The Prisoner in the Castle

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  As Sayid examined the wound, Maggie asked, “How was it with Mr. and Mrs. McNaughton and Murdo?”

  “Well, McNaughton will be fine—after a long recovery, of course. And I do believe the family will be all right, too. They might not be overly demonstrative, but there’s a great deal of love there. And with the father injured, they came to some sort of resolution.”

  “And Lady Beatrix?”

  “She’s coming forward to reclaim the island for all of them,” he said. “For her and also the McNaughtons. Murdo is the heir, after all.”

  “Good, good,” Maggie murmured as he layered on fresh bandages. “The island will be theirs—it seems only fitting.”

  “At first Lady Beatrix wanted to tear the castle down, burn it all, and salt the earth. But with the war on, she—and they—decided they’d keep it. They want to make it a home for convalescing veterans. Fresh air, good food, a change of scenery—”

  “—and they’ll be able to use the radio and leave whenever they’d like,” Maggie finished.

  “Yes.” Sayid added, “I think the castle, minus some taxidermy, will be a wonderful place for wounded soldiers to rest and recover. It will be a welcome change of purpose for the place. Instead of existing for the privileged few, it will serve the many who deserve our help.”

  “That’s fantastic,” Maggie told him, smiling. “The best possible ending.”

  “An ending and a new beginning. I’m staying on, actually,” he said. “To help turn the castle into a hospital, and then to be a doctor on staff, to tend to the wounded.”

  “You’re not coming back to London?” Maggie’s heart sank.

  “No,” he replied. “I just feel—I feel they need me here. And as for me, after witnessing so much death, I want to tend to the living and help them recover. Nothing would make me feel more useful.”

  “They’re lucky to have you,” Maggie said, raising herself up on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

  Sayid pushed back a lock of hair from her face, tucking it behind her ear. “You’ve been through a lot.”

  “As have you.”

  “Are you all right? I mean your soul, not your body. It might take some time—”

  “I’ll be fine,” Maggie assured him.

  Sayid glanced down the hall. “DCI Durgin—”

  “Yes?”

  “Well…” There was an awkward pause and he gazed at her. “He seems to be a good man,” Sayid said finally.

  She thought of her detective and smiled. “He does, doesn’t he?”

  “You’ll see him when you return to London?”

  “I’m going to have to—I’ll be testifying in a murder case he’s involved with.”

  He shook his head. “You need to rest.”

  “I will.”

  “No you won’t. I know you too well….So you’ll be spending time with him.”

  “Yes….And you’re still engaged.”

  “Yes.” Then, “I wish—”

  I wish we could be a normal couple, too. To go on dates—picnics in the park, ice skating, dancing. But it’s just not to be. Maggie put her hand over his. “I know.”

  They heard footsteps approaching. It was the police officer who’d spoken with her earlier. “We need your statement now, Miss Hope, if you don’t mind.”

  “I’ll send you a copy of Winnie-the-Pooh,” she said as she left.

  “Thank you,” Sayid replied. “For everything.”

  * * *

  —

  When Maggie was finished with the police, she excused herself. There was one more thing she had to do. She went back to the library; using the ladder, she brought down all the boxes of photographs. One by one, she fed them into the greedy flames, burning all the evidence of Marcus Killoch’s crimes. She didn’t want to look at the pictures as they burst into flames, but couldn’t help it. So many girls, their eyes haunted. She had to look away.

  Lady Beatrix and Mrs. McNaughton entered the room and closed the thick wooden door behind them. “Is that all of them?” Lady Beatrix asked.

  “Yes,” Maggie replied as the final image caught the flames and flared. “All the pictures have been destroyed.”

  “Thank God,” Mrs. McNaughton whispered, her hand clutching her crucifix.

  As the last of the photographs crumbled into ash, Maggie just had to ask. “Lady Beatrix…”

  “What is it, my dear?”

  “Was it really Angus McNaughton who killed Sir Marcus and the men?”

  Lady Beatrix quirked an eyebrow, then she and Mrs. McNaughton exchanged a look. “What would make you ask that, Miss Hope?”

