Even before she could make out Sayid’s face, she recognized his height, the muscular heft of his shoulders, the jut of his jaw. Nearer, she saw him smile, a dazzling transformation of his countenance from a scowl into something much warmer and more inviting. Once he reached her, she realized he carried the scent of fresh sweat and laundry soap. No, this is not the man for you, she told herself.
“I know you’re a good swimmer,” he joked, gesturing at the roiling water, “but you’ll never make it to the mainland, not with this weather rolling in.”
Maggie smiled. “I respect the current, tides, and whirlpools—that’s why I always keep to the bay.”
“I’ve seen you, you know. You wear a blue hat with pom-poms.”
“I realize my cap’s ridiculous,” she admitted. “But it keeps my ears warm. Everything feels fine once you’re submerged. It’s just your head that gets cold.”
He looked to the churning breakers and shivered. “I don’t understand how you do it. Or why you do it, for that matter.” He had to speak up over the roar of the sea.
“It reminds me I’m still alive,” Maggie said. “That I’m still fighting. Even trapped in this wild and magnificent place.”
He nodded. “Subhanallah.”
“Subhanallah,” she repeated slowly. “What does that mean?”
“If you’re British and Muslim, it’s a word you hear grandparents use. It’s a bit old-fashioned—means ‘glory to Allah.’ But I think it translates to the U.S. southeastern vernacular Bless your heart.”
Maggie laughed then, loud and genuine. She’d known a few southern belles back in the States who could twist that expression easily.
The sea’s surface was streaked with white, like fatty meat, and sounded like a hostile crowd. Sayid frowned. “It’s as if the rest of the world’s been cut off by a knife. I know Anna’s superstitious, and of course I’m a doctor and a scientist—and agnostic at that—but in this atmosphere, in this light…well, I’d have a hard time not believing in ghosts.”
“You’ve heard of the Sruth nam Fear Gorm? ‘The Stream of the Blue Men’?”
He shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”
“The Blue Men are supposed to look like humans and be very strong. Allegedly, everything about them—their skin, their eyes, even their hair—is blue. They swim the waters looking for boats to sink and sailors to drown.”
“Are you making this up?”
“Not at all! Anyway, according to Mrs. McNaughton, the channel through the islands of the Hebrides is called the Stream of the Blue Men. It’s also known as the Current of Destruction.”
“That’s what I love about the Scots. Always so cheerful.”
Maggie remembered Mrs. McNaughton’s words. “They say the Blue Men swim near the water’s surface, like porpoises. They can surface to speak, and when a group approaches a ship, the Chief will shout out two lines of poetry to the captain, who must finish the verse. If he fails, the Blue Men will capsize the ship and drown the crew. But if the captain succeeds, the Blue Men will let them go unharmed.
“After talking to Mrs. McNaughton, I found a book by a man named Donald Mackenzie in the library. It’s called Wonder Tales from Scottish Myth and Legend. In it, he records an exchange between a sailor and the Blue Men.” Maggie quoted:
“Man of the black cap what do you say
As your proud ship cleaves the brine?
“And then the Captain answers:
“My speedy ship takes the shortest way
And I’ll follow you line by line.”
Sayid grinned. “You’d have to be quick on your feet with these blue fellows!”
Maggie nodded. “So the Blue Chief says:
“My men are eager, my men are ready
To drag you below the waves
“And the captain responds:
“My ship is speedy, my ship is steady
If it sank, it would wreck your caves.
“And apparently the captain’s wit saved them.”
“Is that why you wear your blue hat when you swim in the bay? To fool the Blue Men?”
“I was trained to be an undercover agent—I know how to blend in,” Maggie replied. “Mrs. McNaughton says she knows a fisherman who saw a blue man with a green beard and a crown of seaweed, floating from the waist out of the water, following his boat.”
“Do you believe it?”
Maggie smiled. “I’m too old now to believe in fairy tales. Although,” she amended, “on stormy nights like this, you can imagine how the stories came to be.”
