His Majesty's Hope

Princess Elizabeth’s Spy

“MacNeal’s sophomore historical outing (after
Mr. Churchill’s Secretary
) synchronizes perfectly with the 60th anniversary of Queen Elizabeth II’s reign. With a smart, code-breaking mathematician heroine, abundant World War II spy intrigue, and a whiff of romance, this series has real luster. The author leaves readers with a mind-boggling conclusion that hints at Maggie’s next assignment.”

—Library Journal
(starred review)

“MacNeal provides a vivid view of life both above and below stairs at Windsor Castle.”

—Publishers Weekly

Mr. Churchill’s Secretary

“Susan Elia MacNeal perfectly captures the spirit of wartime Britain in
Mr. Churchill’s Secretary
, a delightful mystery that follows the adventures of an appealing heroine who is both secretary and spy. This wonderful debut is intelligent, richly detailed, and filled with suspense.”

—S
TEFANIE
P
INTOFF
, Edgar Award—winning
author of
In the Shadow of Gotham

“Chock-full of fascinating period details and real people, including Winston Churchill, MacNeal’s fast-paced thriller gives a glimpse of the struggles, tensions, and dangers of life on the home front during World War II. A terrific read.”

—R
HYS
B
OWEN
, author of
Royal Blood
and
winner of the Agatha, Anthony,
and Macavity awards

“Think early Ken Follett, amp it up with a whipsmart young American not averse to red lipstick and vintage cocktails, season it with espionage during the London Blitz. Add to that her boss Churchill and War Room intrigue, and you’ve got a heart-pounding, atmospheric debut in
Mr. Churchill’s Secretary
. I loved it.”

—C
ARA
B
LACK
, author of
Murder in Passy

“Brave, clever Maggie’s debut is an enjoyable mix of mystery, thriller and romance that captures the harrowing experiences of life in war-torn London.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“[A] solid historical cozy debut. MacNeal squeezes in plenty of World War II facts but never slows the pace.”

—Library Journal
(starred review, debut of the month)

“Delightful may seem a strange word to describe a novel that takes place against the backdrop of the bombings of London during World War II, but it’s appropriate for this debut novel.… Family secrets, a bevy of adorable roommates, a budding romance and Maggie’s role in a sting operation make this novel as sweet as it is intriguing.”

—USA Today

“MacNeal, whose prodigious research results in an accurate depiction of the historical context, fashions a page-turner of a story, complete with a plucky heroine and other well-conceived characters—real and fictional, good and evil. A ripping good yarn,
Mr. Churchill’s Secretary
enthralls and satisfies.”

—Richmond Times-Dispatch

The urn the ashes came in was beautiful—shiny and black, with an enamel swastika on one side. It was small, so very small, Jens Hartmann thought. How could it possibly hold the remains of his son?

Jens launched their small boat, the
Lorelei
, from the dock of their summer home on the lake. It was still spring; most of the villas ringing the lake were empty, their doors locked and curtains drawn, ballrooms and great halls quiet, boats dry-docked for the winter in carriage houses. A breeze rustled the branches of the linden trees near the shore as the rising sun burned off the morning mist.

Neither Jens nor his wife, Mena, had asked the housekeeper to take the sheets off the furniture. It had seemed appropriate last night, when they’d arrived from Berlin-Charlottenburg, that everything was shrouded in white, like apparitions in the dark.

Their seven-year-old son, Gregor, had loved their summer house. He’d spent hours playing tag near the shore with his friends, sailing across the sparkling water, or climbing the tall oak trees in the garden. On rainy days, he curled up in a window seat with a book—Hoffmann’s
Struwwelpeter
or the Grimm brothers’ fairy tales. The fact that he was different seemed to matter much less in the summer, away from school and the heart of Berlin. He even seemed to have fewer seizures.

The family doctor had treated Gregor’s epilepsy by prescribing
phenobarbital and phenytoin, and putting him on a ketogenic diet. For a while, the program had seemed to work. But then the seizures came back, worse than ever, and the doctor told them to take Gregor to Charité Hospital, Mitte-Berlin, and see Dr. Karl Brandt, the Führer’s personal physician.

