The Prisoner in the Castle

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  When she’d begun to socialize with her fellow prisoners, she’d spent some time with a man named Sayid Inayat Khan, playing chess and card games. He was handsome, certainly, with broad shoulders, shiny jet-black hair, and dark eyes glinting with humor. There was a slight gap between his front teeth that gave his smile a disarming aspect. But the young medical doctor had let her know early on that he was engaged—his parents had arranged for him to marry a Sufi Muslim woman. It made things easier, in a way. Even considering the possibility of a relationship with him was taboo, given their religious and cultural differences. Still, she enjoyed their time together; the two met regularly to see who could memorize the most poetry in the shortest period of time.

  “No, no one here.”

  “Miss Hope, if I were you—”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Yes?”

  “Well, I’d make the best of it. Most people would give their right arm to be in a place like this in wartime—plenty of good food, warm fires, fine whiskey.” He paused to choose the correct word: “Interesting company.” He put down his fountain pen and straightened his papers.

  Down the long corridor came the faint sound of someone picking out the tune of “Three Blind Mice” on the piano in the great room.

  “I suppose,” Maggie said, “a bunch of quarantined SOE agents all trained to kill silently and at close range—without any work to keep them busy—are indeed ‘interesting.’ ”

  “Miss Hope, I’m available, if and when you want to talk,” Jaeger said as he locked his notes in the desk’s top drawer. “Perhaps next month you’ll be more loquacious. And take heart—your stay is only until this beastly war is over.”

  “And then?”

  He glanced up. “I beg your pardon?”

  “And then—what? We’re all allowed to return to civilian life? Knowing what we can do? We’ll sprinkle ourselves with pixie dust and fly back to London from Neverland?” Will they really ever just let us go? She had no faith in SOE or any of the intelligence services now. Their agents’ lives were disposable to them, as she had learned all too well.

  “Until next month, Miss Hope.”

  Sod that, Maggie thought. I refuse to be locked away like a criminal, when I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong—nothing but serve my country. One way or another, I’m getting off this godforsaken island.

  * * *

  —

  When Camilla arrived on the Isle of Scarra, Captain Evans did his best to make her feel welcome. Although he was an ugly man, with the face of a gargoyle and clothing that strained at the buttons, his smile was kind, his voice soothing, and his manner cordial. After she’d been shown to her room and had a chance to rest, he knocked.

  “I hope you’re settling in, Miss Oddell,” he said when she opened the door, wearing her drab brown FANY uniform.

  “Thank you, sir. It’s all very nice.” She saluted, and he returned the gesture. “But I’d like to report to my commanding officer.”

  “That is I,” Evans replied. “Although we’re rather informal here, as you’ll learn….”

  When she appeared confused, he smiled. “Why don’t you get your coat and I’ll give you the ha’penny tour?”

  They made their way over the castle’s paths, their feet on the soil releasing a dank, mushroomy smell. “In the castle and on the grounds, you have complete liberty,” he said as they entered the orangerie, the air significantly warmer than the outdoors. “The whole island, in fact, is yours to explore.” Through the curved glass roof, the sun’s rays were slanting. “Although I’m afraid there aren’t any neighbors. If you need to borrow a cup of something, you’ll have to wait for the next supply boat.”

  “And how often does it come?”

  “Once a month. But we make sure you’re sufficiently stocked, and as you can see, we grow plenty of fresh food.” The captain warmed to his prepared lecture as they walked through the greenhouse, past beds of broad beans, lettuce, and carrots. “You have every sort of opportunity here—there’s hunting and fishing, a wireless and a phonograph. There are books and newspapers, as well as table tennis and billiards—that room even boasts the first air-conditioning in Scotland to remove tobacco smoke, so it never becomes too hazy.

  “We also have a Steinway grand piano. One of our trainees plays quite beautifully and a few others sing, or at least try. Of course I’d never criticize—they could kill me in my sleep!” He laughed. When Camilla didn’t join in, he continued. “The food is first-rate and we even have films once a week, on Saturday evenings. The last one was Bambi, I believe. Oh, and there’s an orchestrion!”

  “What on earth is that?”

