
“Maybe I could use the code when I write to—” the Princess began. Then she stopped herself.
“Write to …?” Maggie prodded.
“Well,” Lilibet said, blush staining her cheeks, “there’s this boy we all know. His name is Philip.”
“Oh?” Maggie said. Her lips twitched as she realized Lilibet had a crush.
“He’s a bit older than I am, and in the Royal Navy. But we’ve been writing to each other. Mummy and Daddy know, of course.” Her face creased with concern. “It’s all very proper.”
“I’m sure it is. And this Philip—he writes back?”
“He does!” Lilibet exclaimed. “Funny, witty letters with little sketches and doodles. He’s about to be made midshipman!” she said proudly.
“Well, he must be quite a good sailor, then.”
Lilibet’s blue eyes were large. “Oh, he is—he’s the best sailor the Royal Navy has,” she said. Maggie could see how deep the Princess’s feelings were for this young man. Then she started. “Do you have someone special, Maggie?”
Maggie was momentarily flustered. The Princess sensed her discomfort instantly. “It’s all right if you don’t want to talk about it. I shouldn’t have asked. Oh, now you’ll think I’m terribly rude.”
Maggie laughed. “Of course not. It’s just hard to talk about. But I do have someone special.” I did, Maggie thought. No, still do.
Lilibet leaned in. “What’s his name?”
“John. John Sterling. He used to be head private secretary to Mr. Churchill—we worked with each other at Number Ten Downing Street last summer.”
“And you fell in love?”
“Well, at first we didn’t. I didn’t even like him much—or so I thought. And I thought he couldn’t stand me. We used to bicker all the time.”
“Ah …” Lilibet sighed.
“But, you know—” Now it was Maggie’s turn to blush. “Eventually, we came to admit our, er, high regard for each other.”
“ ‘High regard’?”
“We, you know, we were in love.”
“Were?”
Freudian slip, Maggie? “He joined the Royal Air Force. I didn’t support him—I wanted him to stay at Number Ten.…” Tears filled her eyes, and Lilibet searched in her pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, which she handed to Maggie.
“It’s clean,” the younger girl said. She waited until Maggie wiped at her eyes and nose and could go on.
“He asked me to marry him.”
“What did you say?”
“I said no.”
“What? I thought you said you were in love with him?”
“I was—I am—I was just so angry he was joining the Air Force. It was stupid,” Maggie said, wiping her face and then blowing her nose. “I was stupid. I am stupid. And then his plane was shot down over Germany. And there’s been no news of him. So he could be dead. Maybe. But I refuse to give up h
ope that he’s still alive.”
Lilibet took in this piece of information and digested the enormity of it. “You’re not stupid,” she said, patting Maggie’s arm. “You just wanted him to be safe. Just like I want Philip to be safe.”
Maggie gave a wan smile. “Yes.”
“And they’ll both come back to us, you’ll see.”
“Is that a royal command, Your Highness?”
“It is.”
“Well, then—I’d better obey, then, mustn’t I?”
Chapter Fourteen
In the conference room at Bletchley, which used to be the manor house’s formal dining room, cryptographer Benjamin Batey was sweating, his face pale.
Peter Frain was sitting across the wooden table from him. “Exactly when did your relationship with Miss Victoria Keeley begin?” he asked.
“A—a month ago. I mean, I’ve known her for more than a year—that is, I knew who she was. But I didn’t start to get to know her until about, maybe, six months ago. We started walking out about a month ago.”
“Who approached whom?”
“She, well, she approached me,” Benjamin said, fingers of one hand picking at the cuticles of the other. “In the canteen. She asked if she could sit with me. Asked for my help with a crossword puzzle.”
“Did she ever mention a woman named Lily Howell?”
Benjamin looked puzzled. “No,” he said. “No, she didn’t.”
Frain made a mental note. “When did you first become intimate?”
“Well, we went to one of the Bletchley concerts together for the first time last month.…”
Frain cut to the chase. “When did you sleep with her?”
“I’m afraid—”
“Yes, Mr. Batey, you should be afraid. You should be very afraid. When did you sleep with her?”
“That—that night,” Benjamin said, his face reddening.
“Did you ever take work out of the office with you?”
Benjamin looked shocked. “No! Of course not!”
Frain narrowed his gray eyes. “Then how do you explain that Victoria Keeley passed one of the decrypts that you were working on to a third party?”
Benjamin gasped. “It’s impossible!”
“I’m afraid not,” Frain replied, lighting up a cigarette with his heavy monogrammed silver lighter. As he inhaled, the tip glowed orange and red. “Very few things are truly impossible, Mr. Batey. Two women are dead and a top-secret decrypt made its way from your office to London. Let’s go over your story again, shall we?”
Hugh Thompson was leaving his office at MI-5. “Please tell Mr. Standish I’m on my way to a meeting,” he called out to his secretary, when he heard the urgent ring of the telephone. “And if Caroline calls, just—”
“It’s Mr. Frain, sir,” she said. “He wants to speak with you.”
Hugh went back to his desk. Over the hiss of the line, he could hear Frain light a cigarette and inhale.
“You’re being pulled off the Windsor assignment,” Frain said without preamble.
Hugh was gobsmacked. “What?” Then, “Why?”
“I want someone older, with more experience. As it turns out, this is an important case. Even more important than I’d originally thought.”
“Yes sir, I know—”
“I’d like you on something different. Mr. Standish will fill you in on the details. In the meantime, I’d like you to see Mr. Nevins today, to brief him on Miss Hope.”
“Nevins?” Hugh couldn’t conceal his shock. “Archer Nevins?”
“He’ll be her new handler. He’s a senior member of our staff, and I trust you’ll treat him with the respect he deserves. That is all.” And then the phone went dead.
