His Majesty's Hope

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  Maggie put a finger to her lips. “Shhhhh, Mr. Burns. That’s our little secret.”

  “When you first trained with me, you were terrible. One of the worst. But you came back. And you worked hard. I’ve heard of some of the things you’ve accomplished, Miss Hope, and I must say I’m proud.” Mr. Burns was a survivor of the Great War. Maggie could see in his eyes that, like her, he had seen things.

  The clock struck. Maggie started, breath quickening, pupils dilating.

  “It’s all right,” Mr. Burns said gently, nearly putting a hand on her arm, and then withdrawing it. “You’re safe here, Miss Hope.”

  Safe. Who’s safe, really? Certainly not children with any sort of illness in Germany. Certainly not the Jews. Certainly not young men who just happen to be on the wrong side of a gun. But Maggie liked Mr. Burns, she did, even though he’d been hard on her when she’d been in his section. In fact, much of what he taught her had helped keep her alive in Berlin.

  “Thank you, Mr. Burns.”

  He shifted his weight from side to side. “You know, I served, too—over in France, in the trenches. I was a soldier then. Oh, you wouldn’t know it now, but once I was young—almost handsome, too. We all were, back then. Saw a lot of my friends killed, better men than I ever was, and killed a fair number myself.”

  “Mr. Burns—”

  “I don’t remember their faces anymore, but I still think of them. What I try to remember is the Christmas truce—Christmas of fourteen, we had a ceasefire over in France. We even sang songs, if you can believe—us with Silent Night, and them with Stille Nacht. Same melody, though. We even had a game of football that afternoon, the ‘Huns’ versus the ‘Island Apes.’ Then, the next day, back to the trenches.…” He shook his head. “I’ll leave you to read your message, Miss Hope.” He turned back to the mail cubbies and extracted a packet of letters from his slot, and began to go through them. The girl at the desk pretended to be very interested in the contents of a folder.

  “Thank you, Mr. Burns.” Maggie looked at the note the girl had written: Sarah Sanderson called to say that the Vic-Wells Ballet is performing La Sylphide at the Royal Lyceum Theatre in Edinburgh. Possibility she may be going on as the Sylph (she says, “the lead one, not one of the idiot fairies fluttering uselessly in the background”). She’ll put house seats on hold for you this weekend. She hopes you can make it.

  Long-legged and high-cheekboned, Sarah was one of Maggie’s closest friends. Once upon a time, Sarah and Maggie had been flatmates in London. At first Maggie had found Sarah intimidating—she was so worldly, after all, so beautiful and glamorous, with the slim figure of a fashion model, dark sparkling eyes, and long dark hair. But Sarah had a droll sense of humor and was given to witty retorts in a decidedly Liverpudlian accent. She was truly herself.

  Maggie had only seen Sarah a few times since they’d parted ways in London the summer of the attempted bombing of St. Paul’s Cathedral, and missed her terribly. If it were at all possible, she decided, she’d make it to Edinburgh for the performance. The trouble was the black dog. Would the black dog let her? Sometimes it was hard to know.

  “Mr. Burns—” Maggie called over to him.

  “Yes, Miss Hope?”

  “I haven’t taken any leave since I arrived here three months ago. A friend of mine is in Edinburgh this weekend, and I’d really like to see her.”

  “Go, Miss Hope”—Mr. Burns waved a leathery hand—“with my blessing. As I’ve been telling you, you need a change of scene. Go, and if there’s a decent bottle of single malt to be had, bring it back for me.”

  Maggie picked up the telephone receiver. Black dog or no, she wasn’t going to miss seeing her friend. She dialed and waited, then: “Yes, please tell Miss Sarah Sanderson that Maggie Hope returned her call. And let her know that I’ll be at Saturday evening’s performance.”

  There, now I have to go, Maggie thought. Take that, black dog.

  The coastline of Arisaig, even in November—perhaps especially in November—was stunning. Snow-covered mountains poked into leaden clouds in the distance, while the stony shoreline melted into green water. The islands of Rhum, Eigg, and Muck peeked through the mist in the distance, as well as a few smaller, unnamed islands, home to gray seals.

