The Prisoner in the Castle

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “Surely, though, you can get a message through to her?”

  “Sorry, Detective.” Martens stood, indicating the meeting was at an end. “I know your work is important, but I’m afraid I can’t help you. Now, if you’ll excuse me—we have a war to win.”

  * * *

  —

  Moments after Durgin left, Martens picked up the rotary telephone receiver and dialed the number for MI-6. “Colonel Martens for Colonel Bishop. Yes, I’ll hold.”

  As he waited, Martens reached for a slip of paper and doodled a castle, complete with turrets. Finally, Bishop answered. “What?” he barked.

  “I just had a most interesting visit from a Scotland Yard detective.”

  There was a pause. “What about?”

  “The DCI in question is looking for Margaret Hope, sir.”

  “Why?”

  “It turns out Miss Hope was working with the police on the case of Nicholas Reitter—you know, the Blackout Beast. And now she’s apparently needed to testify as a witness. The detective insists her testimony is imperative to putting the bastard away.”

  Bishop cursed. Then: “What did you tell him?”

  “I told him she was ‘on active service in the field.’ ” Martens tapped more ash into the mug, then took another drag.

  “Good, good.”

  “But can’t we let her out to testify—and then return her straightaway? It rather seems like this trial depends on it.”

  “You know the answer’s no,” Bishop replied. “Our talking birds must be kept in cages, Martens. Just remember our eye must always be on the big picture: winning this war. While it’s unfortunate, the people on that island know too much. And pose too high a security risk to be set free, even for a murderer’s trial.”

  “Yes, sir,” Martens replied.

  “You don’t think this fellow will keep asking questions, do you? Those Scotland Yard buggers are trained to investigate.”

  “I can assure you, sir, the detective has reached a dead end.”

  “Well, security is more vital than ever. Still,” Bishop continued, “I’ve just received a report showing illicit radio signals coming from inside Britain to a U-boat.”

  “What?” Martens nearly dropped his cigarette. “How many transmissions?”

  “Two so far,” Bishop replied. “We’re keeping an eye on them.”

  “Have you been able to pinpoint a location?”

  “The western coast of Scotland, nothing more specific than that. I’ve copied you on the memos—you should be getting a packet today.”

  Martens crushed out the cigarette. “Western coast of Scotland—that’s where most of the SOE training camps are.”

  “And the Isle of Scarra.”

  “Christ.” Martens reached for a pencil. “Does anyone else know?” He added a few towers to the castle.

  “Frain, of course, and he’s already informed the P.M. And Gaskell at SOE. But I’m not worried about Gaskell. He’s too stupid to put anything together if there’s a fox in the henhouse,” Bishop replied.

  Martens continued to doodle, this time adding a hooded figure with a bow and arrow to the top of the castle’s battlements. “What’s Frain doing?”

  “Adding more RDFs—manned by amateur radio enthusiasts and volunteers, God help us.” Bishop’s voice dripped with disdain.

  “Any one of them being sent to the island?”

  “No, according to Frain.”

  “If there’s a German spy in one of the SOE training camps, he won’t be able to pick up much information,” Martens noted. “Missions and specific information are revealed only at Beaulieu, after all of the paramilitary training is completed.”

  “True. A Nazi agent couldn’t get much of anything from them.”

  “But the prisoners on Scarra know things, especially Hope. That’s our weak spot.”

  “Too true.” Bishop sighed. “If there’s a spy in Scotland trying to call for a ride home, he’ll be stymied by the weather, though—there’s a bad storm bearing down on Scotland’s west coast now.”

  Martens sketched knights with lances charging the castle. “That will buy us some time.”

  “Yes, but not much.”

  Martens added a princess in one of the towers, her arms stretched out as if calling for help. “We haven’t given the prisoners on Scarra cyanide pills, have we? Just for this sort of emergency?”

  “No, we have not.”

  Martens drew a heavy black X over the princess’s face. “Pity.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Maggie was dreaming of Blue Men—reaching, grasping, pushing her underwater—when she heard the pounding on her bedroom door. “Get up! Get up!” It was unmistakably Leo’s voice coming through the thick wood.

