The Prisoner in the Castle

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “Perhaps we should add nursery rhyme study to our poetry-reciting afternoons, Miss Hope?”

  If he only knew how much I look forward to our once-a-week poetry meetings in the library. “Perhaps.”

  Teddy glanced up. “Oh, one in particular used to give me the chills—Ding dong bell, pussy’s in the well. Who put her in? Little Johnny Flynn.” He chuckled. “And, as we all know, cats can’t swim.” Next to him, Ramsey remained silent, his eyes fixed on the flickering candles.

  “All of Mother Goose gave me nightmares,” Helene added. “I remember them vividly—Here comes a candle to light you to bed. Here comes a chopper to chop off your head….” She shuddered. “Ghastly.”

  Anna took a seat next to Teddy, and soon they were joined by Torvald Hagan. Only four feet tall, he had straight white-blond hair, saucer-shaped blue eyes, short limbs, and a long torso. Torvald scrambled up onto his chair, cleared his throat, and quoted in deep plummy tones: “On looking up, on looking down, She saw a dead man on the ground; And from his nose unto his chin, The worms crawl’d out, the worms crawl’d in.”

  “Good evening to you, too, Mr. Hagan,” said Teddy drily.

  Nine of the ten prisoners were present. There was an empty place at the table, the one usually occupied by Ian. “Shouldn’t we wait for Mr. Lansbury?” Anna asked.

  “He’s undoubtedly still out hunting,” Helene replied. “Fancies himself a bit of a Hemingway. We should start without him.” She glanced to Leo. “I’m famished.”

  “I hate to think of him eating and sleeping outside,” Anna said as she spread her linen napkin in her lap, “like an animal.”

  “He likes it that way,” Helene replied with a smirk. “Trust me.” Anna scowled, but didn’t respond.

  The castle’s gamekeeper, Angus McNaughton, entered carrying an enormous porcelain tureen. McNaughton was tall and thick, like an ancient oak. His hair and eyebrows were sprigs of frosted lichen, his face serious as a gravestone. He, his wife, and their son lived in the ghillie’s cottage not far from the castle and had been kept on to maintain the prison. With massive scarred hands, McNaughton served the first course, nettle and wild garlic soup.

  His son, Murdo, poured the wine. Murdo was somewhere in his late teens or early twenties, his face twisted with a sour expression he didn’t bother to conceal. He was taller than his father, his long dark brown hair falling over a high forehead.

  “Nursery rhymes,” Maggie pointed out as McNaughton ladled steaming soup into her bowl, “are all rather ominous, aren’t they? ‘Jack and Jill went up a hill to fetch a pail of water,’ for instance. Jack falls down and breaks his crown, and Jill comes tumbling after—but is there any chance they were pushed?” She looked up to the older man. “Thank you. It smells delicious.” McNaughton grunted something in reply and moved to the next bowl.

  “Sounds like an Agatha Christie novel,” Teddy interjected. “I finished one today—Ten Little Niggers.”

  Maggie drew in a sharp breath on hearing that particular word, especially after her experiences in Washington, D.C., with Mrs. Roosevelt and the attempted execution of a colored man in Virginia.

  “Was it any good?” Quentin inquired. “I adore murder mysteries.”

  “Perfection. That Christie is a national treasure.”

  “Speaking of national treasures, I propose a toast!” Leo exclaimed, picking up his wineglass. “To dear old Captain Eric Sykes, that bespectacled, gray-haired gentleman who taught us all how to kill silently, blow up bridges, and live off the land. Although stags are the biggest beasts to hunt on this island, with Sykes’s training, they don’t stand a chance. To Captain Sykes!”

  “To Captain Sykes!” those around the table chorused, while Ramsey merely lifted his glass.

  “He taught us to shoot .22 and .45 caliber handguns without using the sights,” Hagan recalled.

  “Knifes and garrotes, too,” Helene added, almost wistfully.

  Quentin nodded. “Explained the musculature of the human body and its most vulnerable points.”

  “Fight with your hands open—and always use your fingers. And then knee him in the crotch!” Maggie said in a broad Manchester accent. “Remember?”

  “He was a good soul,” pronounced Anna. Then she crossed herself. “Despite all the men he must have murdered.”