  Maggie jogged from the House to the shore, over well-trampled paths lined with lurid green moss on stones and tree trunks, the roar of rushing streams in the air. The trainees were on a different part of the shore, hidden from her view. Exhausted by her vigorous pace, Maggie leaned against a lichen-covered rock, taking a moment to gulp burning breaths. The cold, damp air tasted of salt and seaweed. Blood pounded in her ears as a hawk circled overhead.

  Since she’d arrived in Arisaig, she’d often found herself on the jagged shore, sitting on one of the larger rocks, watching the water as the tide rushed in or out. It was a beautiful part of the world, if you could ignore the occasional loud bang from the training groups learning to use explosives on various parts of the grounds. The neighboring sheep had gotten used to the noise, placidly grazing despite the explosions, but it still startled the birds, who would chirp and twitter in alarm from the ancient oaks.

  Looking out over the water, she remembered one of the American literature classes she’d taken at Wellesley where they’d read Kate Chopin’s novel The Awakening. In the end, the heroine, Edna Pontellier, walked into the Gulf of Mexico.

  She’d written a paper for that class on the ending—did Edna commit suicide? Or did she swim back to shore? Did she literally die to be reborn or was it a metaphorical death? Most people assumed Edna died, despite the fact Miss Chopin had left the ending vague. Maggie remembered how in her paper she’d argued for Edna’s actual death: the clues the author left were in the allusions to Walt Whitman’s poem “Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking.” The ocean, a background chorus in Whitman’s poem, was like the wise mother who reveals the word that awakened Whitman’s own songs: “And again death, death, death, death … Creeping thence steadily up to my ears and laving me softly all over.”

  Looking out into the grim gray water, Maggie thought about death, as she had so many times since she’d arrived. She thought how easy it would be to load up her pockets with stones—like Shelley and Virginia Woolf, like Ophelia and Edna Pontellier—and walk into that cold water never to come back, putting an end to the pain. No more heartache, no more guilt, no more sleepless nights … no more black dog. If she died, he would die along with her. And, she had to admit, there was a certain satisfaction in that.

  Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a young man who had just arrived, leaning against one of the lichen-stained boulders. What’s Three doing here? And why isn’t he running? Her eyes narrowed as she watched the young man, who’d lit a cigarette, the blue smoke surrounding his head like the tentacles of a Portuguese man-o’-war. Trainees, Maggie thought with a flicker of annoyance. They’re everywhere. I can’t even contemplate my own suicide in peace. She rose.

  As she walked closer, stepping silently over broken shells and seaweed left by the tide, she stared him down with her best Aunt Edith look, which she relied on as a trainer. “You’re supposed to be running.”

  Seagulls screeched in the distance. “I’m a fast runner, so I have time for a smoke.” His eyes twinkled. “And to look for mermaids. Although we’re more likely to see seals. That’s what the sailors of yore mistook for mermaids, most likely.”

  His accent was posh, she noted. He was handsome. She looked at his hands: they were white and soft. A gentleman, she thought dispassionately. Let’s see if he makes it through to the end.

  “Yes, seals, most likely.” Maggie had no energy left to admonish him; keeping the black dog at bay absorbed it all. She watched the waves crest and break over the rocky shore. Another explosion sounded in the distance.

  Three kicked at a thick rotting rope left behind by the family, when the beach had been used as a launch, the wind ruffling his straight dark hair. “They’re blowing up bridges today.”

&
nbsp; “So I’ve heard.” Then, “It’s not good to run and smoke.”

  “Who says?”

  “I do. When I came back here, I quit. It was affecting my time.”

  Three gave a crooked grin and smiled at her through thick black eyelashes. She noticed his eyes were preternaturally green. He threw away his cigarette. “You don’t recognize me, do you?”

  “Of course I do, Three. Decent at Morse code, not a bad shot, but always end of the pack in any race.”

  He laughed. “No, I mean, you don’t recognize me.”

  Maggie raised an eyebrow. Who is this arrogant twit? “Should I?”

  “Most people around here do, or at least think they do. Although I always thought—who better to be a spy than an actor.”

  “You’re an actor, then.” Maggie knew the type—good-looking, charming, utterly self-absorbed. “Sorry, but I don’t think I’ve seen anything you’ve done.”