  Maggie couldn’t explain, really. “A detective friend of mine calls it ‘the gut.’ It’s just a feeling I have. That there may be just a bit more to the story.”

  “Angus McNaughton is a fine man,” Lady Beatrix said. “And you’re right, he’s no killer. It was I,” Lady Beatrix declared, as if relieved and even proud to tell her side of the story at long last. “I killed Marcus and his friends. They acted like animals, and I shot them like animals. Worse than animals. Animals might kill, but they’re never cruel.”

  Maggie looked at both women with admiration, respect, and a tinge of fear. “Ladies,” she said. “I swear—your secrets are safe with me.”

  Epilogue

  In the slant of late afternoon sunlight, they reached the Fort William train station. The air was thick with coal smoke. At the end of the platform, an enormous green locomotive rumbled, building up power. Maggie, Frain, David, and Durgin made their way through the crowds: soldiers on leave, porters hauling baggage, and female conductors shouting. A shrill whistle blew. Maggie felt like a time traveler finally reaching the present after an arduous, perilous journey. Living at Killoch Castle had been not just isolating but lonely, heavy, and all-encompassing. Now, away from it all, she felt light, supported, perhaps even approaching a momentary contentment—even as she knew she would never forget the names and faces of all who were lost.

  Through clouds of steam they boarded the train and presented their tickets. The Royal Scotsman pulled out from the station at exactly 4:30 P.M. by the hands of the enormous black clock. Maggie sat back in a plush chair in the first-class lounge car, lulled by the rocking of the car and the steady heartbeat of its engine. The sun shone in, making trapezoids on the carpet; she stretched to reach it, the warmth bathing her bruised hands.

  Maggie glanced around her. It was the usual mix of gleaming dark woods, polished brass, and tartan, but she was relieved to see there were no animal heads, only paintings of thistles. Outside, pine forests flashed by, punctuated by steep, snowcapped mountains, lochs, and fuzzy sheep grazing.

  She sat next to David, with Durgin and Frain opposite; Frain was frowning at the newspaper in his lap, while Durgin made notes in a Moleskine journal. But David, as always, seemed to read her mind. “Everything all right, Mags?”

  “Perfect,” she replied.

  A waiter in black tie approached. “Would you like anything?” he asked with a small bow. “Scotch, perhaps?”

  No. It reminded her too much of endless tedious nights of cocktails in the great room in front of the inglenook fireplace. “Champagne, please.”

  David and Frain ordered single malt Scotches, Durgin asked for tea, and when everyone had something to drink, Maggie raised her flute. “Sláinte,” she toasted, the wine in her glass pink and sparkling.

  “Cheers,” the three men chorused.

  “To you, Mags,” David added. Then, “How does it feel to be off the island?”

  “Indescribable. I feel reborn,” Maggie answered. It was true, and yet the feeling was bittersweet. Nine people had been murdered, their lives cut deliberately and maliciously short. She could see them all: Evans, Ian, Dr. Jaeger, MacLean, Helene, Camilla, Torvald, Leo, and poor, misguided Ramsey. And Teddy—Adlar Geier—dead as
well. Because of him, nine souls were gone, erased, voided. The nine would never see their families again, fall in love, smell a rose, read a book, kiss a child. And Sayid, Anna, Quentin, the McNaughton family, and Lady Beatrix—they had all barely escaped with their lives. So much violence in one week.

  The train was passing over the graceful parapets of the Glenfinnan Viaduct, the longest railway bridge in Scotland. The viaduct overlooked the waters of Loch Shiel and the River Finnan, and also the Glenfinnan Monument, a tribute to those who fought in the bloody years of the Jacobite Risings. The lone kilted highlander at the monument’s top was a poignant reminder of the seventeenth- and eighteenth-century clansmen who gave their lives to the cause.

  The evening sun burned through the remaining clouds and split open a blue sky, making the waters glow. Before they pulled back into the woods, Maggie glimpsed the distinctive dark silhouette of an antlered stag at the top of a hill, backlit by bright gold.

  She caught Durgin’s eye and winked, which caused the detective to color and then beam with pleasure.