  “It’s an elaborate contraption said to emulate the sound of a forty-piece orchestra. It’s run on electricity and operated by means of a large pinned music roll. The sound is produced by pipes.”

  “That’s hardly relevant to our work as agents.”

  “No,” he relented, “but I do find it interesting.”

  “This all sounds very nice, Captain Evans,” Camilla said, stopping next to trays of onions left to ripen, “but when do I leave? When is my mission?”

  “I’m sorry, Miss Oddell,” the captain answered, “but your mission has been put on indefinite hold.”

  She frowned. “Sir, I don’t understand. On hold?”

  The captain folded his arms across his chest and leaned against a table crowded with strawberry pots brought in for the winter. “There’s no easy way to put this, but you’ve been compromised. Because of the sensitive nature of our work in SOE, it’s a security situation.”

  She shook her head, bewildered. “I’ve only just completed my training. I haven’t been abroad. I don’t know anything—I couldn’t possibly know anything!”

  The captain shrugged. “Sometimes the Germans find out things. And so entire missions must be scrapped. It’s not your fault. There are close to a dozen other people here in the same circumstances. Everyone here has had special training. Everyone knows something. Everyone is a risk.”

  “You think I would compromise a mission?”

  “Of course not. Not intentionally, at least. But when situations like this arise, we keep people here in ‘the cooler.’ On ice, if you will. Until the danger’s passed.”

  “This is because of Eddie Dove, isn’t it?” Camilla looked crestfallen, blinking back tears. “I just…I just wanted to do my job. Do something for the war effort.”

  “I know.”

  “So…I’m to stay here for a while?”

  “Yes, but as I mentioned, there are plenty of things to keep you occupied. And I’m sure you’ll find friends among the other guests.”

  “Colonel Rogers at Arisaig House talked about special training…”

  “Well, you can’t expect Colonel Rogers to tell you everything outright. There is a war on, you know.”

  She managed half a smile at the sentiment. “Will there be time before the boat leaves for me to write to my mother to let her know where I am? The last time we spoke I told her I was training at Arisaig. She doesn’t know I’ve been moved.”

  Evans shook his head. “I’m sorry, Miss Oddell. There’s no communication with the mainland from here. No phone calls can be made. No letters sent or received. Whatever you told your mother the last time you spoke will be what she believes you’re doing now.”

  She made a frustrated sound. “You said I have to stay here ‘until the danger’s passed.’ How long is that?”

  “There’s no way to know right now. Could be quite some time, I’m afraid.”

  She gasped. “But—but I’m ready! I want to go to France! I don’t want to be cooped up here!”

  “I know it’s hard, but you’ll come around—the guests always do.” The captain gave her a patient smile, then clapped his hands. “We usually have cocktails in the great room at six-thirty. Would you care to join? After y
ou’ve freshened up, of course.” He stood and made for the door of the greenhouse.

  “I don’t—I—This—I can’t—” Camilla flailed her arms—at the house, the island, everything. “This isn’t fair!”

  “Fair?” Evans nearly laughed. “We’re at war, Miss Oddell. Fair has nothing to do with it.”

  “I’m ready!” she insisted. “I’m ready. I’m trained. I want to go.” She stamped a small foot. The captain raised one eyebrow. “I shouldn’t be here. You can’t keep me here.”

  “As I said, you’re free to go anywhere on the island.” He opened the door and gestured to the tree line, wreathed in garlands of mist, lit by the red setting sun. “Perhaps you might like to go for a walk instead? The grounds are really quite lovely.”

  She stared at him through narrowed eyes for a long moment, and then her expression cleared. “You’re absolutely right, Captain Evans. This is all just—a lot to take in. A walk sounds ideal. Time in nature always helps me clear my head.”

  “I concur.” He held the door open and waited for her to precede him. “But do watch your step,” he cautioned. “There are some unexpected dips and drops, even on the paths. Cocktails are at six-thirty. I will see you then.”

  Camilla smiled, but didn’t reply.

  Chapter Two

  After her session with Dr. Jaeger, Maggie changed into a blue woolen dress with a soft bow on one shoulder and her pearl stud earrings, fixing her red hair in rolls secured by a tortoiseshell barrette. As she walked down the worm-infested wooden grand staircase and into the castle’s great room, she was struck anew by its aggressive ugliness.

