The Prisoner in the Castle

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “It was a brilliant invention!” he protested. “Absolutely brilliant.”

  “Not sure it will win us the war, but it’s amusing, I’ll give you that,” said Leo.

  Torvald glanced up from his plate. “What about you, Mr. Kingsley?”

  Leo cleared his throat. “I don’t care to discuss it.”

  “Come now,” admonished Teddy. “Fair’s fair.”

  “All right, if you’re insisting—I—” The rest was unintelligible.

  “What was that?” Sayid asked.

  “I said—” Leo exhaled. “I said, I spoke English in my sleep.”

  “You talked in your sleep!” Quentin barked out a chortle. “I’ve heard of it as a disqualifier, but never met anyone who actually did it!”

  “Well, it was at a late stage and I’d already been briefed on the mission. And by that time I knew too much about the cell I was supposed to be joining. And so…” He waved his hands. “Voilà. I was brought to the island.” He turned to Anna. “Miss O’Malley, why are you here?”

  Anna’s sharp intake of breath was audible. “I’d rather not say.”

  “You must,” Leo insisted.

  “It’s not a matter for gentlemen to know.”

  Torvald’s eyes glittered. “Let me guess—you got preggers.”

  “Mr. Hagan!” Camilla scolded.

  “With child, then,” he amended, sounding unrepentant.

  “Yes. I—I found myself…with child…when I was at Beaulieu, about to leave for France,” Anna confessed in a breathless rush. “And so they wouldn’t let me go. They thought I was loose, had no morals, no discipline…” She glared at Leo. “Are you happy now?”

  Leo wasn’t done. “Doctor? What about you?”

  Sayid touched his napkin to the corner of his mouth before replying. “As I’ve mentioned, while I’m British, my father is from India. But I was born in London, and before I studied medicine, I was a Reader in Classical Archaeology and Fellow of All Souls College, specializing in Greek colonization in southern Italy, specifically in Sicily and Calabria. SOE found my knowledge helpful. They were planning on sending me to Italy, but then the higher-ups decided I was too dark to pass for Italian. Maybe it was that, or possibly it was because they didn’t like my ethnicity.” He shrugged. “So they pulled me, and, well—the rest you all know.”

  “I didn’t make the physical,” offered Quentin, stroking Monsieur Reynard. “I did well at a lot of the requirements—perfect French and German, superb shot, excellent radio skills—they just didn’t feel I could get over the Pyrenees if push came to shove. I was heartbroken, let me tell you. I might not look like your usual patriot, but I’m a Briton through and through.”

  “But that wouldn’t be enough to have you sent here,” Anna pointed out.

  Leo’s eyes narrowed. “She’s right. So what are you not telling us?”

  “Well, the truth is…” Quentin took a deep breath. “If you must know…I’m ‘like that.’ You know—the opposite of NSIT.”

  “NSIT?” Anna asked, bewildered. “What does that even mean?”

  “Not safe in taxis, meaning ‘real taxi tiger.’ As opposed to VVSTPQ, which means, ‘very, very safe in taxis, probably queer.’ ” He took a long slug of his drink, then sighed. “They found out I’m a homosexual, my dear Miss O’Malley. And instead of letting a well-trained patriot do his job for his country, they pulled me. And banished me as punishment.”

  There was a moment of silence as everyone digested his revelation. “Mr. Hagan, what’s your story?” Leo asked, unruffled by Quentin’s admission. “I must say, I’ve been keen to know ever since we met.”

  “Well,” the dwarf stated, “obviously I’m not the ideal SOE candidate, at least in terms of physical capabilities.” He laughed. “However, there was a particular mission where a person of my…stature…was deemed useful. To reach a certain part of a factory in enemy territory.”

  “What happened?” Maggie asked, intrigued.

  “Mission was scrubbed,” he replied. “And at that point, I knew too much.”

  “That’s my situation,” Maggie said. “Knowing too much.”

  “Well, do tell!” urged Leo.

  “I can’t.” Maggie had information on the place of the D-Day invasion, information still in play, as far as she knew. Information crucial enough that SOE was willing to send their own agents to probable death at the hands of the Gestapo to keep the Nazis from learning it.