They stared down at the rollers hurling themselves to destruction against the rocky beach. The strong currents had uprooted vegetation from the depths and were flinging it in heaps on the sand and rocks. The movement of the sea was hypnotizing.
“These Blue Men—do you think they’re relatives of some Celtic sea god?” Sayid asked, after a moment. “Or Neptune? Poseidon maybe?”
“A cloud of ancient fears and memories collected in the Jungian unconsciousness is my suspicion. There’s an old Gaelic proverb that says the sea wants to be visited—but then tends to murder its guests.” Maggie shrugged. “Mrs. McNaughton says that a fallen angel split into three races of magical creatures—the ground-dwelling fairies, the ‘Merry Dancers’ of the Northern Lights, and the Blue Men of the Sea.
“My best guess is the story originated with Scots who saw the Picts, painted blue. If the Picts were sailing in low boats, they may have given the impression of blue men raising themselves out of the water. Or maybe the Scottish sailors saw the Vikings’ North African slaves and mistook their dark brown skin for blue.”
“The sea gives life and it takes it away.” The gusts stiffened, as jagged lines of lightning threaded the horizon. Sayid turned to her. “We should probably go back inside.”
The air between them was as charged as the wind of the incoming storm. Maggie took one last glance out to sea. “We probably should.”
They walked together back up the slope of lawn, gloved hands swinging close together as they approached the gloomy castle. Maggie tried to sneak a sidelong glance at his profile but was diverted by a flash of light from the highest ivy-strangled tower. She gasped. “Did you see that?” But it was already gone.
“The light? Yes! But it was lightning, wasn’t it? Reflected off the glass?”
“Maybe. I’ve never been up there, in the tower, have you?”
“No, I’ve tried, but it’s locked off.” Sayid linked his arm through hers. Despite everything, Maggie felt a sudden frisson of what at another time might have been called happiness. “Mrs. McNaughton says there’s too much water damage to the stone and it’s not safe.”
“So who do you think could be up there? Sleeping Beauty? Bluebeard’s wife? Mrs. Rochester?”
Sayid smiled wanly. “On a night like tonight, I’d believe anything. I’m not proud to admit it, but I’m scared,” he said, voice low.
Maggie looked up at him. “I’m absolutely terrified.”
* * *
—
Maggie and Sayid closed the oversize heavy oak front doors, and bolted them against the increasingly violent winds. The air inside the castle was clammy and smelled even more strongly of mold and mildew.
Maggie felt like a sleepwalker as she entered the castle, the enormity of what was happening to them all registering anew. She noticed everything clearly, but at the same time it was as if she were looking at it all from the wrong end of a telescope. She felt calm, but also detached. Is this what Freud would call “denial”? Inside, the electric lights blazed, but cloudy dark pressed against the wavy glass. There was no visible moon, no glowing dot of a plane, nothing that might prove they weren’t sealed off under the dome of their own world.
Teddy had lit his pipe, perfuming the room with sweet tobacco smoke. He and the
other fellow prisoners had grouped again in front of the great room’s fireplace, drinking whiskey, listening to the wireless, while McNaughton moved from window to taped window, making sure each was closed and pulling the blackout curtains. Maggie could hear him singing, under his breath:
The whorled dun whelk that was down on the floor of the ocean
Will snag on a boat’s gunwales and give a crack to her floor…
Meanwhile, a man on the wireless proclaimed, Hebrides, Storm Force Nine, rain, sleet, possible hail, visibility two hundred yards.
We’re completely cut off from civilization now, Maggie thought.
There was a crack and a lingering roll of thunder. Anna cried out, startled, and rain began tapping at the windows. Torvald rolled his eyes and climbed up onto a chair, sitting with a huff.
“So much for the calm before the storm. I’m assuming you’re also having a no-good, very bad, terribly damp day. So I suggest whiskey,” Quentin said, pointing to the bar. “Monsieur Reynard found a bottle of eighteen-year-old Macallan.”
“Never drink a whiskey that isn’t as old as a girl you’d want to—” Leo began.
