The Prisoner in the Castle is a work of fiction. All incidents and dialogue, and all characters with the exception of some well-known historical figures, are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Where real-life historical persons appear, the situations, incidents, and dialogues concerning those persons are entirely fictional and are not intended to depict actual events or to change the entirely fictional nature of the work. In all other respects, any resemblance to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2018 by Susan Elia
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
BANTAM BOOKS and the HOUSE colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA
Names: MacNeal, Susan Elia, author.
Title: The prisoner in the castle: a Maggie Hope mystery / Susan Elia MacNeal.
Description: First Edition. | New York: Bantam Books, [2018] | Series: Maggie Hope; 8
Identifiers: LCCN 2018024610 | ISBN 9780399593826 (hardback) | ISBN 9780399593833 (Ebook)
Subjects: LCSH: Women spies—Fiction. | World War, 1939–1945—Great Britain—Fiction. | BISAC: FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Women Sleuths. FICTION / Mystery & Detective / Traditional British. | FICTION / Historical. | GSAFD: Spy stories. | Historical fiction.
Classification: LCC PS3613.A2774 P75 2018 | DDC 813/.6—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018024610
Ebook ISBN 9780399593833
randomhousebooks.com
Title-page image: © iStockphoto.com
Book design by Dana Leigh Blanchette, adapted for ebook
Cover design: Victoria Allen
Cover illustration: Mick Wiggins
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Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Epilogue
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Historical Notes
By Susan Elia MacNeal
About the Author
There is a passion for hunting something deeply implanted in the human breast.
—CHARLES DICKENS,
Oliver Twist
There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.
—ERNEST HEMINGWAY,
“On the Blue Water”
Am fear bhitheas trocaireach ri anam, cha bhi e mi-throcaireach ri bhruid.
[He who is merciful to his soul will not be unmerciful to a beast.]
—GAELIC SAYING
Prologue
Always remember, when you’re on the run, instinct will take over—and if you’re not careful, you’ll become nothing more than an animal. The words echoed in her memory. But you must never stop thinking, reasoning, applying your mind. Only then will you be able to complete your mission. And escape.
Camilla Oddell, code-named Nadine, was part of the Special Operations Executive or SOE, the hush-hush organization created by Winston Churchill to “set Europe ablaze” and conduct espionage, sabotage, and reconnaissance behind enemy lines in occupied countries. She’d been trained by Captain Eric Sykes, a former officer in the Shanghai Municipal Police, who specialized in silent killing in close quarters, at a paramilitary training camp on the western coast of Scotland. And now his words resounded in her head as she prepared to make her escape.
It was just past midnight, the moon distorted behind a smear of clouds, the sky bigger than imagining. Camilla was navigating a brooding late-autumn terrain of pine forests, mist-swathed mountains, and cold rushing streams. The velvety darkness—thick, almost substantial—blanketed the landscape, rendering it in shades of violet, black, and blue. The moonlight gave the night a peculiar texture and wild intimacy, the knife-edged winds fragrant with salty sea air.
She looked like a shadow, wearing coveralls and leather gloves, her pale face and swan-like neck blackened with coal, her glossy golden hair tucked up and covered by a navy knit cap. She’d studied a map of the woods before setting out; she knew the landscape and where the safe house stood. What she didn’t know was how she was supposed to get there—and who was out there lying in wait for her. Did they have a head start? Or were they somewhere behind her?
Camilla picked her way through the maze of conifers, sped on by adrenaline and raw nerves. Her breathing was ragged; her heartbeat pounded in her ears. She saw a rock-edged pool overhung with birch trees glowing white in the moonlight. She stepped on brittle bones in the grass, then stiffened as the cracking rang out like gunshots in the darkness.
She waited, frozen, her senses straining, heart thudding. Breathe, she told herself. Think. She took silent gulps of frigid air. Overhead, gnarled tree limbs spread naked against the star-studded expanse of the sky. Pine trees creaked back and forth in the wind and she heard a far-off shriek of an owl.
As the refrain of “Run, Rabbit, Run” wound through her head, Camilla broke into a sprint, following the faint deer path. It constantly changed direction, uphill and down, obstructed by rocks and roots, treacherous with frost. It led her to a stream, the peaty water splashing over stones and pebbles, glittering silver. Her foot slipped on a lichen-covered rock. She stumbled, one heavy boot sucked into the freezing mud. There was a swirl of shadow and a sharp bark as some startled animals escaped from the underbrush, leaping into the water and diving under. Camilla pressed her lips together as she pulled her leg out of the black ooze.
She crept over a wooden bridge, then ran through a tangle of bare willow branches. Deeper and deeper she wended her way through the woods, the fragrance of evergreen enveloping her, the pine needles cushioning her footfalls.