  She opened her eyes and remembered everything—the five deaths, the boat not coming. Oh, God. What now? Still, she called, “Coming!”

  As she rose from bed, shoved her feet in slippers, and pulled on her old flannel robe, he was pounding and shouting down the line of doors. Everyone convened in the long carpeted passageway in various states of dishabille—the men in pajamas, the women in nightgowns, all unwashed and unbrushed. Teddy was putting on his eyeglasses as Ramsey came up behind him. This is very, very bad…

  Leo was by Camilla’s open door, panting. “I just wanted to check on her—make sure she was all right. It didn’t sit well—how we’d left things…”

  Maggie sidestepped the throng. On the bed lay Camilla—impaled by a harpoon, the one from over the inglenook fireplace in the great room. The barbed spear had been thrust into her abdomen, bayoneting her. Her nightgown and the bedclothes were soaked with drying, rust-colored blood, her mouth open.

  Maggie felt sick. She forced herself to take big gulps of air so she wouldn’t faint. Six, she thought. Six dead. Now there are only eight of us left.

  Anna shrieked, then pressed her hands over her mouth as Ramsey eyed her with worry.

  Leo glared at her with undisguised contempt. “You are a trained agent of His Majesty’s Government, Miss O’Malley!” he cried. “Keep your dignity.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Anna whispered, crossing herself. She ran to the hall bathroom and slammed the door; they could hear her retching.

  “Well, I think this definitely rules out Miss Oddell as a suspect,” Torvald offered.

  “Shut up!” cried Quentin from the doorway, holding Monsieur Reynard close. “This is no time for jokes!”

  “Sorry,” Torvald muttered, looking almost ashamed. “I make bad jokes when things are dark. Viking humor, I suppose.”

  Maggie forced herself to take one more look at Camilla. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry I ever suspected you.

  “I need to examine her,” Sayid told the group as he entered the room and approached the body. “It appears as though she was killed in her sleep,” he said, closing her eyelids with his fingertips. “I don’t see signs of a struggle. The whole thing was probably over before she knew what was happening.”

  Maggie saw Anna emerge from the bathroom and gazed over with concern. The younger woman didn’t meet her questioning look.

  “She’s been dead for a while.” Sayid picked up Camilla’s arm and tested the rigidity. “I’d say at least six hours.”

  “She couldn’t have done it to herself,” Leo murmured.

  Torvald shot him a look. “You found her—perhaps you did it!”

  Leo swung to face the small man. “And why would I do that?”

  “You suspected her. You even accused her. Perhaps you wanted to kill her before she killed you!”

  “Balderdash! Why are all the others dead, then?” Leo grabbed the smaller man by the shirt. “I’m well and truly sick of your allegations!”

  “That’s enough!” Maggie warned. Begrudgingly, Leo released Torvald.

 
“It’s the ghost,” Anna moaned. “Punishing us for our sins. Six dead…” She began to sob.

  “Do shut up about your damn ghost!” snapped Leo. “This is not Cawdor Castle—Banquo isn’t roaming about!”

  “Mr. Kingsley,” Maggie warned, putting a protective arm around Anna, “shouting isn’t helping.”

  He took a moment, then shrugged. “Sorry,” he offered.

  Anna sniffed. “Quite all right.”

  Quentin stepped into the dead woman’s room. Approaching the window, he pulled aside the curtains and blackout shades. “Where’s the damn boat?” he barked, eyes searching the bay.

  But the morning’s weather remained unforgiving. The winds were still blowing fiercely, the rain pelting the windowpanes, the waves twisting into white froth.

  “I can radio again,” Maggie offered, “but I doubt they’re sending a boat in this storm. And I wouldn’t recommend taking out the one that washed to shore, either. We’d never make it past those whirlpools.”

  Everyone seemed stunned with disbelief and horror. Maggie glanced at the small body on the bed, and then back to the group. “Leo and Sayid,” she said, “please carry Miss Oddell to the game larder.”

