The Prisoner in the Castle

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The P.M. rose from the water and stepped out of the tub, dripping over the tiles. Frain looked away from the naked body and reached to hand him a towel.

  Churchill wrapped it around himself. “But it will all mean nothing if a single German spy is able to leave Britain with any of our secrets.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  “Do you?” The P.M. sighed.

  Frain grabbed the Prime Minister’s robe from a hook and held it out for him. “I understand the stakes involved, sir.”

  Churchill slipped into the green silk robe embroidered with dragons and cinched the belt around his protruding midsection. “This Nazzi bugger must be stopped. He must be captured and then either turned or executed. Do you understand?”

  “I do, sir.”

  The Prime Minister shoved his damp feet into velvet slippers. “And what about our other German spy? Hitler’s Nightingale? Our little opera diva?” He was referring to Clara Hess, a high-level Abwehr spy who had been captured by the British but was rumored to have escaped from her prison during a fire. Clara Hess was also Maggie Hope’s mother.

  “We have every reason to assume she’s dead, sir.”

  “I don’t believe that for a minute.” Churchill shuffled to the bathroom door, then gazed at his spy chief. “And neither do you. But that’s for another day. Right now, this spy on the Scottish coast is your number one priority. Understand?”

  Frain opened the door for him. “Yes, sir,” he called as Churchill’s slippered feet padded down the hall.

  Chapter Ten

  Everyone gathered around the leaping fire in the castle’s great room. Maggie was the exception. Standing alone at the mullioned windows, she stared out at the darkening sky. She leaned on the window, her forehead hot against the cool glass pane. Her nerves were jangled, her stomach a roiling mix of fear and dread. And her mind raced, struggling to make sense of it all. Had Helene accidentally overdosed on the sleeping powder? Had she committed suicide? Or was she murdered?

  Beside her was a bronzed brass telescope on a tripod; she put her eye to the glass, looking out to the horizon. The waves were churning and the sky a greenish purple bruise. Here are the facts: five people are dead in four days. One might be an accident, but five? In such a short period of time? No, Helene’s death couldn’t have been an accident. Could Camilla—She heard Leo’s voice calling. “Miss Hope? Care to join us?”

  A harsh gust of wind battered the windows, and the velvet curtains ballooned toward her as though they wanted to wrap around her and keep her imprisoned in the castle forever. Maggie shook off their damp touch, then strode across the great room, to the inglenook fireplace and the other prisoners.

  “Another death,” Quentin breathed, holding Monsieur Reynard close. “Ever get the feeling you’re being hunted?”

  “We’re being killed off,” Anna announced in a monotone. “One by one. And because we’re trapped on this island, we’re sitting ducks.”

  “Fish in a barrel,” Teddy agreed.

  “Please.” Torvald hopped down from his chair to stab at the flaming logs with the poker. “No more clichéd metaphors.”

  Ramsey, mute as always, was standing slightly apart from the group, gazing up at the shark and harpoon.

  “Marcus Killoch’s back,” Anna insisted. “If he ever left at all.”

  “Nonsense,” snapped Leo. His face was stone.

  Anna was undeterred. “It has to be Killoch. Or his ghost.”

  “Marcus Killoch’s dead,” Sayid reminded her. “And there are no such things as ghosts.”

  “Maybe it’s his twin,” Camilla suggested.

  “It’s never a twin,” declared Quentin. “Don’t you ever read mysteries? There are rules, you know.”

  “Not here, apparently,” Camilla retorted.

  “Besides,” Maggie interposed, “if Marcus Killoch had a brother, the newspaper clipping Quentin showed us would surely have mentioned it.”

  “Is he dead, really? How do you know? He could still be here—living off the land—” Anna broke off. “Like she said, we’ve all trained to do it.”

  Maggie took another hard look at Camilla. She appeared pale and scared, true, but that could be feigned. She could be the murderer. She could have added extra Veronal to Helene’s glass by the bed while the room was empty. But why? Again, what’s the motive?

  Mrs. McNaughton entered and began clearing teacups and saucers. “Is it at all possible?” Anna asked the housekeeper. “Could Marcus Killoch still be alive?”