Events proceeded quickly, too quickly, after that.

Gregor had been admitted, then scheduled for tests. From there, he’d been taken to the Hadamar Institute, for yet more tests. Jens and Mena had received a letter not long after, informing them that Gregor had died of pneumonia. Everything possible had been done, of course. And that the urn, with their son’s ashes, would be arriving the next day.

“Mein liebling!”
Mena had wailed, tearing at the letter. “My baby!”

“Shhh,” Jens had said, patting her arm, taking the heavy, cream-colored piece of paper with the embossed swastika out of her hand. “They probably had to cremate”—it was hard for him to form the words—“his body immediately. To make sure the pneumonia didn’t spread.”

Which was why they were on the
Lorelei
on the Großer Wannsee, the glossy black urn in Mena’s arms as Jens steered, then anchored in the middle of the lake. The planks of the boat creaked, waves lapped softly against the shore, and across the lake, a black heron gave a deep, ragged cry that echoed through the mist.

“He’ll be happy here.” Mena shivered in her black shawl. “He always loved the lake.”

“He did,” Jens said, stepping to her and reaching for the urn. He took off the cap.
“Let nothing disturb thee,”
he intoned, reciting the prayer of St. Teresa:
“Let nothing dismay thee. All things pass. God never changes.”
His fingers pressed against the urn’s sides.
“Patience attains all that it strives for. He who has God finds he lacks nothing. God alone suffices.”

He tipped the urn and poured the gray ashes onto the water, then put the urn down on the wooden seat. The boat rocked, nearly tipped over, with his movements.
“Heil Hitler!”
he cried, raising his right arm in the sharp Caesar-style
Hitlerguss
salute.

“Heil Hitler,”
his wife whispered, her hands grabbing at the boat’s sides, knuckles white.

Jens sat and they both bent their heads in prayer.

When they were finished, Mena picked up the urn. “Jens,” she said, peering inside, “there’s something still in here.”

“What?”

She tipped it over. Some gritty gray ash fell into her gloved palm, along with a charred piece of black metal, the white pearl tip scorched black.

“Mein Gott,”
she said, brows creasing. “Why, in heaven’s name, would there be a girl’s hairpin in Gregor’s ashes?”

Maggie Hope was feeling her way through thick darkness. She was panting after shimmying up a rickety drainpipe, knocking out a screen in an upper-story window, avoiding several trip wires, and then sliding silently onto the floor of a dark hallway. She took a deep breath and rose to her feet, every nerve alert.

Beneath her foot, a parquet floorboard creaked.
Oh, come now
, she thought. She waited for a moment, slowing her breathing, feeling her heart thunder in her chest. All around her was impenetrable black. The only sounds were the creaks of an ancient manor house.

Nothing.

All clear.

Maggie could feel dampness under her arms and hot drops of sweat trickling down the small of her back. Aware of each and every sound, she continued down the hall until she reached the home’s library. The door was locked.
Well, of course it is
, Maggie thought. She picked the lock in seconds with one of her hairpins.

Once she’d ascertained no one was there, she turned on her tiny flashlight and made her way to the desk. The safe was supposed to be under it. And it was, just as her handler had described.

Good
, she thought, sitting down on the carpet next to it.
All right, let’s talk
. That was how she pictured safecracking: a nice
little chat with the safe. It was how the Glaswegian safecracker Johnny Ramensky—released from prison to do his part for the war effort—had taught her. She spun the dial and listened. When she could hear the tumblers dropping into place—not hear, but
feel
the vibrations with her fingertips—she knew she had the first number correct.
Now, for the second
.

Biting her lower lip in concentration, immersed in safecracking, Maggie didn’t hear the room’s closet door open.

Out from the shadows emerged a man. He was tall and lean, and wearing an SS uniform. “You’re never going to get away with this, you know,” he lisped, like Paul Lukas in
Confessions of a Nazi Spy
.