The Prisoner in the Castle

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  Maggie thought the cook might spill the coffee, but she did not. Instead, she looked up and asked, “H-how do you know about the murders, ma’am?”

  Quentin volunteered, “I found a newspaper clipping up in the attic today.”

  Mrs. McNaughton muttered something under her breath. Maggie thought it was one of her often-used Gaelic sayings: “Chuir sin an clamhan gobhlach am measg nan cearc,” which translated loosely to “That sets the cat among the pigeons.”

  Quentin placed his cup into its saucer. “Where were you when the murders occurred? Were you on the island?” His thin face glowed with curiosity.

  Mrs. McNaughton inhaled. “Aye, I was working here, sir, in the castle. I was a scullery maid back in the day. But I lived in the village.”

  “I thought everyone died?” Helene pursed her crimson lips to blow a ripple of smoke rings. “How did you manage to survive?” Her tone was casual, but Maggie detected an edge in the older woman’s question.

  “It was…just the guests, ma’am. And Sir Marcus and Lady Beatrix. None of the staff.”

  “You didn’t hear anything?” Helene pressed.

  The Scotswoman continued to serve coffee. But Maggie noted her hands were shaking. “No, ma’am.”

  “Before it happened—did you suspect anything?” Quentin wanted to know. “Did anything seem off?”

  “No, sir. And now, if that will be all—”

  “Do you think Killoch’s ghost haunts the island?” Anna’s voice wobbled. “I swear by all that’s holy I’ve seen a figure in the woods—”

  “The most logical explanation is that it’s your imagination,” Maggie assured her. “The madness of living in nearly constant darkness at this time of year, coupled with not enough to do, would make anyone imagine things that aren’t there.”

  “Darkness is wicked!” Mrs. McNaughton rejoined. Her sudden vehemence made everyone jump.

  “Darkness is just a natural phenomenon,” Maggie said gently. “Due to the revolution of the earth around the sun and the tilt of its axis.”

  As the cook left the room, Maggie heard her mutter under her breath: “The people that walked in darkness have seen a great light: they that dwell in the land of the shadow of death, upon them hath the light shined.”

  Maggie looked to Anna, whose face was bloodless. “The dark is nothing to fear,” Maggie continued, trying to reassure her. “Equating dark with evil is superstition. Besides, we’re coming up on the solstice.” She rose and went to one of the windows, pulling back the blackout curtain. The sky was wild with stars that looked close enough to touch.

  “Darkness is death,” Anna countered with unusual vehemence. “And in the midwinter, light is the birth of Christ—the coming resurrection.”

  “Oh, girls—you’re not going to talk religion, are you?” Helene sipped at her coffee.

  Camilla nodded. “No religion or politics, please.”

  Maggie replaced the curtain and returned to her chair. “Well, what should we talk about then?” She was in no mood for Helene’s airs.

  “We’re British—we should talk about the weather, of course,” ventured Camilla with a smile. “For example, it was a beautiful day today. Good sailing from Mallaig, with clear skies.”

  “Did you have a nice walk?” Anna asked the newcomer.

  “Walk?”

  “I saw you from the window this afternoon—going off alone, into the woods.”

  “Oh, yes.” Camilla tossed her hair. “I just wanted some fresh air and time to think.”

  “Well, you’ll have plenty of both here.” Helene appraised the younger blonde from head to toe. “You really have no idea what you’re in for here, do you? Poor thing.”

  “It’s a…a prison,” Camilla answered, her face crumpling. “That’s what Captain Evans told me.”

  “Something like that.” Quentin clutched the fox close.

  From down the hallway, there was the bang of something heavy falling, the shatter of glass, and then a shout: “Oh my God!”

  Everyone in the drawing room jumped up and ran to investigate. At the entrance to the billiards room stood two enormous elephant-carved doors, studded with ornate brass spikes. Maggie pushed them open. Inside, Captain Evans was lying on his back on the green baize table; his uniform was covered in vomit and his face was contorted and red. At his feet was a broken glass. The sickly-sweet jammy smell of port filled the air. Torvald, Leo, Teddy, and Ramsey stood frozen in a circle around the captain.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God,” Anna breathed.