  Mrs. McNaughton blanched, but before she could answer, her husband shouted from the hallway, “You have no business with things that don’t concern you, Sassenach!”

  Mrs. McNaughton straightened and whirled, eyes flashing. “Angus!”

  The Scotsman glared at her. “It’s true—what happened here is none of their damn business. And what are they all doing here anyway? Waiting out the war with their gin and whiskey and their dinners and their books, being waited on hand and foot while the real soldiers are putting their lives on the line?”

  Mrs. McNaughton flinched. “Hush, an duine agam,” she said to her husband. It was clearly an argument they’d had many times before. He grunted, then thumped down the hallway to the stairs to the kitchen. She followed, carrying the tray.

  There was an uncomfortable silence, then Leo stood and walked to Torvald, towering over the dwarf. “Last night you had the audacity to accuse me—and then Helene—of having motive for killing Ian Lansbury! Well, now she’s dead. What’s your little theory now?” He sneered, a cruel smile twisting his lips.

  Torvald stood his ground. “I’m sorry for your loss, Mr. Kingsley. We were all terribly upset—I was upset. I meant no disrespect—”

  For a moment, Maggie feared Leo might strike the small man. He lifted his hand—then lowered it abruptly, stalking away from the group to the piano. He sat, rubbing cold hands together, then holding his fingers over the keys.

  “Well.” Sayid looked up. “There’s only one way to be sure it isn’t Marcus Killoch, isn’t there? To prove the null hypothesis?”

  Anna and Torvald looked at him, clearly bewildered. Maggie sighed inwardly. If that’s what we’ve been reduced to…well, I suppose some action is better than sitting around fretting ourselves into a frenzy. She sank into a worn-velvet chair and explained, “To disprove all theories until the one left must be true,” she explained. “We could do that—we could go to the tomb.”

  Camilla blanched.

  “You surely aren’t suggesting—” Anna, too, appeared horrified.

  “Yes. To rule out Marcus Killoch as the murderer, we must prove he’s dead and buried.”

  At the piano, Leo struck a series of ominous chords. Sayid ignored him. “Exactly, Miss Hope. Let’s go now—before the rain begins.”

  “I won’t be joining you,” Torvald declared, settling into a chair. “Short legs and all—I’ll just hold you up.”

  “How did you ever manage to get through SOE training, old thing?” asked Leo.

  Torvald gave an enigmatic smile but did not reply.

  “While you lot are gone, Monsieur Reynard and I will search the house,” offered Quentin.

  “Our rooms?” Leo rejoined acidly.

  “I’m thinking the cellar. The attic. The library. Maybe there are some clues there. It’s where I found the newspaper article, after all.”

  Maggie looked around the room, noting one absence. “Where’s Ramsey?”

  “He was just here, wasn’t he?” Teddy checked the shadows. “It’s probable all of this upheaval has upset him. He most likely went upstairs.”

  “Why don’t you make sure he’s all right?” Maggie told the older man. “You shouldn’t go out in this wind, especially with your arthritis.” She faced the remainder of the group—Sayid, Leo,
Anna, and Camilla. “As for the rest of us—let’s go.”

  * * *

  —

  “The storm will probably hit sometime after sundown,” Leo observed, sniffing the air like a hound as the group left the castle. He’s right, Maggie thought. It was clear something was coming and soon. The winds were cold and damp, and ashen clouds massed above a greenish sea. Gannets dive-bombed fish in the bay, and in the distance, Maggie thought she spotted a school of porpoises breaking the churning waves.

  As they turned onto a narrow path that kinked and twisted, Anna shivered in her oversize oilskin. “Is this really a good idea—”

  “Look, you’re the one insisting whoever’s doing this is Marcus Killoch. We’re doing this for you.” Leo didn’t bother to conceal his annoyance.

  “We’ll make better time if we don’t speak,” Maggie suggested. In silence, the five prisoners made their way through the woods, then over a soggy field.

  “Fair is foul, and foul is fair; hover through the fog and filthy air,” Sayid mumbled.