  The agents of SOE joked its initials weren’t actually for Special Operations Executive, but instead for Stately ’Omes of England. Maggie had trained and taught in enough old manor houses across Britain to get the joke; however, she’d never been in one so intact, so untouched as this one. At Killoch Castle there was no government-issue furniture, no maps with pushpins, no metal desks. It appeared as if Marcus Killoch himself had walked out mere minutes before, leaving the doors open. It certainly was the oddest country house in Britain that Maggie had been in—a mad and ill-proportioned fantasy of a castle with what could only be charitably called “eclectic” décor.

  It had the usual great house elements: the elaborate scrolled ceiling, the scarred paneling, the heavy dark velvet curtains. The one unique element of Killoch Castle was the dizzying collection of taxidermied wild animals. The entire place had a particular odor as well; the castle’s red sandstone acted like sponge, soaking up but never releasing the queer smell of age, mildew, animal pelts, and secrets.

  Maggie walked through the enormous two-storied space, her footfalls muffled by vast Persian carpets. She sidestepped a lion-skin rug complete with an open mouth and yellow fangs. A cruel room, she had decided when she’d first seen it, with its red-and-gold flecked wallpaper and scarlet moreen curtains. Outside the massive deep-set mullioned windows, taped for protection, wispy clouds scudded across the indigo sky. In the distance, the water of the bay appeared inky in the fading light.

  “Miss Hope!”

  Maggie started. “Oh, Mr. Crane—you scared me!”

  Sitting on a brocade sofa of repellent design in the rough-stone recessed inglenook was Theodore “Teddy” Crane, one of her fellow prisoners. An avid fisherman, he was busy with a needle and bobbin, tying fur, feathers, bits of tinsel, and a hook into a lure for fly-fishing.

  Above him, on the marble mantel, was a clock. It was an example of the ugliest Victorian bric-a-brac Maggie had ever set eyes on: a gray china elephant with a gold-encrusted timepiece set in its side, and a little painted man in gilt turban whipping the beast as if to force it to strike the hours. Like all of the clocks in the castle, it was still, its hands frozen at 8:15.

  “All hail!” Teddy called. “You look like a woman who could use a drink. Shall I make your usual?” His face creased into a smile around his briar pipe, the sweet blue smoke hovering in the alcove. He was a slightly hunched man, with a comfortable belly. The cuffs of his black dinner jacket were a little too short, and his bow tie was already slipping out of its knot. Beside him rested his hazel walking stick, the ivory handle carved into the shape of a grizzly bear.

  “I think you have your hands full right now, making that lure, Mr. Crane,” she responded, her voice ringing off the high ceiling. “May I make you a drink instead?” The bar was under a recess with three mounted stag heads—Maggie had mentally assigned them the code names of Curly, Larry, and Moe.

  “Thank you, Miss Hope. An old-fashioned, if there’s a spare sugar cube. Just whiskey, if not.”

  “The first time I met you, I knew you’d drink that,” she teased him. “You’re probably not all that much older than I am, Mr. Crane, but you’re the walking definition of old-fashioned.”

  “You’re kind—quite a bit older, I think. A bit of a relic,” Teddy admitted.

  “Aha, Mr. Crane! There is sugar today—Captain MacLean must have brought it from Mallaig with the rest of the supplies.” Maggie made the cocktail for him, poured a glass of sherry for herself, and then picked her way over the animal hides to the alcove. Above Teddy, on one wall, hung a monstrous stuffed sea trout in a glass case. The fish was cut in half—according to the attached plaque, a shark had bitten it in half before Marcus Killoch could reel it in. Underneath was a vintage harpoon, presumably used to kill the shark. “He also brought more whiskey. Don’t you think it’s curious how there’s never any lack?”

  Teddy smiled as he accepted the drink. “They want to keep us sedated, I assume. We won’t make any problems if we’re tipsy or sleeping it off.”

  “Speaking of sleep,” Maggie continued, turning on a fringed lamp and taking a seat next to him. “Dr. Jaeger encouraged me to try Veronal.”

