“Hello, Miss Sanderson. I don’t know if you remember me—”
“Of course I remember you, Detective Durgin,” Sarah interrupted. “You were all over the papers after that bit of business with the Blackout Beast. And you’re a friend of Maggie’s.” She made a graceful motion with one hand. “Please, sit.”
They both did. “Go ahead and smoke if you’d like—I’m sure I can find an ashtray around here somewhere…”
“Thank you, but I don’t smoke. And I’m here to ask you about Maggie, er, Miss Hope.”
“Maggie?” Sarah looked up. “Is she all right?”
“Well, the thing is, no one’s been able to contact her. When was the last time you saw her?”
“We returned from a…trip…in June. We arrived in London on June twenty-second, to be exact.”
“So June twenty-second was the last time you saw her?”
“Yes, we were dropped off at her house on Portland Place.” Sarah seemed lost in sadness. “I went upstairs, to my room, and stayed in that night, but she left for drinks with someone—and never came back.”
“Who did she go out with?”
“Someone from SOE—Special Operations Executive.”
“Do you know who?”
“No, I’m afraid I don’t remember his name.”
“Could you describe him?”
She closed her eyes, as though to conjure the man. “I’m sorry…I never actually saw him.”
Durgin leaned forward. “But Miss Hope never returned home that night? You didn’t see her after that?”
“No. I don’t think she came home at all, not even to change her clothes. I would have heard her.”
“And you weren’t…alarmed?”
Sarah considered. “Maggie has had some interesting jobs. Since the war’s started she, well—let’s just say she comes and goes.” The dancer turned her dark eyes to his. “And quite frankly, I’ve my own issues to deal with. I lost someone recently. My fiancé. He was killed.” She began to pick at the hem of her skirt.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Miss Sanderson.”
“Thank you.” Sarah blinked away tears. Then, “Maggie—she’s all right though, yes?”
“I’m trying to locate her. You may have heard that Nicholas Reitter has pleaded not guilty to multiple homicides. And so we need Miss Hope to appear in court, as a witness.”
Sarah’s eyes widened. “The Blackout Beast?”
“Yes. Without Miss Hope’s testimony, it’s possible he could go free.”
Sarah took a soft breath and then shook her head. “I wish I could help you, Detective. I’m afraid I’ve been lost in my own world for the past several months.”
“Do you know who she reported to at SOE?”
“Yes, Colonel Harry Gaskell. His office’s at Sixty-four Baker Street. If Maggie’s still working for SOE, he’d know where she is.”
Durgin stood. “Thank you, Miss Sanderson. I’ll let myself out.”
Sarah’s brow furrowed as she rose. “You don’t really believe anything’s happened to Maggie, do you?”
“I’m not jumping to conclusions, Miss Sanderson,” he replied. “You shouldn’t, either.”
She studied his face, but said nothing.
“Thank you for your help.” Hat in hand, he walked to the door, then stopped. “By the way, your other flatmate, Mrs. Ludlow, wanted me to convey her regards.”
“Oh, good old Chuck…”
“She’s quite worried about you. If you could see your way to writing her a note or giving her a ring—”
“I will, Detective Chief Inspector. Thank you. And please let me know when you find Maggie.”
* * *
—
In the grudging wintry morning light, the island was a brooding, lonely place. A knife-edged wind carried the sweet smell of decay as Maggie finished her run, clutching her side and breathing heavily, finding a seat on a flat stone that looked out over the bay. Above, a peregrine swooped by, something small and dark clutched in his talons, as the shearwaters and seagulls screeched.
She was soon joined by a black and white osprey, gazing over a rock like a helmeted guard peering over a rampart. In the gloom behind her, the castle was a fever dream of paving bricks playing at being battlements, candle-snuffer turrets, and bow windows—ugly and yet still somehow eerily powerful.