  “So what will you do back in London?” Frain asked, reaching for his silver cigarette case. “We’ll need someone as a handler for the newest recruit to the Twenty Committee, of course.”

  “Well, there’s testifying in the trial of the Blackout Beast,” Maggie replied. She glanced to Durgin. “Which I’m dreading. Still, it must be done. But other than that—I don’t know, really. It might be time for something different.”

  “Different?” David asked. “Would you be willing to come back and work for the Boss?”

  No! Never in a million years! “Perhaps something else.”

  “You don’t need to decide today.” David patted her hand and she smiled.

  Frain narrowed his eyes. “You look well, all things considered.”

  “Thank you.” I owe it to the ten who’ll never leave the island to never waste a precious moment. I owe them that. Maggie realized that in just over twelve hours she’d be in London, with Chuck and K. And perhaps Sarah, soon enough. “I’m happy to be with all of you, right here and right now,” she said, “and I’m happy to be traveling back to London. To home.” She smiled. “I’m happy to be going home.”

  “By the way,” said Durgin, reaching for a package he’d placed on the floor near his feet. “This is for you.”

  Maggie accepted the brown-paper-wrapped package. It was bulky and oddly shaped.

  Frain nodded. “When we spoke to Mr. Asquith at the hospital, he made us promise, nay, swear, that we would give it to you.”

  Maggie got the knots undone and then opened the paper to reveal a coppery brown fox. “It’s Monsieur Reynard!” she exclaimed, looking into the animal’s beady black eyes.

  “It’s a what?” David asked.

  “It’s a who,” Maggie corrected, holding him close. “Monsieur Reynard—Reynard to his intimate acquaintances. It’s Quentin’s pet fox.”

  Seeing David’s expression, she scolded, “No, don’t judge—being trapped on a secluded island with all that taxidermy is enough to make anyone a bit daft. Monsieur Reynard helped him through.” She petted the fur on the fox’s head. Then something occurred to her and her lips began to twitch. The others noticed.

  “Mags,” David asked. “What’s wrong?” Maggie burst into giddy laughter, hugging the fox to her.

  “What is it?” Durgin leaned forward and Frain frowned.

  “Mags?” David asked, concerned.

  “Mr. K!” she answered finally, eyes sparkling with tears. “My cat. He’s going to be so mad when I get home!”

  To the brave women and men of Britain’s Special Operations

  Executive, who trained and taught at Arisaig House

  in Lochaber, Inverness-shire, on the west coast

  of the Scottish Highlands.

  Thank you to Sarah Winnington-Ingram, Kitty Rose

  Winnington-Ingram, Magnus Winnington-Ingram, and the

  entire family and staff of Arisaig House, who honor

  the memory of the SOE agents who trained there

  and who helped me research this book.

  Acknowledgments

  Thank you, Kate Miciak, world’s best (and certainly most patient) editor. Thank you also to the rest of “Team Maggie” at Penguin Random House, including Kim Hovey, Allison Schuster, Melissa Sanford, and Alyssa Matesic. Also, huge thanks to Vincent La Scala and the wonderful copy editors, as well as the talented production team, designers, and intrepid sales force. Thank you, too, to artist Mick Wiggins for yet another gorgeous cover painting.

  Thanks to Victoria Skurnick, aka my beloved “Agent V,” and the fantastic team at Levine Greenberg Rosten, including Jim Levine and Miek Coccia.

  Thank you to Idria Barone Knecht. I truly don’t know what I’d do without you—and I do know all of this would be a heck of a lot less fun. So thank you for your intelligence, your patience, and your humor.

  Thanks to the warm and generous Sarah Winnington-Ingram, Kitty Winnington-Ingram, young Master Magnus, and the kind people of Arisaig House for letting me stay with them and helping me do research both in Arisaig and on the Isle of Rum. Not to mention sharing delicious Scottish food and drink!

  Tapadh leat to Mary MacMaster from Arisaig House, who read over and corrected this Yank’s Scottish Gaelic.