  “Really?” His face drooped in disappointment. “Home Away from Home? Dead Men Are Dangerous? The Girl Must Live?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Well, how about theatre, then—I played Jack Favell, the first Mrs. de Winter’s lover, in Rebecca. West End, summer of forty.”

  “Ah,” Maggie said. Her twin flatmates had been the stage manager and costume assistant for Rebecca, and of course she and the other flatmates had gone to see it. Maggie remembered him now: handsome with a mustache and slick Brylcreemed hair. Decent chemistry with Mrs. Danvers. “Yes, I saw that.” She realized that, puppy-like, he was waiting for more, so she added, “You were quite good.”

  The young man pushed away from the rock and gave a small bow. “At your service, Lady Macbeth.”

  Maggie’s face twisted into a smile. “Yes, that’s what this group calls me. The last one called me Nessie.”

  He looked blank.

  Maggie sighed impatiently. “Nessie? You know—the Loch Ness Monster?”

  Three did his best to hide a smile behind a hand. “Ahem, I’m afraid so. But it’s better to be feared than to be loved, isn’t it?”

  “If you’re Machiavelli. Or a prince.” Her smile turned grim. “Or a spy, for that matter.”

  “My actual name is Charles Campbell, by the way. The press calls me Good Time Charlie.”

  “Hello, Charles.” She tilted her head. “Where are you from?”

  “Glasgow, actually.” Maggie was surprised; he didn’t have the distinctive accent. “Aye, lassie—ye pro’ly think we all wear kilts, eat haggis with tatties and neeps, an’ get drunk on whisky ev’ry day!” He switched from Glaswegian back to his upper-crust enunciation. “It’s true, actually, but only on Sunday.”

  “How—?”

  Charles smiled. “I watched films, imitated the voices. When I started to make some real money, I hired an accent coach, a regular Henry Higgins of a fellow. Trained all my bad habits out of me. Now I can speak with almost any accent—used them in plenty of films, some even in Hollywood.”

  “The ability to switch accents—that’s useful, for a spy.”

  Charles looked deep into her eyes. Maggie looked back, coolly. “You’re not in love with me, are you?” he asked, sounding just a touch disappointed.

  Despite the razor in her heart, Maggie nearly choked with laughter. Love? Love was the last thing on her mind these days. “In love with you? I just met you!”

  “Most of the girls here are in love with me.” He said it factually, not bragging. “Or at least the image of me they have from my films. It can be quite annoying, really.”

  My goodness he’s young. “Well,” Maggie replied, “never fear. Not only have I never seen your films, but I have no interest in romance, whatsoever. Ever again.”

  “What’s your type?”

  “Type? Tall, dark, and damaged. Or tall, fair, and damaged. And really, Charles, you’re not nearly tall or damaged enough to be considered.”

  Charles clapped her on the back and grinned. Maggie could see how he could easily be a matinee idol. Still, with the black dog so close and ready to leap at any moment, romance was out of the question. “Then we shall get along very well,” he said.

  Maggie shot him a warning look. “First, don’t do that.”

  He removed his hand.

  “Second, don’t ever do that again.”

  He had the grace to redden.

  “And third”—she pushed back her sleeve to take a look at her watch—“start running.”

  Charles straightened, crushed out his cigarette in a mound of slippery seaweed, and then gave a crisp salute. “Yes, ma’am!”

  When he trotted off, Maggie took a few more moments to look out over the water. Then she spotted something by the shore, where the waves gently lapped. A gray seal? A large stone? Driftwood?

  Curious, she walked closer. It was a sheep. Or rather the carcass of a sheep, dead some time, from the look of the body. Poor thing must have gotten away from the flock and fallen into the water.… Maggie examined the body more closely. She saw the clips in its ears, two notches not one, and a dyed red dot on its rump, indicating it didn’t belong to the local farmer’s flock, whose sheep had just one ear notch and a blue stripe on the shoulders.

  Maggie also noted that the corpse was encrusted with open, oozing black sores.

  After the day’s training sessions were completed, Maggie washed, changed into clean clothes, and bicycled in the dark to the small village of Arisaig to see the town veterinarian, Angus McNeil. It was still early evening, but overhead, the stars burned blue.