“Mr. Kingsley!” chided Teddy, speaking clearly despite his pipe. “There are ladies present!”
“—kiss,” Leo amended, raising his nearly empty glass. Maggie guessed it wasn’t his first drink. “Relax, old thing.”
All the inmates were in attendance—Sayid, Camilla, Quentin, Anna, Leo, and Teddy were sitting closest to the fireplace, while Ramsey sat in a nearby window seat, staring up at the antler chandelier. Torvald got up and began to pace in front of the wireless, his short legs spread wide, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. Maggie noted none of them had changed their clothing. All were still wearing the damp coveralls and muddy boots from their tomb expedition. Camilla’s hair was uncombed, and there was a streak of dirt across Leo’s left cheek.
“Well, that was an afternoon wasted,” Leo complained to Anna. “I hope now you’re assured Killoch isn’t roaming the island.”
“It still could be his ghost,” Anna replied, buttoning her heavy sweater.
“McNaughton,” Teddy called to the man making his way out of the great room, “is there any possibility of ghosts on this island?”
“Ghosts everywhere on the island,” the Scotsman muttered.
“Have you ever seen one? A ghost?” Anna asked in a quavering voice.
McNaughton stopped and nodded in her direction, his eyes cold. “No, miss. No ghosts. Humans are bad enough, I’d say.” As he stomped out, the group tittered in nervous laughter.
“Well then, shall we dress for dinner?” Teddy suggested. While Camilla nodded and rose, the others seemed almost startled at the idea. Reluctantly, they stood to comply.
“Five are dead, the world may be going to hell in a handcart, a murderer may be among us, and a storm may wash us all away to sea, but We. Are. British. Come, Monsieur Reynard,” Quentin said, picking up the fox. “There are standards to be maintained.”
* * *
—
The table seemed much larger with two of their usual party absent, the empty mahogany chairs grim reminders of those lost.
Gazing around the room, Maggie realized Leo hadn’t quite washed off all the dirt from his cheek, Camilla’s golden hair was frizzing in the humidity, Sayid was unshaven, Torvald’s bow tie was askew, Teddy’s jacket was wearing at the elbows, and Anna’s dress had frayed cuffs. Quentin appeared as elegant as usual, but there were purple smudges of weariness under his eyes. Maggie realized her own bun was slipping out of place and tried to pin it back up.
Outside the blacked-out windows, they could hear the thunder rumble. As the chandelier lights flickered, McNaughton began serving cock-a-leekie soup from a steaming tureen and Murdo poured wine. “Where’s Mr. Novak?” Anna’s eyes were on the empty place next to hers. Her voice was high-pitched and nervous.
Where is Mr. Novak? Maggie thought. Surely not another…
“Novak’s probably dead.” Leo examined his fingernails. “No reason to let the soup get cold.” He picked up his spoon and tucked in.
“That’s horrible!” Anna protested.
“When was the last time anyone saw him?” Maggie asked. “Teddy?”
“We went upstairs together to change. But he went to his room and I went to mine. I came down alone.”
“Do you want to head the search party?” Leo challenged Maggie. “Go ahead—no one’s stopping you.”
Camilla unfolded her napkin in her lap. “I think we should wait for Mr. Novak.”
“Suit yourself,” Torvald replied. He, too, began to eat. “I’m starving,” he managed through a mouthful. “Besides, any one of us might be stabbed by a fish fork at any moment. No reason to go hungry.”
“A fish fork—how dreadfully middle class,” drawled Leo.
“Champagne bottle over the head then,” Quentin offered.
“What’s a fish fork?” Anna asked.
“Unnecessary cutlery,” Maggie responded.
“Traditionally, one uses small pinchers for the snake course,” Leo joked. Anna looked as though she didn’t know whether to believe him.
“Well, it sounds as if your little adventure wasn’t fruitful,” Quentin said. He hadn’t touched his food, Maggie noticed. Maybe, like Anna, he was waiting for the tardy inmate.
“Waste of time,” declared Leo through a mouthful of soup. “As I knew it would be.”