  “Remember when that trainee from Aberdeen wanted salmon and didn’t have any luck catching any?” asked Maggie.

  Teddy leaned in. “Do tell, Miss Hope.”

  She blotted her lips with her napkin. “He took some dynamite to the loch and blew it up, scattering fish everywhere. Scores of them floated on the surface and he just scooped them up with a net.”

  “As a self-proclaimed piscator,” said Teddy, shaking his head in dismay, “I die a thousand deaths upon hearing that story. There’s no elegance, no finesse in what he did. It’s absolutely horrifying.”

  “Sykes thought it showed great ingenuity, if I recall correctly,” Sayid pointed out. “Don’t copy the way they do things in Hollywood, he’d always say.”

  Their reminiscences were interrupted by the entrance of their current commanding officer, Captain Evans. “Ladies and gentlemen—” he began. Everyone at the table quieted and turned their candlelit faces to him. “I’d like to introduce you to the newest member of our little club.” A young blond woman stepped out from behind him. “Please allow me to present Miss Camilla Oddell.”

  “Oh, I didn’t realize we were in mufti,” she told them in a silvery, high-pitched voice. She was still wearing her brown FANY uniform and looked as if she were barely out of her teens.

  There was a chorus of How do you dos from those assembled at the table, and the men all rose as Camilla nodded, smiling shyly.

  “Please join us, Miss Oddell.” Maggie indicated the empty chair to her right, set for Ian. The blonde did, smiling at Maggie, who did not find it at all sincere. Miss Oddell is new here, she reminded herself. And nervous. Give her a chance.

  As Murdo cleared the soup bowls, the senior McNaughton served the main course: venison, charred on the outside, red and bloody on the inside, dark juices pooling on the platter.

  “I’ll leave you to your dinner then,” the Captain said and walked out.

  They all turned to their meal, silverware scraping against the plates and glasses clinking. “I’m concerned about Mr. Lansbury,” Anna said again, after a moment. “Shouldn’t he be back by now?”

  “Well, he can’t get lost.” Teddy picked up his glass. “It’s an island, after all.”

  Anna frowned. “He’s always back by supper.”

  Leo rolled his eyes. “Dinner,” he corrected. “And Ian has always been one of those rustic chaps—good with guns and crossbows and the like. We trained together. He excelled in all of that outdoorsman lore—snares for rabbits and such.”

  “Ugh, I hated the wilderness survival part of the training.” Anna shivered. “The poor little bunnies.”

  “Best to call them ‘hares,’ ” Leo replied. “It’s not as if they’re characters in a Beatrix Potter tale. And, if push comes to shove, it’s better to kill a rabbit—or a fish, or a deer, for that matter—than starve.”

  “I was a vegetarian at school,” Torvald offered. “For nine years, can you believe?”

  “What happened?” Maggie asked, noting the gristle on his plate.

  “I became very, very hungry.” Those around the table laughed. “But,” he continued, “if I was to eat meat, I realized I had to do the whole business—be accountable. I needed not just to hunt, but also to be able to skin, gut, and quarter the beasts I brought down.”

  “You can hunt?” Leo said, eyebrows rising in amazement that someone of Torvald’s slight stature could do such a thing.

  “I might need a ladder to reach a high shelf,” Torvald retorted, “but I’m every bit as capable a hunter as you!”r />
  “I hunt with my camera,” Sayid intervened. He’d brought a Leica to the island, Maggie knew, with a thirty-six-frame roll of 35-millimeter film. He was careful to take just a photograph or two each time he went out to shoot, as film was so dear.

  “You’ve never hunted markhor? Or ibex, with those beautiful curved horns?” Leo cried in mock horror. “Isn’t that what you lot hunt in India?”

  Sayid didn’t take the bait. “I grew up in London—Bloomsbury, actually,” he countered. “It’s my father who came from India. But I find taking photographs is just as satisfying—and with far less blood.”

  “Still, doesn’t stop you from eating your venison, now, does it?” Leo persisted.

  “Not at all,” Sayid replied amicably, taking another bite.

  Helene picked up her wineglass. “No talk of blood at the table, if you please!”