  Thank you to Ronald Granieri, Director of Research, Lecturer in History at the Lauder Institute at the Wharton School at the University of Pennsylvania (as well as paesan) for checking over historical elements and being a terrific sounding board and font of knowledge.

  Thanks to Dave Bermingham, another dear friend, for kind and patient assistance with military details (especially anything and everything to do with ships and submarines).

  Thank you to Phyllis Brooks Schneider, British expat, London Blitz survivor, and friend, for reading for veracity and authenticity.

  Thanks to Heidi Keefe, Wellesley College sister, for introducing me to British barrister Louise Delahunty, who made sure my British legal details were correct, for which I’m grateful.

  Likewise, thank you to Meredith Norris, MD, Wellesley sister and dear friend who made sure all my medical details were correct (and bodies toppled over in the right position!).

  Thanks to Scott Cameron for such great notes and constant enthusiastic support (and pretzels).

  Last, but certainly not least, thank you to my husband, Noel MacNeal, and son, Matt MacNeal, who make everything possible (including a last-minute trip to Scotland).

  Historical Notes

  Yes, there really was a “cooler” for SOE agents who proved themselves unsuited for life in the field during World War II. It was run by the Security Section and located in Scotland, at Inverlair Lodge, in Invernesshire. According to my sources, there was a gorge around the property, which helped SOE keep prisoners from escaping. I thought an island would be more fun for my fictional inmates, and started to research isles in the Hebrides.

  I found inspiration in visiting the very real Kinloch Castle, a Victorian hunting lodge on the Isle of Rum, just off Scotland’s western coast. Kinloch Castle was built by Sir George Bullough, a textile tycoon from Lancashire who had inherited the island, which his father had purchased as a summer residence and shooting estate.

  While the Bulloughs were in no way the inspiration for the fictional Killochs, salacious rumors and gossip about them abounded. One thing I can say for certain is that the ballroom of the castle really did have dumbwaiters so staff didn’t enter and a curtain so the orchestra couldn’t see the revelers down in the ballroom—make of that what you will. And although the Isle of Scarra is also fiction, it bears a strong resemblance to Rum in both its flora and fauna (those Manx shearwaters) and also its proximity to Mallaig and Arisaig.

  I would like to thank the Isle of Rum Community Trust, “established in 2010 as a response to the need for a collective voice for
community landowners in Scotland.” I’d also like to thank the Kinloch Castle Friends Association, who provide public tours and are waging a campaign to save the deteriorating castle from demolition.

  In addition to visiting Arisaig House (now a lovely bed and breakfast run by the Winnington-Ingrams) and Kinloch Castle on the Isle of Rum, I also consulted the books and documentaries listed below.

  Books

  Eccentric Wealth: The Bulloughs of Rum, by Alastair Scott

  Castles in the Mist: The Victorian Transformation of the Highlands, by Robin Noble

  Findings: Essays on the Natural and Unnatural World, by Kathleen Jamie

  Bare Feet and Tackety Boots: A Boyhood on the Island of Rum, by Archie Cameron

  Sea Room: An Island Life in the Hebrides, by Adam Nicolson

  A Hunter’s Heart: Honest Essays on Blood Sport, edited by David Petersen

  MI5: British Security Service Operations, 1909–1945, by Nigel West

  Kinloch Castle, Scotland’s National Nature Reserves, Scottish Natural Heritage

  Documentaries

  History Rediscovered: Submarines at War

  Secrets of War, season 4, episode 13, “Secret Submarines in World War II”

  BY SUSAN ELIA MACNEAL

  Mr. Churchill’s Secretary

  Princess Elizabeth’s Spy

  His Majesty’s Hope

  The Prime Minister’s Secret Agent

  Mrs. Roosevelt’s Confidante

  The Queen’s Accomplice

  The Paris Spy

  The Prisoner in the Castle

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SUSAN ELIA MACNEAL is the New York Times, Washington Post, and USA Today bestselling author of the Maggie Hope mystery series. She won the Barry Award and has been nominated for the Edgar, Macavity, Agatha, Left Coast Crime, Dilys, and ITW Thriller awards. She lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband and son.