  Sayid was examining Evans, his fingers on the captain’s neck, trying to find a pulse. Maggie wanted to look away, but her eyes were locked on the unfocused, unseeing ones in front of her.

  Finally, the doctor pulled his hand back. “He’s dead.”

  Camilla gasped. “God in heaven,” whispered Anna. Helene stood frozen in the doorway, eyes glittering.

  Sayid bowed, murmuring, “Inna lillahi was anna ilayhi raji’un.”

  “What the hell does that mean?” Leo exclaimed.

  “It’s an ayat—a verse—from the Koran, recited upon hearing of a death. ‘We are from Allah and to Him are we returning.’ ”

  “What happened?” Helene managed.

  Teddy gestured to the fallen man. “He was watching as I lined up my shot. And then he began gagging and—”

  “He appeared fine at dinner, but was he feeling all right earlier?” Maggie asked, forcing herself to speak despite the icy sensation flooding her. “Does anyone know? Was anyone with him today?”

  “I was,” Camilla ventured. “I don’t know him, of course, but he didn’t seem at all ill…”

  “It looks like he choked,” said Torvald, getting up on a tufted brocade chair to appraise the body.

  “What was he drinking?” Maggie asked.

  “Port—we all were,” Torvald told her.

  “It could be a heart attack,” Sayid suggested. “Captain Evans is—was—the right age, plus he’s overweight, drank, smoked…”

  Maggie walked to the captain; she closed his eyelids gently. “We must get in touch with SOE. Let them know what’s happened.”

  “My goodness!” exclaimed Quentin. “Now no one is in charge. The animals are running the zoo.” He hugged the fox in his arms.

  “We’re civilized people,” Maggie reassured him. “It’s just a terrible accident.”

  Teddy pulled his pipe from his mouth. “Indeed.”

  “Let’s move him to the game larder for now,” Sayid suggested. “I’d like to examine the body more closely.” He glanced to Teddy, Leo, Torvald, and Quentin. “The men can help me carry the body. The rest of you, please go to bed. We’ll figure things out tomorrow.”

  “Wait,” said Maggie. “I know it’s horrible but…I need to check his pockets for the keys.”

  “I’ll do it,” Sayid told her, but he came up with nothing.

  “I’ll find Mrs. McNaughton,” Maggie said. “She must have a spare key to the Captain’s office and the telegraph. I know we’re not supposed to have access, but this is an emergency, after all. With any luck, we can get someone here by tomorrow. We’ll all meet up again in the morning.” Her hair had come loose from its roll and she pushed the straggling curls back into place with trembling hands. “Surely we’ll have a response from the mainland by then.”

  * * *

  —

  The kitchen was Maggie’s favorite part of the castle—big, but oddly homey, its walls a peeling buttery yellow, dented copper pots hanging from the ceiling, coconut matting covering the cold stone floor. “Hello, Sooty,” she said to Mrs. McNaughton’s black cat, a champion mouser. As she passed through, she heard a voice, singing.

  Did you see the modest maiden

  Whom young Neil ravished

  On the top of a mountain on a sunny day�
��

  Alas, O King! That I was not his

  I would not shout out

  Or cry out loud

  Though the bosom of my dress were torn…

  She waited for the song to end, then knocked at the door of the housekeeper’s parlor. “Mrs. McNaughton?”

  “Come in, Miss Hope—”

  Maggie entered. This room was cozy and comfortable, with hand-knit afghans covering furniture in proportion to a normal human’s body, paintings of wildflowers on the walls, a small framed photograph of a dark-eyed boy who had to be Murdo in the place of honor on the mantel—a world away from the grotesque Victoriana upstairs. “I’m so sorry to disturb you…”

  The housekeeper was sitting in front of a popping fire; she was tatting, her rough hands nimble with the needle, thread, and shuttle. She looked up.

  “I’m sorry to have to tell you this, Mrs. McNaughton,” Maggie said. “But Captain Evans is, well—I’m afraid he’s dead.”

  The older woman gasped. “How—what happened? How did he die?”

  “We don’t know,” Maggie told her. “But probably a heart attack. Dr. Khan is moving his body to the game larder; he’ll examine him there.”