  “It’s not like we’ll talk to anyone,” argued Leo. “I mean, really.” He glanced around. “Who could we possibly tell? A taxidermied stag? A stuffed and mounted fish?” Quentin reached down to the fox, as if to comfort it.

  “No,” Maggie said. “There are some things I won’t discuss.”

  Torvald shrugged, then eyed Ramsey. “Mr. Novak, what about you?”

  Ramsey’s curious gray-blue eyes were expressive, but he did not reply.

  “From what I understand,” Teddy interjected, “our friend Mr. Novak witnessed something so horrible he lost his power of speech. Of course, an agent that traumatized can’t be on active duty. So he was discharged here.” He added, “I think he might have been chosen as part of the Czech and Slovak team for the mission to assassinate Reinhard Heydrich in Prague, but was cut from the team before they left.” The rest glanced at Ramsey, who remained expressionless.

  Quentin picked at his fish. “Miss Oddell, what’s your story?”

  “Nothing,” she replied. “I didn’t do anything.”

  “Come now—tell us,” Leo coaxed. His voice was soft, but it contained a threat.

  “I didn’t do anything!” she insisted.

  Leo held up his wineglass to the light. “That means you did do something—and it was quite naughty.”

  Camilla, realizing she was cornered, took a deep breath. “I—I killed a man. During training.” They all looked at her blankly. “One of us,” she explained. “A fellow trainee.”

  Around the table, people’s expressions turned to shock, then horror.

  “It was an accident, on our last preparation mission.” Her words tumbled out one over the other. “And now he’s dead and it’s all my fault!” Camilla began to weep, burying her head in her hands. “And now I’m trapped here…”

  “So you were deemed to have violent tendencies?” Leo asked after a moment. His voice was almost tender. It’s unlike him, Maggie realized, to be so gentle.

  “I’m a nice girl, a good girl—a debutante!” Camilla protested, looking up with wet eyes. “It was an accident!”

  “Of course it was,” Torvald agreed, finishing the wine in his glass. He reached for the decanter and saw that it was empty. “Just as all the deaths that have happened since you’ve arrived have been accidents?”

  Camilla’s the variable, Maggie remembered as a chill went through her. The Blackout Beast—Reitter—killed female SOE agents sequentially. Could Camilla be the same breed of murderer? Have some sort of violent compulsion?

  “I did nothing!” the girl cried. She stood, knocking over her chair, and bolted from the room. They heard the pounding of her heels as she ran down the hall. The sound of her voice trailed away. “Nothing!”

  * * *

  —

  When the diners had sufficiently recovered, Torvald hopped down from his chair, then dragged it to the sideboard. “Obviously it’s Miss Oddell.” He scrambled up to reach another bottle of wine. “She’s the murderer,” he murmured, refilling his glass.

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Maggie countered, even as she considered the possibility. Facts, though. We need facts. “Even if she had opportunity, what’s her motive?”

  “Who the hell cares what her ‘motive’ is? Mr. Hagan’s onto something,” Leo mused. “Look, it all fits together—her predilection for violence, the timing of the deaths, all since sh
e’s arrived…”

  “I hear what you’re saying.” Maggie took a sip of wine. “It does look bad, but there’s no actual proof.”

  Leo rose and walked to the sideboard, grabbing the bottle just out of Torvald’s reach and bringing it back to the table. He refilled his glass. “Perhaps we should lock her up, just to be sure. I know I’d sleep better.”

  “There’s a dungeon here,” Quentin offered.

  Anna gasped, and everyone turned to look at her. “What?”

  “I’m presuming Marcus Killoch had it built,” Quentin continued. “It’s in the cellar next to all the wine.”

  “This ‘castle’ isn’t even a real medieval one.” Anna seemed confused. “Why would there be a dungeon?”

  “Some people,” Leo remarked with a cryptic smile, “find them entertaining.”

  “Entertaining?” Anna didn’t understand. “Entertaining how?”

  “Some people,” Leo continued, seeming to enjoy piercing the younger woman’s innocence, “enjoy certain sexual practices. Including flogging, whipping, chains, and the like…”

  “Mr. Kingsley!” Teddy snarled. “Let me remind you, yet again, we are not only at the dinner table, but also in the company of ladies!”