  The doctor was an older man, tall—well over six feet—with a tuft of white hair sprouting from each ear. He might have started out the day with what was left of his hair neatly combed, but now the red and white strands—pink, almost—were standing straight up, like prawn antennae. His features were large and blunt, like an ancient Lewis chess piece. While his long legs were thin, his midsection was full, and he moved like a great circus bear on its hind legs.

  “What do you want, lass?” he said, scowling, as she entered the office. His words were spoken with a thick burr, his voice low and rumbling.

  “I found a dead sheep on the beach near Arisaig House—” she began.

  “If it’s dead, you don’t need a veterinarian.”

  Score one for the ginger-haired brute from Barra. “At first I thought it was one of the neighboring flock that had somehow gotten through a fence and accidentally fallen in and drowned, but it’s from a different flock.”

  “So? Could have fallen in somewhere else, then washed ashore near Arisaig House.”

  “Then I noticed it was covered in black sores.”

  The vet’s face creased. “What kind of black sores?”

  “About an inch or two across, looked like blisters.”

  “And this sheep—did it have any other markings on it?”

  I’m a bloody spy, you addlepated giant, she thought impatiently. I’ve been trained not just to see, but to observe. All this idiot sees is a woman. “I noticed two triangular-shaped notches in his right ear, and a dot of red paint on his rump.”

  “That sheep belongs to Archie MacDonald, then.” The vet rubbed his head, further disturbing his hair. “But his flock doesn’t graze anywhere near the coast.…”

  “I just thought someone should know.”

  “Yes, yes …” growled the vet, lost in thought. “You didn’t touch the beast, did ye, Doreen?”

  “No, I most assuredly did not. And my name’s not Doreen.”

  “Doreen’s Gaelic for a sourpuss—and your puss is most definitely a sour one.”

  From the back room came a mewing sound. “What’s that?”

  Maggie asked.

  “Stray cat.”

  “Is he all right?”

  “It’s a cat, miss. I’m a vet—I deal with sheep and cows and horses. Not cats.”

  “Then what’s he doing here?”

  “Pub owner brought him in, didn’t want him hanging around, begging for food. He’s an older cat, not a great mouser. I’d guess he was a
n indoor cat for most of his life—maybe when his owner died, no one wanted him, so they dumped him in the country. He probably doesn’t have much time left anyway.”

  “But why is he here? Are you taking him in?”

  The doctor looked down at her from his immense height with a mixture of annoyance and pity. “I’m going to euthanize him, miss. Can’t fend for himself, since he’s a pampered indoor cat. It’s kinder this way, really.”

  “What?” Maggie exclaimed. “No!” She pushed past the doctor and opened the door to his office. Two eyes glowed phosphorescent in the darkness. Maggie switched on the light. There, on the vet’s pinewood desk, sat a reddish tabby cat. He was painfully thin, with rough fur and bald patches and a torn ear. He looked up at Maggie with emerald eyes, pupils narrowing to slits. Goodness gracious, you look as bad as I feel, she thought.

  “Meh,” the red tabby proclaimed. The disdainful sound was expressed in a peculiar and irritating nasal tone.

  “Meh?” Maggie looked up at the doctor, who’d followed her in. “I thought cats said meow.”

  The vet shrugged. “He’s a talker, that one is. Talk your ear off. I think whoever he belonged to lived alone and talked to him. Talked to him day and night, and fed him from her plate. That’s why the old boy’s no good as a mouser. Thinks he’s human, he does.”

  Maggie went up to the cat and held out her hand for him to sniff. She knew cats from the Prime Minister’s office, where they roamed freely, along with a few of the Churchills’ dogs.

  The cat acquiesced to sniff her hand, then walked close to her. Raising himself on his haunches, he put one paw on her left shoulder and one paw on her right, holding her in place as he looked into her eyes with laser-like intensity. Maggie looked back, slightly disconcerted by the scrutiny.

  “Meh,” he said finally, then dropped back down to all fours and rubbed against her, beginning to purr. Something passed between them; she had passed the test. Although no words had been spoken, Maggie knew, as clear as she knew her name or the day of the week, that she and this cat belonged together. Or, at least, he had chosen her, for whatever reason, and she was powerless to say no.