At the edge of a clearing, she stopped, listening. But beyond the rush of the stream and a sudden flap of bat wings, there was no sound, no hint of anyone on her trail. As she leaned against an ancient oak, taking a moment to gather her strength, she caught a flicker of movement from the corner of her eye. She froze, willing herself to turn to stone, like a beast trapped in the crosshairs of a gun.
And then she caught a glimpse of it—a shadowy, spectral shape, where there hadn’t been a shape before. Someone. Someone tracking her. Hunting her.
She watched, shrinking into the gloom, as the man stood motionless, as if undecided. Finally, he took off into the wood away from her, his pace silent and steady.
If only he knew how close he’d come to finding her! The thrill of escape coursed through her veins and she felt strong, confident. She would make it. In the distance, she could hear the faint sound of a train’s whistle and waves lapping the shore. Relief flooded her. She was almost there.
Camilla ducked through the thick undergrowth until she could see a flagstone house across a field in the gauzy moonlight—the agreed-upon pickup spot. With a last check of her surroundings, she left the relative protection of the forest and made her way over the frosted ground.
Then something lunged at her.
She spun. A figure loomed before her, a pair of eyes visible in a blacked-out face. Camilla panicked and tried to rush past, but gloved hands grabbed for her. She swung round, hitting and kicking.
“Stop it,” the man ordered through clenched teeth. “You’ve been caught. The game’s over.”
Camilla stilled and then, without warning, kneed him in the groin. When he sagged, she kicked him with her steel-toed boot, knocking him to the ground. Still, he held on to her. They struggled, rolling on the rough grass. Amid the panting, grasping, and the harsh breathing, she remembered Captain Sykes’s words: Kill if you have to. She grasped the man’s right arm and twisted.
He made an unholy cry as the bone cracked, but Camilla didn’t let go. Her animal instincts had kicked in. She wanted to hurt him. She wanted to destroy him.
Biting her lip in anticipation, Camilla tightened her hold on his arm. She grabbed his head with her right hand and braced his chest with her left. She didn’t hear the cries for help, for mercy—all she knew was she had him in her thrall. She held absolute power over life and death in that moment. The realization led to a frisson of terror combined with wonder and then sinful pride.
Camilla took his skull and twisted. His neck cracked and he went limp. A sinister, intoxicating joy flowed through her. She knelt over him, panting, triumphant, completed.
“Are you mad?” shouted a voice in her ear as a man yanked her up. There were more voices approaching, and someone switched on a flashlight, the shuttered beams piercing the darkness. The man Camilla had attacked lay on the ground, his legs and arms akimbo, his head at a strange angle.
“Judas!” the stranger exclaimed. “Eddie? Eddie?” He dropped to his knees and pressed his ear to the man’s chest. Finally, he rocked back on his heels and looked up at Camilla. “You killed him,” he said. “You killed Eddie.”
Too late, reality thundered back. Camilla realized the body in black was Eddie Dove, a wisp of a man in her training unit, always with a joke at the ready and the smile of a sad clown. He was a few years younger than she, with impeccable French he’d learned from his Norman-born mother, and a talent for setting people at ease thanks to his pub-owning English father. Funny, gangly, awkward, skinny Eddie Dove. And now he was dead.
Captain Michael Lewis—now she recognized him, now she knew him—scrambled to his feet, hands clenched. “Are you insane? You killed a man! One of our own, for Christ’s sake!”
“I didn’t know it was Eddie, sir,” she gasped. “He—he tried to stop me.”
“He was supposed to stop you! It’s a training mission! And you were brought down, fair and square. You were supposed to give in, to surrender, dammit! It was a bloody”—Lewis shook his head in disbelief, unable to find the right word—“exercise!” Around him, the other trainees shuffled their feet.
“I’m…sorry,” Camilla managed.
“You lot.” Lewis pointed to the others. “Carry Eddie’s body to the infirmary. You—” He stabbed a finger at Camilla. “Come with me.”
They walked in silence through the fields to the main house, the odor of woodsmoke from the chimneys carrying on the wind. “Why the hell did you do that?” asked Lewis finally. His voice was subdued, thickened by his Shetland brogue.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “I can still go to France, though—yes?” she asked, her voice high and reedy. “I can still go?”
Lewis didn’t answer.
* * *
—
Colonel Alistair Rogers sat at his desk in his office, a wood-paneled room reeking of leather, damp, and stale cigarette smoke. It had once been the library of Arisaig House, a Scottish shooting lodge on the west coast, commandeered by the British government to train SOE agents after war was declared against Germany in 1939. Rogers was in his sixties, with spiky brown hair dusted with white, narrow shoulders, and sunken cheeks. A fire crackled behind the grate, the flames dancing blue, and from the field outside came the muted baas of grazing sheep. The colonel squinted through his glasses, reading over Captain Lewis’s report of the previous night’s events.