  “Oh, it’s all in good fun,” Leo declared, but he sounded annoyed. He turned back to Quentin. “But you say there’s one here? A genuine dungeon? Are there shackles? Maybe we should keep Miss Oddell strapped in there until the boat arrives.”

  Quentin quirked an eyebrow. “There is a Saint Andrew’s cross—”

  Leo roared with laughter. “That sadistic old bastard…”

  “We are not shackling anyone,” Maggie declared, standing.

  Sayid stood, too. “No one’s getting locked up. If we all stay together, we’ll be safe.”

  Leo glowered, gulping his wine. “Sorry, old man, but I vote to lock up the murderous blond bitch. Who’s with me? Show of hands?”

  He and Anna raised their arms.

  “And all opposed?” asked Maggie. She, Quentin, Teddy, and Ramsey raised theirs.

  “Two against four—not enough, Mr. Kingsley,” Maggie said, pushing back a stray lock of hair. “Democracy—and civility—still hold sway over more primitive impulses here. Nevertheless,” she amended, “we should all lock our bedroom doors tonight. And perhaps put a chair up against them.” Sleep would not come easily, she knew.

  “As you wish, Miss Hope,” retorted Leo. “But when we find the next dead body tomorrow morning, perhaps you’ll reconsider. That is…if said body isn’t yours.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Dawn broke in London with a red sky, but DCI Durgin had long been up and dressed, and was already at the door to the main office of SOE, at 64 Baker Street. It was an unremarkable limestone building, not far from Sherlock Holmes’s fictional address and Regent’s Park, only one of the many SOE offices scattered around the Marylebone neighborhood. Due to lack of space in Whitehall, the Baker Street area had become home for SOE, and several buildings in the neighborhood bore discreet plaques indicating its code name, Inter-Services Research Bureau.

  Upstairs, on the building’s third floor, it was dim and intensely cold. The icy reception room was small and narrow, with a single window and a low ceiling. There was a fire extinguisher mounted on one wall and a notice pointing out the direction of the air-raid shelter on another. Two women walked by speaking rapid French, while a man in a European-cut suit smoked a stubby, harsh-smelling Gauloise.

  “Detective Chief Inspector Durgin for Colonel Gaskell,” the detective said to the freckled young woman at the front desk. A postcard of the Eiffel Tower was tacked up on the peeling wall behind her.

  “Of course—one moment, sir.” She picked up the telephone receiver, exchanged a few words, then looked back to Durgin. “Through that door, please.”

  Colonel Harry Gaskell sat behind an ornate mahogany desk facing a somewhat grimy window. “Detective Chief Inspector Durgin!” he exclaimed, rising to shake his hand. The Colonel was in his late forties, a short, rotund man with yellow hair, a double chin, and a fleshy, shining face reddened by rosacea. “What can I do for you?” The Colonel resettled in his leather desk chair as he gestured for Durgin to sit.

  “I’m here about one of your agents, a Miss Margaret Hope. She’s missing—and I was wondering if you could shed any light on where she could be.”

  Gaskell fixed his pale eyes on the detective; his genial expression didn’t change. “Is she in some sort of trouble?”

  “Not at all,” Durgin explained. “She’s called to be a witness in the Blackout Beast trial. It’s imperative we find her, and quickly.”

  Gaskell scowled. “Nasty bit of business, that Blackout Beast. Followed it in the papers.”

  “The murdered girls were your agents, weren’t they? All F-Section?”

  “I didn’t know them, of course, poor souls. So many people coming and going these days…”

  “Sir, do you know where Margaret Hope is?”

  Gaskell gazed out the window. “A bit flighty, that one,” he declared, turning back to rearrange a few items on his desk. “Never had any proper military training—and it shows, unfortunately.”

  Durgin was doing his best not to lose patience. “Do you know where she is?”

  “I can’t possibly comment, you know, old thing. We do top-secret work here!”

  “Is she working for your organization at the moment? Surely you can answer without revealing any Crown confidences?”

  “I can tell you Miss Hope is not working for me anymore,” Gaskell admitted.