Maggie turned back to the sea, her eyes on the whalebones and driftwood among the strands of seaweed tangled in the rocks. At her feet lay a white bird skull, an almost sculptural form with sightless sockets and a great piercing bill, the bones transformed by death and weather. She picked it up; in her hand, it felt impossibly fragile. Gazing out at the water, she thought for an instant she spotted a selkie—but it was a gray seal, who’d shuffled up onto a large flat rock and commenced to bark his sad song. The wind rose, ruffling Maggie’s hair, but she ignored it. The air, although cold, was fresh and preferable to the castle’s moldering interior.
Four dead in three days. She breathed out white clouds. If there’s a murderer on this island, who could it be?
Then she remembered Torvald’s calling out the new girl, Camilla Oddell, as a possible suspect at dinner the night before. Camilla’s the variable, she mused, the only new element in the equation. And yet, she’s so petite, so young—and moreover has no motive….Still, like the rest of us, she’s trained to kill. Could it be Camilla? But why? What could she possibly hope to gain? And why was she sent here?
“Miss Hope!”
She started, then turned. It was Sayid, approaching from the direction of the castle. She knew from his grim expression he came bearing bad news.
“Miss Hope—if you don’t mind—”
“What is it?”
He shook his head. “Please. Come with me.”
Her heart froze. Could it be five? She stood to accompany him, then threw the bird’s skull into the sea. It sank, disappearing into the water without a trace.
* * *
—
“She’s—?” Maggie asked, gazing at the figure lying on the bed. Without makeup, Helene’s face appeared younger, vulnerable, almost childlike. Her skin was white and her eyes were lifeless.
“There’s no pulse and rigor mortis has begun to set in,” Sayid said. “She died sometime during the night.”
Oh, God. Helene. All Maggie longed to do was to weep. Instead, she forced herself to breathe slowly, in and out.
Leo was also in the room, pacing the mottled carpet by the fireplace with its basket of damp wood, wearing striped pajamas mostly concealed by a long paisley silk dressing gown. His jaw was covered in dark stubble, his eyes red and swollen.
“How—?” Maggie asked, blinking back tears.
“When I woke up, she was—” Leo was unable to continue.
“She must have died in her sleep,” Sayid answered for him. “The surrounding covers were undisturbed. I assume it was peaceful.”
The room was much like Maggie’s, full of mismatched tartan and dark wood furniture. A painted still life of a brace of pheasants hung above the dresser. On the bedside table was Helene’s ivory cigarette holder, along with a crumpled pack of Craven “A,” and a stag-horn ashtray filled with lipstick-covered filters.
There was also a glass. It was empty, but at the bottom was a white, powdery substance. Next to it was a small bottle labeled VERONAL. Maggie bent over to sniff, careful not to touch it. “Sleeping powder residue.”
“Yes, I saw,” Sayid replied. “She likely overdosed.”
Leo stopped pacing to turn and address them. “She had insomnia,” he explained. “Dr. Jaeger gave it to her. Said it would help.”
Maggie nodded. “He recommended it to me, as well. Still, don’t touch the glass—when the police arrive, they’ll undoubtedly want to lift prints.”
Gently, Sayid co
vered Helene’s face with the embroidered linen sheet. “She must have taken too much.”
Something’s rotten, Maggie thought. Five dead in four days. Still, it could be suicide, not murder. “Was she particularly distraught over Mr. Lansbury’s death? I realize the two of them were…close.”
“Of course she was distraught! Didn’t you see her? She was grieving!”
“I mean, Mr. Kingsley,” Maggie said, “distraught enough over Mr. Lansbury’s death—and the deaths of the others—enough to do something rash.” The idea of suicide, of being so full of despair you didn’t want to live anymore, was horrifying, yet not completely incomprehensible to Maggie.
“Do you mean, do I think she killed herself over that man?” Leo spat. “No! They’d broken things off some time ago, although that wasn’t public knowledge. She merely wanted to sleep, is all.”
“Were you with her last night?” Before he could object to the question, Maggie said, “Mr. Kingsley, I offer no judgment—just trying to piece together what happened.”