  Leo crossed his arms, scowling. “I’m afraid there’s no more room.”

  “Well, to the ballroom, then. I’ll help you.”

  “No,” the doctor replied, looking to Leo. “We can manage.”

  “We will all get dressed,” Maggie continued. It took every bit of her willpower to keep her voice from wobbling. “And then we will go downstairs for breakfast.”

  “Breakfast?” Quentin croaked. “Miss Hope, I don’t think anyone will be able to keep anything down. I know Monsieur Reynard and I won’t.”

  “Well then tea, coffee,” Maggie amended curtly, in no mood for his nonsense. “Water. I don’t give a flying fig. We need to keep to a schedule, to hold on to a sense of normalcy.”

  “Someone has to come for us soon,” Anna muttered, as though convincing herself, as she padded back to her room to change. “They have to.”

  * * *

  —

  The group assembled in the dining room, silent, pushing uneaten food around their plates, the rumble of thunder and the rain driving hard against the windows a constant background noise. All were dressed but still looked disheveled. Leo’s hair was greasy, while Anna’s was limp and uncurled. The men were unshaven, and Ramsey’s tie was coming undone. Quentin’s cardigan sweater had a small moth hole. Even Monsieur Reynard’s fur looked mangy. Maggie realized her own hair rolls were slipping out. She tried to fix them, then gave up, pulling out the pins and shaking her hair so it fell loose to her shoulders.

  “What about McNaughton?” Leo queried. “He could be the murderer. Have you ever seen his hands? They’re huge—”

  “What about Mrs. McNaughton?” Sayid posited. “They say women are more likely to use poison. We have several dead bodies that look to have been drugged.”

  “Poison?” Anna said, splattering tea on her blouse. “Oh, dear.” Ramsey handed her his handkerchief. She seized it with trembling hands. “Thank you.” Their eyes met before Ramsey turned away.

  Maggie was aghast. “Sayid!”

  His look to her was both sad and resolute. “I didn’t say anything earlier because I did not want to cause a panic, but I’m afraid panic has arrived regardless. We may as well have all the facts out on the table.” He folded his hands around his teacup. “Perhaps someone will have an idea which will lead us to uncovering the murderer in our midst.”

  “What kind of poison?” Quentin asked.

  “Cyanide,” Sayid replied. “Possibly.” He and Maggie locked eyes and he shrugged in apology. “And strychnine.”

  “Cyanide and strychnine?” Leo exclaimed. “Why the devil do you think that?”

  “I don’t know for sure,” Sayid responded. “I don’t know anything for sure anymore. I’d need to carry out tests to make a definitive diagnosis. Which is why I wasn’t going to mention it. But now…”

  “But what makes you think poison was involved?” Teddy’s forehead was puckered with concern.

  “Captain Evans’s face was red and his corpse smelled of almonds,” the doctor answered. “Two of the hallmarks of cyanide. And Dr. Jaeger’s and Captain MacLean’s bodies were twisted in a way consistent with strychnine poisoning.”

  “It could be the young one—Murdo,” considered Torvald. “Wouldn’t that be perfect? A murderer named Murdo….He has a motive, too—thinks we’re all scrimshankers for not doing our bit for the war effort. While he rides things out here in comfort, I must add.”

  “You know no army would take him,” Leo declared. “With that clubfoot.”

  Maggie picked at an oatcake, breaking off tiny pieces, which she forced herself to eat. The rest of the prisoners around the dining room table weren’t doing much better, though the tragic events didn’t seem to affect Torvald’s appetite. He devoured toast slathered with orange marmalade. “Still,” he remarked through a mouthful, “Murdo could be doing something. Work in a factory, farm—”

  Sayid stood to pour more tea. “As could we.”

  “Stop,” Anna whispered. “They might hear us!”

  “Who cares?” thundered Leo. “They’re affected by this, too. They’re probably laying bets on which one of us is guilty even as we speak.”