  Camilla wrapped her arms around herself and shuddered. “I don’t think quotes from the so-called Scottish Play will help.”

  “We’re trained agents,” Maggie said. “Let’s just consider this a mission.”

  They passed the crofters’ gardens, called “lazy beds”—at one time, the residents had grown hay, oats, barley, and potatoes. “These wretched people.” Sayid gazed at the empty cottages, abandoned and in disrepair. “Lordism is what killed them off.”

  Leo cleared his throat. “I don’t want to get into the rights and wrongs of big estates, but in his heyday, Killoch and his like employed hundreds of people. Those who worked for Killoch and his ilk were better off here than they would have been almost anywhere else.”

  Sayid’s eyes flashed. “You think so, do you?” He passed the crowbar he was carrying from one hand to the other.

  “It wasn’t ideal, but a tyrannical society was most likely better than the Glasgow slums.”

  “No lectures from you, please.” There was an edge to Sayid’s voice.

  “Gentlemen,” Maggie interrupted. “The argument over hunting estates is pointless now—very few, if any, will be left after the war. It’s an era that’s passed and will never come again. And maybe it’s a good thing.”

  The little group climbed the steep path to the headland, cutting over dry stone walls, skirting scrambles of windblown pine. On the cliffs, the wind felt raw. Maggie checked her watch, then held it to her ear. There was no tick; it was dead. Probably due to the damp. She gazed up to the leaden sky. “We only have a few hours of daylight left. I don’t know how long it will take at the tomb, so we need to hurry.”

  “We’re almost there,” said Camilla.

  It was true. They had reached the westernmost point of the island, with its rocky promontory, the sea below pounding the chasms on each side. On the outcrop rose a polished sandstone, Doric-inspired temple; the name KILLOCH was carved on the top lintel in English Gothic letters. Maggie, Sayid, and Leo stopped to stare. Behind them trailed Anna and Camilla.

  Camilla clapped her gloved hands together for warmth. “We just need to know if there’s a body in there.”

  “I understand,” Maggie said. “I don’t think Marcus Killoch is alive, let alone murdering anyone—still, for Anna’s peace of mind, we can rule it out.”

  “Even if there’s a body, there still could be a ghost,” Anna murmured.

  “No such thing as ghosts,” Maggie proclaimed, but her face looked troubled.

  There was a padlock on Marcus Killoch’s tomb. They didn’t have a key, but that was hardly a problem.

  “Remember the lock picker at Arisaig House?” Maggie laughed nervously as she jammed at the lock with an awl she’d brought. “What was his name? I swear he came directly from prison.”

  “The one from Aberdeen?” Leo responded. “Billy Donovan?” Donovan was a career criminal retained by SOE to teach recruits safecracking, lock picking, and detonation. “Vividly. Especially his foul whiskey breath first thing in the morning.”

  Maggie jiggled the barrel of the lock. “Billy would be so proud of us now—breaking and entering.” She struggled; there was some initial resistance, but she persisted until the tumblers clicked.

  The group appraised one another. “It’s do or die now,” Anna declared. “No pun intended.” Leo rolled his eyes.

  But Sayid had already put his shoulder against the door. It began to move, slowly at first. Then it swung on rusty hinges, the loud screech making them all flinch.

  Leo pulled a flashlight from his coat pocket, illuminating the polished granite interior. “At least we’re not digging up a grave,” Sayid joked, his voice echoing against the stone walls. “Think of all the work that would take, especially in this cold.”

  “It’s just as horrible, though.” Anna crossed herself. She was pale.

  “Yes, but just think of all the shoveling we’re spared…” Sayid deadpanned.

  “That’s completely inappropriate, Dr. Khan!” she cried.

  Maggie put her arm around Anna’s shoulders. “We crossed the borders of inappropriate quite a while ago, my dear.”

  Inside, the space was cramped and the air thick with the unmistakable stench of death. Leo and Sayid approached the elaborately carved marble coffin. Leo held the flashlight, while Sayid pried open the lid with the crowbar. Groaning at its weight, they slid it halfway aside. The emerging odor was foul; they all gasped and recoiled. Maggie clapped her hand over her mouth and nose.