  “And?”

  “I said no thank you.”

  “Good. In my experience, it’s far too easy to overdose on those powders.”

  She realized they weren’t alone in the shadowy recess. “Oh, Mr. Novak! So sorry—didn’t see you there. Would you like a drink, too?”

  Ramsey Novak was silent, as always, sitting in a bobbin-turned chair in the corner, his gaze never shifting from the dancing flames behind the andirons. Ramsey was just past twenty, tall, gawky, and awkward, with dark hair and eyes ringed with thick black lashes. Upon hearing her voice, he looked up, then returned to the fire. His fingers plucked restlessly at a golden tassel hanging from a pillow embroidered with two intersecting green snakes. He was mute, although Maggie didn’t know if he physically couldn’t reply or if he chose not to.

  Since she’d arrived, Ramsey had always been unresponsive; she had never heard him speak. He’s seen something, witnessed something, done something, Maggie mused. But then again, we all have. That’s why we’re here. Maggie was glad to see Ramsey and Teddy had formed a companionship, as the others could sometimes be cliquish and unwelcoming.

  “Sláinte mhath,” she said to both of them, raising her glass.

  “Cheers,” Teddy responded, taking a sip. “How’s the Gaelic coming?”

  “It’s hard—really, really hard. Nothing like French or German.” Maggie was trying, with the help of Mrs. McNaughton, the cook and housekeeper, to learn the ancient language. She glanced out the windows at the encroaching darkness. “It was lovely out today, wasn’t it?”

  Teddy grimaced. “Tell that to my arthritic knees, Miss Hope. The weather’s about to change and for the worse, I’m afraid. I hope we can get in our fishing excursion tomorrow. But, as they say, ‘There’s no bad weather in Scotland, only the wrong clothing.’ And our fish won’t mind the rain, of course.”

  “I can’t believe Killoch built his castle here of all places. I mean, we don’t have a choice—but he did.”

  All three of them looked up at the full-length oil painting of Sir Marcus Killoch above the fireplace. He was beard
ed, with black hair, vampiric-looking dark eyes, and a high-bridged nose. In one hand, he gripped a riding crop; the silver handle appeared heavy enough to be used as a weapon. His expression seemed equally arrogant and brutish—as though he were ready to thrash a horse, a servant, or even a lover, depending on who was in his way. And although Killoch was an Englishman, he wore a self-created Scottish-style tartan with jewel-encrusted badges, a powder horn slung over one shoulder, a gold-inlaid dirk and sword at his waist, and a tasseled goatskin sporran fastened with gems. His leather boots were a shiny violet-black.

  “Now, it would have been fitting if Killoch had been gored by a deer,” she continued, glancing around at all the antlers. “A proper end to a bloodthirsty hunter. And I’m relieved there’s only a painting. It wouldn’t surprise me at all if he’d insisted on having his own body taxidermied, glass eyes glaring.”

  Teddy’s lips twitched in amusement. “That lot would probably all stuff and display themselves after death, if given the option.”

  “The tartan’s ironic, isn’t it?” Maggie sipped her sherry. “Killoch created his own—rather rich, particularly after the English government’s former ban on wearing them.”

  “Nothing the rich do shocks me,” Teddy replied. “If you’re poor, they call you crazy. But if you’re rich, you’re ‘eccentric.’ ” He picked up his drink. “They say he’s a ghost here on the island, you know.”

  Maggie was a trained mathematician and an agnostic. She wasn’t one to indulge in fantasies about ghosts. “Where did you hear that?”

  “Mrs. McNaughton,” he confided. “She’s worked in the castle since she was a girl. Knew Killoch. She says his ghost lives on.”

  Ramsey’s eyes were locked on the fire again, but Maggie was certain he was listening.

  “Like Herne the Hunter?” she asked, tone light, twirling her sherry glass. In British folklore, Herne the Hunter was a ghost associated with Windsor Castle’s Forest and Great Park. He was said to wear a crown of antlers, ride a horse, torment cattle, and rattle chains. “Well, it wouldn’t be Scotland without rumors of a ghost, now, would it?”