The Queen's Accomplice

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  As nurses in crisp white linen caps deferred to doctors with mustaches and large gold pocket watches, veterans in uniform—some in wheelchairs, some using crutches—tried to concentrate on their newspapers. Maggie could make out the Times’s headline, ALLIED POWERS REVEAL PLANS FOR SMASHING BLOWS AT HITLER AND GERMANY SOMETIME THIS YEAR.

  She and Durgin both spied Mark at the same time. “Oh, goody—the gang’s all here,” Durgin muttered, making his way to the information desk. “We’ve come to see Dr. William McVite.” He flashed his badge to a bright-eyed young nurse with freshly applied lipstick.

  She checked a chart. “Dr. McVite’s just arrived. You’re welcome to go up and find him. Intensive care is—”

  Durgin was off before she finished, the tails of his mackintosh flying behind him. “I know where it is,” he rumbled, taking the stairs two at a time.

  —

  In the main second-floor corridor, Durgin spotted a short, gray-haired man in a long white coat, stethoscope looped around his neck.

  “Dr. McVite,” the DCI said without preamble, “we spoke last night, about your patient—the one with thirty-nine stab wounds.”

  “Ah, yes, Detective Durgin.” The doctor reached out to shake hands. “I wish we could meet under better circumstances. And I would like to tell you there’s been some sort of miraculous recovery—but I’m afraid Miss Chorley is still in critical condition.”

  “May we see her?”

  “Of course.” The doctor led the way to a small room, where a pale young woman with brown hair, a turned-up nose, and long, dark eyelashes lay with her eyes closed. “I know she looks as though she’s sleeping, but she’s in a coma. She’s suffered severe head trauma.”

  “How long will she be in the coma?”

  “There’s no way to know.”

  “Her chances of recovery?”

  “Impossible to say.” Dr. McVite raised and dropped his shoulders. “She could wake up today—or she could spend the rest of her life the way she is now.”

  Maggie’s heart skipped a beat as she realized the face was familiar. Gladys Chorley, she thought, her throat constricting. Another of the SOE trainees—terrible shot, but the best at obstacle courses. She blinked back tears. “Has anyone been to visit her?”

  “No,” the doctor said. “No family, no friends. No one’s claimed her. She had a brother in the RAF—died in the Battle of Britain. And we’ve telephoned Miss Chorley’s sister in Orkney, but she’s a young widow with three children—unable to make the trip at the moment.”

  Maggie nodded, remembering Gladys’s singsong Orkneyan lilt.

  “Tea,” Durgin muttered. “I need tea. They have excellent tea in the cafeteria,” he announced, spinning on his heel. “We’ll have tea and regroup.”

  Maggie stopped at the main doors. “I’ll be right with you,” she called after him and Mark. She walked to the nurse on duty. “Hello,” she said, smiling. “I’m looking for information on Miss Gladys Chorley. Dr. McVite mentioned she hasn’t had any visitors?”

  “Chorley?” The nurse, a woman with thinning hair under her white linen cap, looked up from her charts. Her hazel eyes softened. “No, the poor thing’s had visitors. A visitor, at least. Her boyfriend comes around regular—late at night, though. Second shift. A pilot, I think. Handsome devil.”

  Aha! “Do you know his name?”

  “Something foreign. He spoke with an accent, I remember. Let me check the after-hours sign-in sheet.” The nurse ruffled through some papers and came up with a clipboard. She ran a finger down a column of names and times. “Here he is—Captain Jakub Żak.” She pursed her lips. “Sounds Polish, maybe?”

  “You said he was handsome? What did he look like?”

  “Dark hair and eyes. Straight part down the middle of his hair. A quiet, polite young man. Looked a bit like Tyrone Power in Blood and Sand. Never said much.”

  “Thank you, thank you so very much.” Maggie would have hugged the nurse in gratitude if she could have. Nurses run the hospitals of the world, just as secretaries run the offices.

  She raced to the cafeteria and sat down at Durgin and Mark’s table with a triumphant smile. “Miss Chorley’s boyfriend’s been visiting,” she announced.

  Durgin blew on his tea. “Go on.”

  “His name’s Captain Jakub Żak. A Pole fighting in the RAF. The nurse says he comes to see her after hours.”

  Durgin favored her with one of his mad grins. “Excellent work, Miss Tiger,” he said, bolting the rest of his tea, then standing and clapping his wool hat back on his head. “I’ll make a call and get an address. I need to testify in court today—so you two will pay a call on Captain Jakub Żak.” He glared from beneath the hat brim. “Don’t muddle it up.”

  —

  “Don’t blow a gasket!” Sarah was asleep when she heard the knocking, which was rapidly escalating into banging. She shrugged quickly into her red satin dressing gown and slippers, and padded downstairs to open the door. The fire had burned out during the night, and the morning air was frigid. “All right! All right! I’m coming! Don’t get your knickers in a twist!”