There was a knock at the open door. Rogers glanced up from his paperwork, removed his spectacles, and pushed back his narrow wooden wheelchair. “Ah, Captain Lewis—come in. Just the person I wanted to speak to. Finished your report about Oddell and Dove. Terrible. Simply terrible. We’re getting word to the lad’s parents.”
“I spoke with them myself earlier, sir,” replied Lewis, stepping inside. He was wiry, broad-shouldered, and sunburned, a man who’d lived his nearly forty years out of doors, his eyes shadowed from lack of sleep. He glanced around the room—the bookshelves were empty, the brocade curtains were dusty and moth-eaten, and a water stain marred the high ceiling. Out the mullioned windows, a reddish light was seeping above the horizon. Sunrise came late in the Scottish autumn.
“In your report, you say Miss Oddell broke the young man’s neck with her bare hands?” Rogers asked.
Lewis made his way to the fireplace, where an official photograph of the King hung next to one of a glaring Winston Churchill over the mantel. He looked up at the image of the Prime Minister. “Gloved hands, sir. But yes.”
Rogers rolled his chair out from behind the desk. “She’s well trained.”
“Indeed—Sykes said she was one of his most promising students,” Lewis replied, staring, unseeing, up at King George. “I’ve overseen her training myself.”
“From your notes—” The colonel stopped his chair close to the captain. “I take it Miss Camilla Oddell likes killing.”
“I’m afraid so.”
“What’s her background?”
“She’s a society girl. A debutante, from Kent. Father in the House of Lords. Posh.” He glanced down at Rogers. “You know the type, sir.”
Rogers turned up the corners of his lips in a ghost of a smile. “I’ve always suspected debutantes’ hidden capacity for violence.”
Lewis didn’t laugh. “Sir, a man is dead. Eddie—Edwin—Dove, a promising young agent. This was the final training exercise. When this girl came up against resistance, her violent tendencies emerged. And she couldn’t control them.”
“In our line of work, I’m not sure that’s a bad thing.” Rogers rolled his chair to the windows, where he gazed out over a victory garden, down to what had once been a croquet lawn, now being used by agents in coveralls practicing jujitsu. Beyond the grass, a thick forest of rowan, alder, and evergreens led down to the silvery waters of Loch nan Ceall. “She has the looks, she speaks French beautifully, and she’s athletic. This killer instinct might just serve her well in the field.”
“But what if this ‘killer instinct’ jeopardizes a mission? Endangers our own people?” The captain cleared his throat. “Sir, I don’t trust this girl is safe. Under the stress of operational conditions, she might turn on anybody.” He cracked his knuckles. “One of us.”
“We need bodies in France desperately, Captain. I’ve just spoken with Colonel Gaskell in London. F-Section needs more agents. Now we’ve lost—” He gestured to the file on his desk. “What’s his name again?”
“Dove. Eddie Dove.”
“Dove, yes.” He pivoted his chair from the window to face the captain. “So we can’t afford to cut another. We’ve been training Camilla Oddell for months. It would be a damn
shame to lose her now.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I must disagree. I’ve worked with her. She’s young. Maybe too young for all this. And she relishes violence—delights in it. I’m not a psychiatrist, but I think she has all the makings of a sadist. She should be invalided out.” He turned back to the fire, adding under his breath, “Beasts should be kept in cages.”
“I suppose if you take a pretty girl and teach her how to kill, it can cause problems,” the colonel mused. “Thank heavens women in civilian life have no idea what they’re capable of.”
Lewis looked back at Rogers, unsmiling. “Sir, I recommend she be sent to the cooler.”
Rogers narrowed his eyes. “That’s not a recommendation to be made lightly, Captain.”
“I’m aware, sir.”
“You’re certain?”
“I am.”
Rogers sighed in disappointment. “Well, since you’ve spent the most time with her, I defer to your judgment. Prepare the orders, then. ‘Special training,’ and all that.”
Lewis nodded. “Very good, sir.” Some of the tension in his shoulders loosened. “Thank you, sir.”
“It’s not good at all, Captain Lewis,” snapped Rogers, rolling back around to his desk. “The Baker Street Boys in charge of F-Section will be apoplectic—two agents lost on our end, and when they’re needed the most. And you’re sure we don’t have a choice, now do we?”
“No, sir. I don’t believe we do.”
Rogers picked up a heavy red telephone receiver. “Have Miss Camilla Oddell come to my office,” he barked to his secretary. “Soon as possible.”
“It’s Lady Camilla, sir,” Lewis offered.
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