  “My word,” Mrs. McNaughton breathed, standing. The lace dropped to the floor.

  “I’ll need to use the radio to contact SOE on the mainland. Do you have the key to his office?”

  The professional mask slipped back over Mrs. McNaughton’s features. “Of course. Please come this way, Miss Hope. I’ll unlock the Captain’s office for you—then I’ll make us tea. I think we can both use it.”

  Tea, the universal solution to any problem, Maggie thought in bleak amusement.

  Mrs. McNaughton led the way to what had once been the butler’s sitting room and pulled out a heavy key ring from her pocket. She found a shiny new key and unlocked the door. “Just let me know when you’re done, miss, and I’ll lock up. Those are the rules.”

  “Of course.” She could pick the lock, as could any of them, but there was a certain honor among thieves.

  In Captain Evans’s office, everything was neat and tidy. Maggie focused on the radio on his desk, a complex-looking construction of wires and dials and knobs. She flipped on several switches, and the device hummed to life, red and yellow lights blinking as it warmed up. She experimented with the dials, trying to pick up a signal. It buzzed for a moment, then crackled.

  She found the microphone and flipped the switch to Transmit. “Come in, Arisaig, come in. Over.” Nothing. “Arisaig, this is Scarra. We have an emergency. Over.”

  There was more hissing. Finally, a woman’s voice, strong and reassuring. Come in, Scarra. Receiving you loud and clear. Over.

  Maggie took a deep breath. “Captain Evans is dead. Over.”

  Static crackled.

  Maggie tried again. “Captain Evans is dead. We think he may have had a heart attack. We’re requesting a boat to bring him back to the mainland tomorrow. Over.”

  There was a hiss over the airwaves. What was that, Scarra? We didn’t copy. Over.

  Maggie forced herself to say the words again. “Captain Evans is dead. Repeat—Captain Evans is dead. Over.”

  The woman in Arisaig couldn’t help herself. My God, that’s terrible! I trained with Captain Evans. We all adored him. Then Er, over.

  “We’ll all miss him, too. We will need a team to take Captain Evans back to the mainland. You’ll need to call his family and the coroner. As soon as possible. Over.”

  The black cat jumped up on the desk and padded over to Maggie, rubbing against her face. “Not now, Sooty!” He flopped down and she absently stroked his head.

  Of course, said the woman. We’ll send a boat at first light tomorrow to pick up Captain Evans. May he rest in peace. Arisaig out.

  Chapter Four

  The next morning, Maggie woke and opened her red damask bedroom curtains. She looked out: it was a clear, blackish blue dawn, the sky still encrusted with stars. Maggie perched on the sill, watching as the sun rose, staining the horizon yellow. Outside was a windy world, the sea thick with foam and the trees coated in frost. The geese had returned from their breeding ground in the far north; she watched them as they rose and fell in the sky in unison, like a piece of cloth lifted by the breeze.

  A note had been slipped under her door.

  Dear Miss Hope,

  I pray last night’s unfortunate events won’t keep you from your first fly-fishing lesson. My view on fishing is that it is necessary for the soul in normal times, but absolutely vital in challenging ones. I will be at Loch Scresort with two rods. I hope to see you there, at your earliest convenience.

  Yours sincerely,

  Theodore Crane

  * * *

  —

  Deciding to forgo her usual morning swim, Maggie endured a harsh cold splashing in rust-hued water. She dressed hurriedly—layers of wool, rough Donegal tweed, an oilcloth, and boots—and ran her fingers through her hair, pulling it back into a ponytail.

  Finally, she escaped, shivering as she left the castle, taking a moment to turn and look at it in the morning light, a red fortress of elephantine proportions with incongruous crenellations, fake battlements, and bartizaned towers. It appeared more like a factory or a Victorian train station than an ancient stronghold, a fortification sketched by a child who had no idea of actual war. Still, the power of the looming, improbable architecture in the light of dawn was considerable.