“Nevins,” Hugh muttered, as he replaced the heavy green Bakelite receiver. “Just perfect!”
A message alerted her that the book she’d ordered from Foyle’s in London was in, the signal she and Hugh had agreed on to meet in Queen Mary’s Rose Garden in Regent’s Park. Around noon, Maggie left the castle. It was a relief to leave those oppressive stone walls, six feet thick in some places, and to be out in the open air, even if it was chilly and overhead there were swollen gray clouds.
She took the train from the red-brick Victorian Windsor and Eton Central Station over Brunel’s bowstring bridge to Slough, then walked over the pedestrian crossing and waited in the cool clammy air until the next train arrived. This one took her from Slough to London’s cavernous and loud Paddington Station, with its high arched glass-and-iron ceiling and grubby pigeons pecking for crumbs on the damp cement floors. From Paddington, she took the Bakerloo line on the tube to Baker Street. From Baker, she walked a few blocks to Regent’s Park.
She and Hugh met in Queen Mary’s Rose Garden, a lush, carefully tended section of the park. The skies were leaden, the grass brown, the bark of the bare trees the color of bruises. The last of the rambling, winding, climbing, and clustered red, pink, and golden roses were dying. The cold air smelled of earth and frost and impending winter. A few plump pigeons strutted and cooed, waiting for someone, anyone, to leave crumbs.
Besides the occasional pedestrian and twittering sparrow, they had a wooden bench in the garden with a fine view of William McMillan’s Triton fountain to themselves, knowing there was no way their conversation could be overheard. Still, Hugh was on one end, buried in The Times, and Maggie was at the other, pretending to read Turing.
“Frain’s in Bletchley right now, questioning a cryptographer named Benjamin Batey. He had access to the decrypt. He was also seeing Victoria Keeley.” Hugh’s breath made white clouds in the air.
Maggie took a sharp breath but kept her eyes on her page. “Is there any evidence that he murdered her?”
Hugh shrugged. “Not so far. Frain’s been questioning him. And Frain can be very … persuasive. So far, though, Benjamin Batey seems like a sort of hapless victim. They allegedly had their … tryst … at her flat and then she went to London alone.”
“So, we know somehow, perhaps through Mr. Batey, Victoria Keeley got her hands on a decrypt. We know that she passed it to Lady Lily Howell at Claridge’s. We know Victoria Kelley was murdered. And we know Lily had hidden the decrypt and was then murdered also.”
“Yes.”
“What we need to focus on,” Maggie said, “is how Lily Howell was going to send, or take, that information to Germany. No one found a radio, a way for her to communicate?”
“No, she must have been working with someone else.”
“Possibly someone at the castle.”
Maggie nodded. “Of course, if there’s someone else at Bletchley who’s stealing decrypts …”
“I know, I know.” Hugh folded his paper.
“At any rate, we should get the names of everyone at Claridge’s the night Victoria Keeley was murdered and run them against everyone at Windsor Castle and Bletchley Park. Of course, people might have used aliases, but—”
“I’m sorry,” Hugh said, “but I’ll have to pass along your request—to your new handler.”
“New handler?” The book nearly fell out of Maggie’s hands.
Hugh ran his hands through his hair. “I’m afraid so. This is getting more serious than Frain anticipated, so he’s pairing you up with someone more senior.”
“That’s unacceptable. You’re an excellent agent. We work well together.” She was filled with an overwhelming sense of disappointment and rage, like a child whose favorite playmate was moving away.
“It’s fine, really. I mean, of course my pride is bruised. But mostly I’ll miss …” He stared at her, searching for the right things to say.
“Yes?” Maggie prompted.
“I’ll miss … the case. It’s been quite the roller coaster already. And I think we’ve just scratched the surface.” He continued to look at her. “But I’m afraid it can’t be helped.” He rose and tipped his hat. “Good luck, Maggie Hope.” And then he walked away, swallowed up by the park.
“And good luck to you, too,” she r
eplied to herself, feeling lost and alone once again.
Maggie wasn’t the only resident of Windsor Castle spending the day in London. Audrey Moreau was there as well. It was her one day off a month from her maid’s duties, and she had told Cook that she was taking the train to London to do some sightseeing.
London was a city of smoking ruins, but many of the shops were open, and what architecture remained was still magnificent. Cold rain was falling, and water gushed in the gutters, filled with fallen yellow leaves.
Audrey had left off her black-and-white maid’s uniform and was wearing a woolen dress with her winter coat, which she’d tailored to accentuate her slim figure. A hat with a silk orchid one of the castle’s guests had left behind topped off her ensemble. She was rewarded by men smiling and tipping their hats.
She made her way to a bus stop near Piccadilly Circus. The statue of Eros was gone, but the circle was still a popular place for people to meet—sailors in uniform on leave shouting to one another and smoking, WAAFs and FANYs in bright red lipstick, men in dark suits and bowler hats under black umbrellas.
The Circus was surrounded by huge billboards from the Ministry of Propaganda: Join the Wrens!, It Is Far Better to Face the Bullets than to Be Killed at Home by a Bomb, and God Save the King.
The rain stopped, and Audrey folded up her umbrella. She waited for the red double-decker bus, and when it arrived she took the narrow stairs to the top deck. As the vehicle made its slow way up Regent Street, she was joined by a man wearing a dark gray coat, a gray bowler hat, and a Trinity college scarf in navy, red, and yellow stripes. He sat next to her, despite the fact that the deck was nearly empty.
She looked up and smiled, beginning what was to be a long conversation in whispered French.
It was sunset at Windsor Castle—red, rose, and tangerine bled out into the western sky, leaving long violet shadows.
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