  She opened the cottage’s front door, and there stood Kim Philby, impeccably dressed, smelling of shaving soap and lemon cologne. Behind him, the sky glowed. “Red sky in the morning, sailors take warning,” he said.

  “Please come in,” she said, trying to smooth down her long dark hair.

  “I know it’s early,” Philby declared, walking past her, “but we have a lot of work to do and very little time to do it. We’re trying to get you out during this full moon, which is a little sooner than I’d like, but still manageable if we focus and work hard.”

  Hugh lay on the cottage’s sofa, snoring. Philby shouted, “Thompson!” Then, with a poke to the younger man’s shoulder, “Thompson!”

  Hugh turned over, but the narrow sofa caused his broad frame to fall to the floor with a thud. He opened his eyes and saw Philby standing over him and Sarah trying unsuccessfully to smother a laugh. He bolted upright, blinking in bewilderment.

  “Get dressed now, both of you, and come with me.” Philby looked annoyed by their sloth.

  —

  They arrived at the former dining room of a high-ceilinged Georgian manor house, a brown water stain marring the egg-and-dart crown molding. “In addition to your ballet and cello rehearsals, you’ll be expected to attend the other activities of F-Section trainees,” Philby told them, their footsteps echoing on the scuffed parquet floor. “At this point, most of it is classroom work, but, believe me, not only is it difficult but the information you’ll receive is vital.”

  Any carpets had been put into storage along with furniture. Military-issue metal folding chairs had been set up in rows. Sunlight streamed in through the taped windows.

  “I have a meeting, but I’ll be back,” Philby informed the pair. “Wait for me when you’re done.”

  More and more agents-in-training wearing civilian clothing drifted in as Sarah and Hugh took seats near the mullioned windows. A white-haired, pink-cheeked man shuffled in, leaning heavily on a carved hickory-stick cane. “Bonjour, agents,” he boomed.

  “Bonjour, Monsieur Godfrey!” the students called back.

  Godfrey gave Sarah and Hugh a shrewd look. “Ah, and here are our newcomers.” He smiled in an avuncular way at the duo and said in English: “What are your names?”

  “I’m Hugh Thompson and this is Sarah—”

  Monsieur Godfrey’s eyes blazed. “Non, non, non!” He switched back into French. “First of all, you must always speak in French. Always. Second, you must use your code names.”

  The rest of the class snickered.

  “Sorry, Monsieur Godfrey,” Hugh apologized in French. “I am Hubert Taillier. And this is Madame Sabine Severin.”

  “Good morning,” Sarah offered, also in French.

  “Well then, welcome, Monsieur Taillier and Madame Severin,” Godfrey told them, still glaring. “As I was about to say, we of the SOE are not part of the
conventional armed forces. Our mission is information gathering, disinformation spreading, and also sabotage and subversion. The P.M. charged us with the words ‘Set Europe ablaze!’ Our particular section of Europe is France, F-Section. Our ultimate goal is the liberation of the occupied territories of France.”

  “Will we be working with the Free French?” asked a young man with white-blond hair and a smattering of freckles.

  “In theory, yes.” The sarcasm in the teacher’s tone hinted at the strain between the two organizations.

  “Will there be an invasion? There will be an invasion of France, yes?”

  “Yes, when?” others echoed in excitement.

  “Now, now—let’s not get ahead of ourselves.” Monsieur Godfrey went to his military-issue desk. “You all think you know what a Nazi looks like,” he declared, placing photographs mounted on poster board of different men in uniform on easels facing the class, “but it’s not only the Gestapo you’ll have to worry about in France. You’ll need to distinguish differences in uniforms of the Gestapo, yes,” he continued, pointing to each photograph in turn with his cane, “but also the Abwehr, German Army Intelligence, and the Milice—the French police collaborators.”

  “Filthy frogs,” came a voice from the back.

  “Stop!” Sarah retorted, turning. “Don’t say that! My grandmother was French! She died a patriot!”

  One of the fresh-faced young women in the front row raised her hand. “How do we determine their rank?”

  Godfrey gave a grim smile. “The higher ranks of Gestapo and SS don’t even wear uniforms—they’re in plain clothing but have metal identification disks they can show when they want to identify themselves. So remember—even if someone isn’t in uniform, he can still be a German, perhaps even higher-ranking than someone in regalia. Also, it’s imperative to remember not all Frenchmen are on your side. A Frenchman doesn’t need to be in a Milice uniform to be a collaborator. Many French are neutral, simply trying to get by. And even Resistance workers can turn if cornered. Remember that. And always be on your guard. No one is what they seem.”

  The lecture went on with questions and answers and then a quiz. After Sarah and Hugh had turned in their papers, the young woman who’d spoken earlier asked, “We’re going out for a smoke—want to come?”

  But before either could answer, Philby turned up behind them. “Alas, I’m afraid Madame Severin and Monsieur Taillier have a few other exercises they must do before they’re off duty.”

  “Too bad.” The girl sighed. “Hope to see you later,” she added, flashing dimples and giving a significant look to Hugh.

