“I can’t believe I let you talk me into this,” Durgin muttered under his breath to Maggie as servants soundlessly cleared away china and crystal in Buckingham Palace’s Chinese Dining Room. It was decorated in flamboyant gold and jade-green papers, red silks, and chinoiserie panels originally bought by George IV for the Brighton Pavilion. The storybook oriental splendor—golden dragons, enamel pagodas, and shining lacquerwork—all illuminated by tall beeswax candles, was a universe away from the cold and dreary and dangerous London outside the palace walls.
Maggie and Durgin were seated at a table set for ten, who included King George and Queen Elizabeth, as well as various high-ranking government officials, their wives, and a few lesser royals. Dinner had been cream of barley à la reine soup, matelote of eels, and cutlets made from mutton purée Maggie decided tasted like old socks. Dessert was Tarte de Pommes.
From behind the blackout shades and rich crimson draperies, the windows rattled in their frames. “A storm’s brewing,” intoned an ancient duchess, her black, arched eyebrows painted on like two commas, her heavy emerald earrings swaying.
“The wind’s picking up,” the Queen said, her voice rising over the rattle. She was wearing a sapphire-blue silk gown and dripping in diamonds. Maggie was amused to see that none of the other women were in blue, a nod to the Queen’s authority that she’d learned during her days at Windsor—only the Queen wears blue. Maggie herself was in a long white gown she’d bought in Washington, D.C., which she’d worn only once before, to a New Year’s ball at the White House. And Durgin, seated next to her, was in his Scotland Yard dress uniform. He’d been quiet all evening. Maggie was disappointed none of the other guests had gone out of their way to make him feel welcome. It wasn’t that they’d been rude; they’d simply ignored him. And Maggie and Durgin were seated too far from the King and Queen for them to ask him any questions.
“And I daresay the temperature’s dropping. Shall we retire to the anteroom?” The Queen stood, and her guests scrambled to their feet. “There’s a lovely fire there. And the Princesses will meet us. They’re quite keen to reenact one of their pantomimes for you all!”
Durgin offered his arm, and Maggie took it; it was strong and solid. She felt better since they’d reached the palace. It was only a temporary respite, she knew. But it felt as if they were suddenly miles away from London, the case, and everything else going on.
They followed the rest of the group into the drawing room. The Queen was correct. A huge roaring fire had been lit and a tea service had been set up. The ladies’ jewels—rubies, diamonds, and sapphires set in gold and platinum—sparked and glowed in the flickering light.
Suddenly, there was the sound of running footsteps. “Miss Hope! Miss Hope!” Maggie heard. It was Princess Margaret, with her creamy cheeks and mischievous grin.
Behind her, walking more sedately, was Princess Elizabeth, her gentian eyes clear and bright. “Welcome, Miss Hope,” the older princess said. “It’s lovely to see you again.”
“This is Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin,” Maggie told the two girls as around her people poured tea from a silver urn and took seats. Durgin bowed gravely, while the Princesses greeted him and giggled. Then, to Durgin, Maggie said, “And these young ladies are the Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret. They let me teach them mathematics at Windsor Castle, two years ago.”
“Was Miss Hope a good teacher?” Durgin asked, quite serious.
“Well…” Princess Margaret began, weighing her opinion.
“Miss Hope was an excellent maths teacher,” Princess Elizabeth stated, brooking no discussion. “And she also taught us secret codes and cryptology.” Maggie and Elizabeth exchanged a significant look, remembering how using code had saved the young princess’s life.
“What did the grown-ups get for dinner?” Margaret interrupted. “We were stuck with mock mutton cutlets. They’re the worst—taste like old, dirty laundry.”
“Margaret!” Elizabeth warned.
Maggie giggled. “We had the same, if it makes you feel better.”
“Oh, I do miss sausages,” Elizabeth sighed.
“I personally miss chocolates most,” Margaret confided, taking Maggie’s hand and leading her to a low divan near the fire.
Durgin followed, and Princess Elizabeth went to get the tea. At the piano in the corner, a man in a dinner jacket began to play Cole Porter’s “You’d Be So Easy to Love.”
“Hello,” Maggie said to a woman seated in a wing chair across from her, Princess Margaret, and Durgin. She was not much older than Maggie, in a scarlet dress showing off her delicate collarbones and a long, slim neck encircled by a choker of pearls. She was the younger wife of one of the officers, and hadn’t said much during the dinner. Her husband was standing and chatting with the King and the other men, and Maggie thought she looked a bit lonely.
Elizabeth set down Maggie’s and Durgin’s teacups and smiled as she also took a seat. “Lady Westfield is an expert Tarot card reader,” the Princess informed them.
“Hardly,” the woman in scarlet said. “But I did pick up some cards in France a few years back. And I enjoy doing readings for friends.”
“Would you read Miss Hope’s cards, Lady Westfield? Please?” said Elizabeth.
“Oh yes,” Margaret agreed. “You must read her cards.”
Lady Westfield went to her beaded evening bag and opened it, pulling out a box wrapped in a silk scarf. The leather box was engraved with the lettering B. P. GRIMAUD, ANCIEN TAROT DE PARIS, and a gold triangle in a circle.
Margaret’s eyes were wide as she looked up at Maggie. “Do you believe in the Tarot, Miss Hope?”
“Well,” replied Maggie, trying to be diplomatic. “I prefer math, science, and provable facts. However,” she said, winking at Durgin, “I have become more interested in instincts and the unconscious of late.”
Lady Westfield placed the scarf and the box on a low rosewood table, then passed the deck to Maggie. “Please shuffle,” she instructed.
Maggie did as she was bid, enjoying the cards’ elaborate illustrations. “Don’t look!” Margaret warned. “You mustn’t look.”
“All right,” Maggie acquiesced—she had nothing against Tarot cards as an amusing parlor game but didn’t take the idea of a reading seriously. When she was satisfied, she handed the deck back to Lady Westfield.
As the lady took them, she said, “Before we begin, you must tap the deck three times.”
Maggie felt a rush of impatience but realized this action was part of the act. Well, Lady Westfield certainly does put on a good show, she thought.
“Tarot cards can be a window to ancient wisdom, to truths we’ve become alienated from in these modern times,” Lady Westfield said, pressing the deck in her hands. “The cards are a book of life, can answer the deepest questions, and sometimes can be a means to warn of imminent danger.”
Beside Maggie, Princess Margaret gave a melodramatic shiver.
“They represent challenges and tests, twists of fate. They move from terror and loss to unexpected good fortune—and out of darkness, hope is born.”
She laid out three cards from the top of the deck, facedown.
Maggie felt a prickle of expectation. It’s only good theater, she reminded herself.
The first card showed a naked woman and a naked man. They stood in a field with a mountain peak in the distance, over which an angel with wings and a purple cloak hovered.
“Ooooh!” Margaret gave Maggie and Durgin a significant look, and Maggie, despite her best efforts, felt herself blush. We’re just sitting too close to the fire, she thought, unable to look at Durgin.