  “I—” Camilla cleared her throat and wiped a thin trickle of pinkish juice from her chin with her napkin. “I was wondering just what sort of camp this is—”

  There was an awkward silence as the group exchanged looks. Is it possible she doesn’t know? Maggie wondered.

  “It’s a rather ragtag group, I’m afraid—” Teddy began.

  Maggie cut in. “I used to be an instructor at Arisaig House, getting the trainees in shape. If you’d like to go swimming,” she told the newcomer, “I’m up and out every morning at first light. You’re welcome to join me.”

  “Swimming?” Camilla exclaimed. “In winter?”

  “Just take it slowly if you’re not used to it. You’ll need to build up tolerance to the cold. And then, at a certain point you enjoy it, believe it or not,” Maggie assured her.

  “I’ve seen you swimming in the bay,” Torvald told Maggie, “like a mermaid.”

  “From the windows,” Anna added, “your head like a bobbin, cutting the fabric of the water. Most impressive crawl.”

  Maggie smiled her thanks. “I started in Arisaig, but I kept it up in London, at the Ladies’ Pond in Hampstead Heath.”

  “But what about training?” Camilla appeared confused. “For our eventual missions? When the danger’s passed?”

  The table was silent.

  “Ladies and gentlemen—” Quentin put Monsieur Reynard down as he pulled a slip of paper from the breast pocket of his dinner jacket. “I found something interesting today…”

  “Doing your own ‘hunting’ in the castle’s attic?” Helene asked. “I don’t know why you’d want to wear a dead man’s clothes.”

  “He can’t wear them anymore. Might as well make use of them.” Quentin looked down at the fox, whose glass eyes seemed to twinkle in the candlelight. “Monsieur Reynard agrees. And, yes, I do like to go through Killoch’s old clothes—all that gorgeous Harris tweed and Jermyn Street tailoring. However, this is something a bit different.”

  “What is it?” Teddy asked, as Quentin unfolded a yellow newspaper clipping.

  “We were all told Marcus Killoch died on this island,” Quentin continued. “But what we weren’t told was that he murdered his invited guests. And then he shot himself.”

  Someone cursed softly. Anna gasped, and Torvald dropped his fork. “May I see?” Maggie asked.

  Quentin handed her the scrap of paper. “Ten guests plus Killoch died—the police ruled it a murder-suicide.” He looked around the table. “Just like us—we are also ten.” He gestured to each in turn: “Miss Hope, Dr. Khan, Miss Oddell, Mr. Novak, Miss O’Malley, Mr. Hagan, Mrs. Poole-Smythe, Mr. Kingsley, and Mr. Crane. And I.”

  Anna added, “And Mr. Lansbury, of course.”

  “Of course. Although that makes eleven.” Quentin shook his head. “Less like Miss Christie.”

  Maggie scanned the article. “It says one of the victims was Killoch’s wife. I had no idea he was married.”

  “I believe the portrait of the woman on the staircase is his wife,” Leo said.

  “La Dame de Poisson-Tête?” Helene quipped. “Now there’s a woman who must have been the embodiment of patience, what with all her husband’s stalking and the taxidermy.”

  “This—this house is the scene of a mass murder?” Anna squeaked. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!”

  “The island,” said Quentin, retrieving the clipping. “It doesn’t say exactly where anyone was killed.”

  As Murdo cleared the plates and McNaughton brought in a tart apple jelly, Quentin asked him, “Weren’t you around at the time the murders would have taken place, McNaughton? When Marcus Killoch murdered everyone and then killed himself?”

  “Aye,” McNaughton replied, not looking up from his duties. “I grew up on this island, one of a long line of crofters. Became the ghillie and boatman when Sir Marcus’s father bought the island. Helped out with the hunts and fishing expeditions.”

  “Well?” Quentin insisted. “What happened?”

  “Don’t know,” McNaughton replied.

  “How could you not know?”

  The older man shrugged. “I was living in the ghillie’s cottage. We didn’t have much to do with Sir Marcus and his set, just used the horses to cart their dead beasts back to the castle. Kept separate we were, although he’d always say hello or ask after the family if we crossed paths.”

  “So he was a polite murderer,” Quentin quipped. “But surely there must have been people working at the castle, who witnessed what happened? There must have been talk…”

  “Long time ago, sir,” McNaughton mumbled. “Best not to speak of such things.”