“You were at dinner. You witnessed her. She was upset, yes. But in proportion to everything that’s occurred. You must admit it’s been a, well, upsetting few days.”
That’s an understatement. “What did she do after dinner?”
“We were together. I was…comforting her.”
Maggie refrained from comment. “And then what?”
“And then she wanted to sleep.”
“Did you see her mix the powder and drink it?”
“No,” he replied. “Yes.” Then, “I don’t remember.” He sat in a button-back chair and put his head in his hands. “She used the glass she always did. It had a powdery film in it, but I didn’t think anything of it.”
Could someone have preset sleeping powder in the glass, so that when Helene added hers, it became a lethal dose? While Maggie had never particularly liked Leo, she felt a stab of pity. “Mr. Kingsley,” she urged. “Please think—it could be important.”
Leo lifted his head. “She went to the bathroom to get water from the tap. Then she brought the glass out here and mixed the powder in. She drank it in bed.”
“Did she seem agitated? Upset?” Maggie pressed.
“She was sad. Melancholy. Wistful, even. But I don’t believe she was thinking about killing herself, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I’m very sorry for your loss, Mr. Kingsley,” Maggie offered, walking to him and placing a hand on his shoulder. “Mrs. Poole-Smythe was a vivacious and spirited woman. She will be missed.”
He looked up to her. “Five deaths now! Five! What do your damn mathematical theories say about that, Miss Hope?”
She withdrew her hand. “I—I don’t know,” she admitted. I’m scared, she wanted to say. I’m scared and all I want right now in the entire world is to go home—or at least lock myself in my room. But saying such things aloud would do no good to her or anyone else.
“We’ll need to move her,” Sayid said.
Leo rose. Moving to the bed, he pulled back the sheet and bent to kiss Helene’s cheek. Then he took her long ivory cigarette holder from the table and slipped it into his robe’s breast pocket.
Sayid replaced the sheet. “Steady on, old man,” he urged as Leo walked around to Helene’s feet. “Come now—on the count of three—”
* * *
—
MI-5 was officially known as the Imperial Security Intelligence Service, but no one actually called it that. It was located in a small, anonymous office building at 58 St. James’s Street, but while it looked innocuous, important work happened there, labor crucial to Britain’s wartime safety. MI-5’s mission was to protect Britain against enemy agents, foreign and domestic. And, with the Prime Minister’s blessing, doing so at any cost and by whatever means necessary.
Despite the massive roundup of German spies at the beginning of the war by MI-5 and Scotland Yard, Peter Frain was sure there must be a few still in place. He believed they were sleeper spies, just waiting for that one message from Berlin to tell them their mission.
And now he had proof. Three listening stations had triangulated a transmission coming from the United Kingdom to the German U-boat U-159 in the Atlantic. Radio direction finding, a key tool of signals intelligence, wasn’t magic but seemed like it: by combining information from three receivers, the source of a transmission could be triangulated. The intelligence had been sent to him via motorcycle courier from Hanslope Park, home to His Majesty’s Government Communications Centre, which monitored the Abwehr, the German military intelligence service, around the clock. While the transmission’s location couldn’t be exactly pinpointed, Frain could see it was coming from somewhere on the western coast of Scotland.
The location of the transmission confirmed Frain’s worst fear: a German agent was operating inside the United Kingdom without MI-5’s knowledge. He reread the messages with a sinking heart, then telephoned the senior officers involved in the Double Cross System, a counterespionage and deception operation run by MI-5. Since 1939, when a number of German agents in Britain had been captured, those who could be turned were used by British Intelligence to broadcast disinformation to their Nazi controllers. This campaign was overseen by the Twenty Committee, under the stewardship of John Cecil Masterman. The name of the committee came from the number twenty in Roman numerals: XX for “double-cross.” To the best of the committee’s knowledge, the German agents in the United Kingdom had all been captured and were controlled by the British.
Except for one, now broadcasting from somewhere in western Scotland.