  She couldn’t help but grin when she remembered how Quentin had named the fortress Ivanhoe’s Nightmare. It was classic Blood Sport Baronial architecture: intimidatingly ugly, inspired by Queen Victoria and Prince Albert’s Scottish hunting lodge Balmoral. Killoch Castle had been built as a playground for the rich, a wild living park created by sport-loving romantics and tweedy buffoons—a salute to a golden age that never was, idealized and reinvented. Along with it came the slaughter of animals for entertainment, not food; needless hunting was the ultimate gentleman’s pastime.

  To Maggie, the Isle of Scarra was isolated, but savagely beautiful—a severed landmass, besieged on all sides by a hostile sea. Sometimes she felt as if she’d reached the end of the world. The harsh, mesmerizing landscape didn’t seem to have changed much over thousands, even millions of years. Until the nineteenth century, the Highlands and Western Isles were seen by many as a mysterious, intimidating, dangerous area, populated, if at all, by barbarians, descendants of the terrifying Picts, tribes so ferocious that the Romans decided to build a wall rather than fight them.

  She alternated walking and running through the dense forest of bracken, her legs burning and breath coming quickly. Away from the castle, she found a connection with an ancient world that hadn’t entirely vanished, the tissue separating the past and present translucent and fragile. History was remarkably present in the landscape’s ability to retain marks of previous lives: Viking burial grounds, remains of crofters’ cottages, a one-room schoolhouse, and a tiny chapel were unchanged by the present.

  The Isle of Scarra was small enough to be explored in a day. On a map of the Hebrides, the tip of a pinkie finger could blot it out. The terrain was rough, with steep hills, the serrated backbone of an ancient volcanic peak at the center resembling the curve of some sleeping monster. The lower parts were covered in narrow glens and bleak peat bogs, and dotted with tiny lochs. There were remains of straggling crofting and fishing communities that had thrived on the isle until the Clearances, the forced eviction of the crofters to Canada in the nineteenth century to make room for sheep grazing. Even more of the residents had been expelled when the island became a private hunting estate.

  Wind whipped at Maggie’s hair, loosening strands from her ponytail. She picked her way over lichen-slick rocks past a line of apple trees, then through a tangle of green rhododendron. Ravens conked, Manx shearwaters screeched, and in the distance, sh
e could hear the crash of waves. Following an abandoned road to a narrow footpath, she wended over peat hollows and sour grass under interlocked canopies of sycamores and pines.

  She stopped, her breathing ragged, ears stinging from the cold. The chilly, humid air was rank with salt and decaying seaweed. Something moved in the shadows—and for a moment, Maggie thought the shape was human. Her mind flashed to Marcus Killoch before dismissing the thought as utter nonsense.

  Still, she could hear noises. Something was there, through the trees, thrashing brush and branches. She inched closer to investigate.

  It was a stag, his winter coat coarse and thick, wearing his antlers like a crown. Fiadh ruadh, she remembered. Among the first things Mrs. McNaughton had taught her were the Gaelic words for “red feet” or deer. Maggie froze; the island’s antlered bucks were large, powerful, and rightly threatening, even when it wasn’t mating season.

  Stepping forward, Maggie could see the problem: the creature’s antlers were tangled in a mess of moss, bracken, and dead leaves. It had fallen over his eyes, blinding him. And now he had backed himself into the underbrush, frustrated and frantic.

  Slowly, she crept closer to the majestic, entrapped beast. “Shhhh…It’s all right.” Maggie could make out the white flash of an eye rolling in fear. “I’m going to help,” she murmured. “I’ll help you so you can see again. Then you’ll be on your way.”

  The deer started and strained but stayed in place, ensnared by the thick bushes, as Maggie inched through the shrubbery. But before she could reach the animal, a shadow sprang up behind her, quick as a mountain cat. A hand clapped over her mouth, muffling her scream. She heard a voice in her ear: “Hush.” She obeyed, caught by surprise and terror.

  An arrow whizzed past her head, burying itself in an ancient oak, flushing a flock of wrens. The stag, startled, violently shook off the bracken and crashed out of the brush, disappearing into the dark forest.

  “You ruined my kill!” Maggie heard as she struggled to free herself. Leo was striding toward her, scowling. A vein throbbed on his temple. “I nearly had him!”