  Durgin often consulted his “gut” when on a case, and his gut was screaming at him that there was more to this story. “Do you know who she’s working for now?”

  Gaskell gave a guilty smile, as if he’d been caught red-handed. “I couldn’t possibly comment, Detective Chief Inspector. However, you might want to talk to Colonel Henrik Martens. He’s also with MI-Six, I believe. Oh, who the hell knows these days? So many people with cryptic titles. ‘Master of Deception,’ I think the P.M. calls him.”

  “Colonel Henrik Martens,” Durgin repeated, committing the name to memory. He rose. “And where would I find him?”

  “His office is in the Cabinet War Rooms. I’ll have my girl set up an appointment for you.”

  * * *

  —

  Ironically, Neville Chamberlain had ordered construction to begin on the bombproof War Rooms the very day in 1938 he had returned from Munich declaring “peace in our time.” But Winston Churchill had taken the rooms over, and they now served as the labyrinthine underground bunker where the Prime Minister and his staff sought shelter during bombing raids. It was located beneath the streets and buildings of Westminster, in walking distance of Number 10 Downing Street. Only an armed Royal Marine at the sandbagged doorway of No. 2 Great George Street betrayed the address’s importance.

  After showing his papers to the security guard, DCI Durgin was led by yet another guard through winding corridors of worn brown linoleum, with treacherously low-hanging red drainage pipes and men in uniform walking and carrying folders and memos. Even though the air was filtered, it was stale and smoky. A sign on one side of the hallway warned, THERE IS TO BE NO WHISTLING OR UNNECESSARY NOISE IN THIS PASSAGE, while another admonished, MIND YOUR HEAD. As he followed the guard, Durgin could hear the clatter of typewriters from the secretaries’ room and the shrill ring of telephones.

  At last they reached an office door marked with the sign MASTER OF DECEPTION. The guard knocked.

  “Yes?” came a low male voice.

  “DCI Durgin to see you, Colonel Martens.”

  “Come in.” Colonel Henrik Rafaelsen Martens, a lanky white-blond man, looked up from the numerous piles of papers on his desk. He had done clandestine SOE work in Norway and had been injured in Operation Archery—the British raid
against German positions on the island of Vågsøy—before being promoted to Winston Churchill’s Master of Deception, a liaison between SOE and MI-6, who were both running cells of agents in France, sometimes at cross-purposes.

  “Welcome, Detective Chief Inspector. Please, have a seat.” Martens’s office was cramped, the white walls smoke-stained. A black fan circulated stale air. “May my secretary fetch you some tea?”

  “No, no thank you. I’m sure you’re busy, Colonel Martens, and I won’t take up more of your time than I have to.”

  “Well, I do hope I’m not under arrest!”

  “No, sir. You see, I need to find a young woman who’s been working with Special Operations Executive. It’s imperative. She’s needed as a witness for the trial of Nicholas Reitter.” Martens’s expression remained blank. “The Blackout Beast,” the DCI clarified.

  “Ah, yes—that.” The Colonel shook his head. “Terrible, just terrible. A dreadful business.”

  “Yes,” Durgin agreed. “I’ve spoken with Colonel Gaskell in F-Section. He referred me to you.”

  “What’s this agent’s name?”

  “Miss Margaret Hope.”

  Martens, still stone-faced, pulled a dented cigarette case from his breast pocket. He opened it and offered Durgin a Player’s. “Smoke?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “Good—it’s a filthy habit, especially down here.” Martens lit one for himself and puffed until the tip glowed red.

  Durgin tried to conceal his impatience. “Reitter rather unexpectedly pleaded not guilty. And so the case is going to trial. Margaret Hope is one of our most important witnesses. It’s imperative she testify against him.”

  Martens tapped ash into a chipped mug. “Why do you think I can help?”

  “Colonel Gaskell told me that Miss Hope worked for him at one point, but doesn’t anymore. And then he indicated you’d know where she is now.”

  Martens took a long puff, then exhaled blue smoke, studying it as it spiraled to the grimy ceiling. “Miss Hope,” he said, as if reading a memo, “is on active service in the field.”