Frain sat at his large oak desk, a reproduction of Goya’s Lord Nelson hanging on the wall behind him next to an official photograph of King George VI. In front of him was a manila folder, thick with papers, all stamped TOP SECRET in heavy red ink.
Frain rubbed at his temples, realizing he also had to tell the Prime Minister. “God damn it,” he muttered. He packed the documents into his leather briefcase, reached for his coat and hat, and barked at his secretary as he left, “Tell our Former Naval Officer”—Winston Churchill’s code name—“that I’m coming to see him at the Annexe. It’s urgent.”
In the taxi, Frain was the picture of composure, except for one muscle, twitching underneath his left eye. The No. 10 Annexe was a flat in the New Public Offices, directly above the underground Cabinet War Rooms, where the Churchills now lived, as Number 10 was considered unsafe due to the Blitz. Frain found Prime Minister Churchill upstairs, in his large Victorian bath.
The P.M. was naked, immersed in steaming water and iridescent bubbles, chewing on an unlit cigar, a crystal tumbler of brandy and soda on a small table within reach, along with a box of wooden matches and an ashtray. Churchill was not the same man Frain had met in 1940—he looked tired and overworked. His once plump face had fallen, and his body sagged with fat.
Frain cleared his throat. “Prime Minister.”
“Sit! Sit!” Churchill growled, splashing with his prune-shriveled hands. Then he bellowed to his typist, Mrs. Tinsley, who was seated outside the bathroom door with her noiseless typewriter propped on her lap. “Go away, Mrs. T! Off with you! Shoo!”
“Yes, sir.” The long-suffering secretary rose and then made her way down the stairs.
The butler pulled out a wooden chair placed in Churchill’s bath specifically for meetings. Frain removed his coat and hat, hung them on a hook, then sat. “Sir,” he began.
“What’s all this now?” the P.M. growled, gnawing on his Romeo y Julieta. “Mr. Greene told me you have urgent news. Be a good man and run some more hot water for me, won’t you? I believe the temperature of my bath has dropped below one hundred and four degrees. Quickly, now, quickly!”
Frain turned on the tap marked HOT. When it was apparently enough, the P.M. jabbed his cigar at him. “Now sit!”
“Yes, sir.” Frain twisted off the tap and retook his
seat.
When Churchill turned to him, blue eyes rimmed with red, Frain took a deep breath and began. “Sir. I’ll cut to the chase. We’ve intercepted a message from somewhere on the western coast of Scotland. It was transmitted to a Nazi U-boat.”
“Damn!” The Prime Minister hit the bath’s surface with his palms, causing water to splash everywhere, including on Frain’s Jermyn Street suit and handmade Italian leather shoes. “I thought you and your boys caught all those Nazzi buggers!” The P.M. had his own idiosyncratic way of saying the word Nazi.
“Apparently not.” Frain backed his chair away from the tub.
“What’s the rat bastard been transmitting?”
“The weather’s been too unpredictable for us to get a clear message or a precise location.”
“And what do you intend to do?” It was not meant as an opening to a prolonged discussion.
“We’re working on the assumption that if a German spy is signaling a U-boat, it’s for a pickup.”
“You needed a degree from Cambridge for that?” the P.M. grumbled. He slurped from the tumbler. “And why would a German spy be signaling for a pickup now?”
“He may have found something of import, something he needs to bring to Canaris’s attention at Abwehr.”
“It means he’s completed his mission!” Another splash of frustration.
“Yes, sir. Most likely, sir.” Frain moved his now-damp shoes away from the swelling puddle.
“And how are you handling our ghost?”
“We’ll be monitoring the situation closely, moving more RDF trucks to the smaller towns on the Scottish coast. With luck, we’ll be able to pick up a more specific message and pinpoint the location. Once we do that, we can head the spy off before a pickup can take place.”
“God damn it!” Churchill swore, reaching for his glass again. He took a greedy drink, then kicked and splashed with hairy toes. “Do you remember when I asked you to come to work for MI-Five?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve done well.”
The Prisoner in the Castle Page 13