  Sayid paused, then opened the lid the rest of the way. Leo shone the flashlight in for a better look.

  From between her fingers held up to her eyes, Maggie glimpsed the remains of a man dressed in a black wool suit, his bone-thin hands crossed on his chest. Strands of black hair clung to the skull, while dark, vacant sockets gazed up from a face of leathery yellow skin stretched taut over the bones. Still, despite the decomposition, it was unmistakably the Marcus Killoch of the castle’s painting.

  “Well,” Leo said, trying for a light tone despite the greenish tinge of his face, “unless Sir Marcus is a vampire, he’s definitely not doing any killing.” He turned and left the tomb.

  Maggie couldn’t bear it anymore. She bolted out, doubling over and gulping in the sweet, cold air. As Anna joined her, a slight movement to the side made Maggie straighten. There, at the edge of a field, she glimpsed a figure slipping away, vanishing into the darkness.

  “Did you see that?” she asked Anna.

  Leo was retching into the grass. “See what?” he gasped.

  “Someone was watching us.”

  He looked around. “Are you sure?”

  It was twilight. Her brain had been deprived of oxygen from the stale tomb. What had she really seen? A stag? A tree branch? A shadow? “No,” Maggie admitted. “Or maybe it was a deer. Either way, let’s get out of here.” She squinted up at the sky. “I’d like to get back before sundown. And the storm.”

  Sayid replaced the lid of the coffin, then exited and pulled on the heavy door of the tomb. It closed with the same unholy bird-shriek as when it had been opened and then a resounding bang. “There’s not enough whiskey in all of Scotland to make me forget that stench,” he panted.

  Leo turned to Anna. “Are you happy now?” he demanded.

  Anna was trembling. “She’s not happy,” Maggie snapped, wrapping her arm around the younger woman. “There’s nothing happy about any of this.”

  “Well,” Leo amended, keeping his sarcastic gaze locked on Anna, “are you now convinced Marcus Killoch is dead and entombed?”

  “Yes,” she replied. “But that makes it even worse, doesn’t it?”

  “How so?” Leo asked as the group began the long trek back across the island. There was a hissing sound above them, and then the rain began pelting down, drenching them in mom
ents. As a pack, they moved quickly, their breathing ragged. Maggie could hear the drops hitting the leaves; the rain mixed with the sweat on her face.

  “Because,” she said, “if it’s not Killoch”—the wind gusted through the syrupy-smelling pine trees—“then it means the killer must be one of us.”

  Chapter Eleven

  At the castle’s great doorway, flanked by two bronze eagles with beaks like daggers, Maggie stopped. “I need some air,” she said by way of explanation as the others pushed inside, turning instead to walk the covered pathway surrounding the castle. It had ostensibly been built so ladies could stroll outside even during the rain.

  She paused at the low wall directly opposite the bay and leaned over to see the colors of the island draining to yellow, sepia, and gray as the light faded. The shore was furry with tall, dead grasses, and the waters swelled with large white-capped waves. In the lengthening shadows, the surrounding trees seemed almost human, like the gnarled apple-throwing ones in The Wizard of Oz. The air had a salty, ozone-charged scent. A few deer had the tenacity to graze, backlit by the dim light like Balinese shadow puppets. I’m terrified, Maggie admitted to herself.

  Knowing she’d soon be cooped up inside by the storm, and craving a last breath of fresh air, Maggie walked from the castle down the path to the sallow grasses and hairy, lichen-covered rocks until she reached the wooden dock. A black shearwater flexed on a rock, wings outstretched, eyeing her warily. The wind was picking up, and the breaking waves looked like white horses on the green sea, tossing The Bonnie Claire like a toy. She half-expected to see a mythical sea creature with three loops, as drawn in the oceans on the castle’s great globe, break the surface. There’s something both seductive and terrifying about an island, Maggie realized. Just as you lose touch with the troubles and worries of the mainland, you also lose touch with real life. On an island, anything can happen. As she shivered and turned back toward the castle, she spotted rabbits crouched frozen in the grass, still as stones. They hopped away as a figure approached her.