“I suspect there’s someone else here,” Quentin said. “A man smarter and more elusive than we’re giving him credit for.”
“Why do you assume this person’s a man?” Camilla wanted to know. Maggie looked at her sharply. But the blonde’s countenance remained placid.
“Touché. But, think about it—we usually stay on the paths. There are the woods, the mountain. Even the bothies could be inhabited. We’d never know.”
Teddy started in on his soup, a drop staining his lapel. “If there is someone out there, he—or she—is getting very wet.”
“Unless it’s a ghost,” Anna repeated.
“There are no ghosts!” Maggie exclaimed, as the lights flickered again. “Please! Let’s not let our imaginations run away with us,” she amended in gentler tones. “We must keep our heads. We’re trained agents of the SOE.”
“Perhaps we’re being punished for not doing our duty,” Torvald posited. “After all, the rest of Britain and now America are fighting or supporting the war—and here we are, locked away like animals in a cage.”
Maggie had a sudden and horrible thought—what if SOE was having them killed off one by one? No, they might imprison rogue agents, but they would never kill them. Would they? She thought back to Colonel Henrik Martens, Mr. Churchill’s so-called Master of Deception, and the lengths to which he was willing to go to protect information.
Yes, of course they’d kill us, she realized. Without a second thought. And make it look like an accident. Then she stopped herself. Paranoia. That’s what you’re experiencing. Stick to the facts, Hope.
“It’s not safe here,” Camilla said, “for any of us. SOE should know that.”
“If there’s someone else on this island, I’m going to find him.” Leo looked at Camilla. “Or her,” he declared. “As soon as this blasted rain stops.”
“Besides,” Quentin added, “when the tempest ends, the authorities will come for us. Then we can have a real hunting party. Catch whoever’s doing this.”
“We’re completely cut off now, you know,” Teddy observed, as drops from leaks from the ceiling plinked in the standing buckets. “There you are, old thing! We were about to call out the guards!”
Ramsey had ducked into the room, avoiding all eye contact. He was silent as usual, taking his seat and immediately lifting his soup spoon. Those who’d been waiting for him began to eat, too.
When t
hey were finished, the soup course was cleared and the main—salmon, its skin seared and blackened, inner flesh the color of coral—was served.
“All right,” said Teddy, picking up his fork and looking around at the eight remaining faces. “I think we should all go around and say why we’re here.”
Anna was aghast. “That’s private!”
“Perhaps at one point,” Teddy countered. “But now that five of us are dead, it may shed some light on motive.”
Leo took a huge bite. “I don’t believe it’s one of us,” he mumbled.
“I’ll start,” Teddy decided, ignoring him. “As many of you probably noticed, I’m a tad older than the rest of you and not quite as spry. Truth is, I’m not SOE. I was working at what we called ‘Churchill’s Toy Shop.’ ”
“ ‘Toy Shop’?” echoed Sayid, frowning.
“Where do you think those secret agent gadgets you all so love to use came from? Well, someone has to dream them up—and then produce them. I was one of those people. Used to be an engineer—and read a lot of spy novels. Actually, many of those skills translate to the secret agent trade.”
“So, what happened?” There was a bit of orange fish stuck between Torvald’s upper front teeth.
Teddy smiled. “I became a little too friendly with a certain widow in the village, Mrs. Ethel Magowen, who ran the bakery. Tried to impress her by showing off a bit. Well, turns out she was sent by the Top Brass to weed out the talkers—and I was banished here as a result.”
“Ah, the infamous honeytrap,” Leo murmured.
“What were you working on?” Quentin asked Teddy.
“Ha!” Teddy exclaimed, his face flushing. “My claim to fame at the Toy Shop was ‘Bad Odor as a Weapon of Offense.’ I created a liquid with an absolutely foul smell to be sprayed on German greatcoats hung up in restaurants, or when an agent bumped into a Nazi on the street. The coat’s owner would become a pariah—and the affected coat would have to be destroyed and replaced.”
Maggie smiled. “And did you use a squirt flower in a buttonhole?” she asked, picturing circus clowns.
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