  “There’s more.” Sayid put down the teapot. “We also discovered that the boat’s tank had no fuel.”

  In for a penny, in for a pound, Maggie thought. “The whole operation must have been calibrated so that the petrol would run out at the same time the two men died,” she explained, “ensuring the boat would wash back into the bay.”

  “Look at you two,” Leo jeered. “You’ve become quite the detective duo. But maybe it’s you who are pulling it off, killing us as a team….” He leaned back, folding his arms across his chest. “Wouldn’t it take someone good at maths to formulate the timing?” he said to Maggie. Then he looked to Sayid. “And you know all about poisons and dosages.”

  “And our motive would be what?” Maggie challenged. “Boredom?”

  “Camilla did mention it’s not safe for us and that’s reason for SOE to come,” Torvald speculated. “Perhaps this is a way to get their attention and end our little holiday here.”

  The thought that SOE could be behind it all—a way to get rid of them for good—troubled Maggie’s brain once again. But she brushed the suspicion aside.

  “It’s also odd no one in the McNaughton family has been affected,” Torvald mused. He alone seemed impervious to the latest murder and the morning’s terrible revelations. “Just us prisoners…”

  Maggie pushed back her chair, rose, and walked to one of the windows. The rain had turned to sleet, tapping at the glass and blowing sideways, making it nearly impossible to see outside the castle. The bay faded in and out of view, as though from another dimension, as the panes rattled in their casings. “We should turn on the wireless,” she said. “See if we can get any word on how long this storm’s supposed to last.”

  “It’s not as if anyone’s eating anyway.” Torvald threw his napkin on the table and climbed down from his chair.

  In the great room, the eight prisoners clustered around the fireplace, the air humid and smelling of stale pipe and cigarette smoke, the water from leaks hitting the tin buckets in a maddening drip. Ramsey was poking at the damp logs, the flames struggling to take hold. On the wall, the space where the harpoon had been displayed was ominously empty. Maggie fiddled with the dials of the wireless, trying to find a station. The only one coming in, over a wave of static, was playing “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.”

  Maggie switched the wireless off. I’m starting to loathe that song.

  “Look, we must be rational,” Teddy was saying, picking up the fishing fly he was working on and wrapping in mor
e silver tinsel and feathers. “Six people have been murdered. We must find a connection. There must be one.”

  Quentin frowned and set his fox down near the grate. “We’ve already been through why we’re here.”

  “What about Dr. Jaeger’s notes?” Leo asked. “They might shed some insight.”

  “We can’t read them,” Anna cautioned. “They’re private.”

  Thank goodness I never told him anything, Maggie thought.

  Leo snorted. “Who gives a damn at this point? I’d say all bets on civilized behavior are off now.”

  “And they’re locked in his desk,” Anna amended.

  Leo flashed a devilish grin. “Since when does anyone trained by SOE let a lock stop us?” He stood. “Who’s with me?” A nervous laugh escaped him. “I’d, er, feel better going to the library as a group.”

  Leaning heavily on his walking stick, Teddy approached Maggie. “Miss Hope, may I have a word with you?”

  She stopped and smiled at him. “Of course, Mr. Crane.” They both waited for the rest of the group to disappear.

  “Miss Hope,” Teddy began. “I am not—I am not a young man. The rest of you—you’re young, well trained, probably in the best physical condition of your lives. And I’m…not.”

  With a pang, Maggie realized what he was saying. “I’ll keep an eye out for you, Mr. Crane,” she assured him. “Not to worry.”

  “Thank you, Miss Hope.” His face creased in a relieved smile. “And I’ll do the same for you.”

  Maggie was grateful for his concern. “Why, thank you,” she said, holding out her hand. They shook firmly.

  * * *

  —

  Durgin had one last card to play. He knew that in addition to Chuck and Sarah, one of Maggie’s best friends was a man named David Greene, who worked as the head private secretary to the Prime Minister.

  He was able to arrange to meet with David that morning. Maggie and David had worked together in Mr. Churchill’s office at Number 10 during the summer of ’40.