  “He’s married!” Sarah shot back without thinking. When Hugh and Philby stared at her, surprised by her vehemence, she turned red. “Well, you are, Hubert,” she muttered. “At least for the purposes of this mission.”

  Chapter Nine

  Maggie and Mark took the Tube’s Central Line to Northolt Junction, to the Royal Air Force’s Northolt Aerodrome. After showing their identification to a round of guards, they were escorted to a conference room in the brick main building. The room was small and unheated. Loose glass panes rattled in the wind; they kept their coats and gloves on.

  But before they had time to become truly chilled, a young man in a RAF uniform appeared at the doorway, his eyes wary. A Polish pilot flying with the RAF, on his cap was the Polish National Eagle in place of the British badge.

  “Captain Żak?” Maggie asked, standing. “Captain Jakub Żak?”

  “Yes,” the man admitted in heavily accented English. “But my friends call me Kuba.” He was as tall as Maggie, and his brilliantined black hair was combed back with a straight part. Hmm, he does look a bit like Tyrone Power.

  “Captain Żak,” Maggie said, preferring to keep things formal. “I’m Miss Hope and this is Agent Standish of MI-Five. We’re here to talk to you about Gladys Chorley. Please, let’s all sit down.”

  “Am I under arrest?” Żak joked, sitting and taking off his cap.

  “No,” Mark answered. “But we’re interested in finding out everything you know about Gladys Chorley.”

  “Have you seen her?” Żak’s dark eyes darted from one to the other. “How is she?”

  Maggie shifted in her chair. “I’m afraid she’s still in a coma.”

  “Is there anything new from the doctors?” he asked, voice eager.

  “The doctor hopes she will recover and wake up,” Maggie responded, “but as of now, there’s no change in her condition.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “How do you know Miss Chorley?” Maggie asked. “One of the nurses said you’re her boyfriend, and the visitors’ log shows you’ve visited seven times since she was admitted.”

  “Not her boyfriend,” he clarified. “Just a friend. I trained with her brother—he died in the Battle of Britain. I promised him if anything happened to him I’d keep an eye on her. So I’d travel to London to see her when I had leave.”

  “Did she say what she was doing here in London?”

  “Gladys was with the ATS. But she never spoke much about what she did. Claimed it was mostly typing and filing—you know, boring office work. She spent some time in Scotland, a month here and there. Last time I saw her, before—well—she’d recently gotten back from one of her trips. She told me she was in town for a few days, and then she was due to go on another.”

  “When was that? The last time you spoke with her?”

  “Sometime at the end of January. We had drinks at the Criterion in Piccadilly Circus.”

  “How did you learn she was in hospital?”

  “Gladys’s sister called me. She told me Gladys had been in an accident.”

  “Where were you on the night of March twenty?” Maggie asked.

  His face creased with concern. “I was here, on base.”

  “And on the night of March twenty-seventh? And March twenty-ninth?”

  His hand rubbed at the back of his neck. “Here. On base.”

  “You don’t mind if we verify those nights with your commanding officer?” Mark asked.

  “No.” Żak swallowed. “No, of course not.”

  “Do you know where Miss Chorley was living when she was in London?” asked Maggie.

  “She was staying at a women’s residence hotel in Marylebone,” Żak replied. “I’d walk her to her door after we’d been out, and sometimes we’d talk in the lobby. But they didn’t let men up, of course.”

  “Do you remember the name of the residence hotel?”

  He closed his eyes, thinking. Then, “I’m sorry, I don’t remember.”

  “Do you remember the address? Or anything nearby?”

  “I’m sorry—I’m not familiar with London. It was near the Baker Street station, that much I know. A side street. Quiet and dark.”

  “Did she have any enemies whom you know of?” Mark asked. “A jealous ex-boyfriend, maybe?”

  “No!” Żak exclaimed. “Gladys was a good girl. Hardworking. Didn’t know too many people in London. Preferred to go to the cinema or a concert rather than any fancy parties.”

  “How would you describe her?”

  Żak thought for a moment. “Strong, intelligent, athletic. Pretty. But stubborn. Very stubborn—just like her brother. A thoroughly modern girl. When we went out, I had the feeling that while she felt terrible about the war, she was glad for a chance to leave Scotland. She wanted to see more of the world.”

  “Is there anything you remember about the hotel?” Maggie asked.

  “She stayed in a few, a different one each time. I remember they were all near Regent’s Park and Baker Street, if it helps.”

  “It does.”

  “Thank you.” Mark handed Żak one of his cards. “If you remember anything else—no matter how unimportant it may seem—please call.”

  “I will,” Żak vowed, eyes serious. “I will.”

  After they checked out Żak’s story with his commanding officer and it proved true, Maggie and Mark walked back to the Tu
be station. As they entered the train car, Mark sighed. “Another dead end.”

  “Maybe. But I’m glad to know the poor girl has someone visiting her. I wonder, if on some level, she knows. I do hope so.” She chewed her lip, considering. “Mark, I have an idea.”

  —

  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.”