  “Is—is Sir Marcus buried here? On the island?” Anna ventured. “In the graveyard behind the church?”

  “No, lass.” McNaughton’s steely eyes met hers. “He wasn’t buried on consecrated ground—had a tomb built near the western cliffs.”

  “I’ve seen that crypt,” Maggie remembered, “on one of my walks. It’s beautiful, in a desolate sort of way.”

  “Any…ghosts on this island?” Anna asked McNaughton in a tight voice.

  “This is Scotland, miss. The whole blasted country’s haunted.”

  * * *

  —

  After dinner, Maggie, Anna, Helene, and Camilla gathered in the drawing room as the men retired to play billiards, drink port, and smoke cigars. The room was one of the few places in the castle without animal heads, although Maggie had never liked it. It was chock-full of gilt mirrors, dusty chandeliers, and twisting ormolu candelabra; the hands of the grandfather clock, intricately painted in cerulean and gold, had long been still. The murky-green wallpaper had a repeating trellis pattern on it that always reminded her of the bars of a cage.

  Instead of hunt paintings, the drawing room was hung with moody seascapes—ships caught in the wrath of storms, threatened by terrifying high waves and lightning. At least there was a warming blaze in the fireplace behind a long brass fender. The four women sat in brocade chairs, upholstered in patterns of emerald and oxblood red, drawn close to the hearth, and watched as the flames caught and grew. On the dusty marble mantel, a frozen clock face stared uselessly back at them.

  “I caught a peek at one of the films brought for this month’s viewing,” Camilla offered. “Something called Next of Kin.”

  Helene stifled a yawn. “Oh, Next of Kin, again?”

  It wasn’t Maggie’s favorite either. In it, a gossipy housewife is overheard by a Nazi spy while talking about what her son is doing, the slogan Loose lips sink ships taking on new meaning.

  “Agreed,” Maggie replied, picking up a paperweight from the side table; a scarab beetle trapped in amber. “It’s more likely viewers will swear off attending the cinema rather than gossip.” She put the weight back.

  “It is a little frightening, though,” Anna countered. “Don’t you think? The idea that somebody’s always listening, always picking up scraps of information. Really brings home how dangerous careless talk can be.” Sh
e giggled. “Not to sound paranoid, but—”

  “I thought we’d come have coffee with you ladies,” Quentin said, entering with the fox tucked under his arm.

  “Of course,” Maggie replied, smiling. “Delighted to have you. I’ve always hated the convention of separating the sexes after dinner.” Quentin sat next to the women on another plush chair as Mrs. McNaughton entered with a tarnished silver tray.

  “Convention keeps us from becoming savages, I suppose,” Anna offered.

  Helene snorted. “We are savages, my dear. We kill people for a living, after all. Or at least, we used to.”

  As Mrs. McNaughton, Angus’s wife and Murdo’s mother, poured the chicory coffee into chipped demitasse cups, Maggie offered: “Leigibh dhomh—please, let me. You have enough to do.”

  “It’s no trouble, Miss Hope,” the housekeeper answered, continuing to pour and hand each person a fragile cup. She was a thin woman, with brown hair streaked with silver drawn back under a white cap. Her dress was plain and black, and a small gold crucifix hung around her neck. Her cheeks were flushed from the heat of the kitchen and she had scars and burns on her calloused hands.

  Maggie had learned from their talks after her Gaelic lessons that Mrs. McNaughton’s Christian name was Fiona, her maiden name was Morrison, and she was originally from Tolsta, a town on the Isle of Lewis. As a young girl, she’d gutted and packed herring in Stornoway before she’d come to Scarra to work as a maid in the castle.

  “I must agree with you, Miss Hope, on not separating the sexes. I quite like an after-dinner brandy in the company of handsome young men myself,” Helene purred, lounging back and fitting a cigarette into her ivory holder. “As well as the occasional cigar.”

  I’m sure you do, Maggie thought. Quentin caught Maggie’s expression and snorted, then pretended to cough.

  Helene allowed him to light her cigarette and blew out a stream of smoke. “Mrs. McNaughton, were you on the island when the Marcus Killoch murders occurred?”