The Prisoner in the Castle

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “In more recent news, we also have the paper.” Teddy indicated a copy of The Oban Times on a side table. “Dr. Jaeger brought it for us, bless him.”

  Maggie put down her drink and grabbed at the paper, not caring about the ink staining her hands, or that it was backdated November 9. Desperate for information, they listened to the news on the BBC on the wireless as much as they could. But the printed word was always special and contained more details. This headline read, ALLIED FORCES CLOSING IN ON KEY DEFENSES OF NORTH AFRICA: ALGIERS ALREADY OCCUPIED.

  Good, she thought with satisfaction. We’re getting a bit of our own back. So much has happened—and yet we’ve so far to go.

  She scanned the rest of the front page. SPY EXECUTED reported a small article. A German spy named Jakob Meier, age thirty-two, was executed by firing squad at the Tower of London yesterday. He was sentenced after a weeklong trial held at the Royal Courts of Justice last month.

  The Royal Courts of Justice? The Old Bailey must have been bombed, Maggie realized. She wondered how they’d captured Meier—had he been caught sending a Morse message from a rented room? Spotted on a forbidden beach, taking photographs of ships? Or had censors observed his writing chess moves in German, which were really code for troop buildups?

  She didn’t know, of course. And she hated not knowing, not being part of the world of espionage. She couldn’t bear being imprisoned on the island—not just because of the loss of her personal freedom but because captivity rendered her powerless to do anything to help. She was highly trained and experienced. To have to sit out the remainder of the war in a virtual penalty box—well, it hurt. She felt guilty, angry, impotent.

  And on top of that, lonely. She was isolated, away from home, without her family—a family of friends, but family nonetheless. Life was passing her by. It was passing them all by, all of them on this wretched island, as they waited out the war.

  She knew beyond the castle walls, beyond the island, terrible things were happening. She remembered Hitler’s thuggish Brownshirts swarming the streets of Berlin, killing with impunity. She’d seen several off-duty German soldiers in spring in Paris, drunk and disorderly, and when a Frenchman on a bicycle accidentally knocked one of them over, they shot him dead in the street in broad daylight. What countless other atrocities were happening? And still, she was unable to do anything. It was infuriating.

  A voice from the staircase interrupted her thoughts. “By the pricking of my thumbs, something wicked this way comes!”

  It was Quentin Asquith, the group’s self-professed dandy: tall, slender, and elegant, fair hair plastered back with brilliantine. This evening, he was dressed for dinner in a dark blue double-breasted jacket, a boutonniere of red holly berries and glossy leaves pinned to his lapel. Under his left arm, he carried a russet taxidermic fox he’d found and named Monsieur Reynard; they were inseparable.

  Maggie liked Quentin. He was odd, to be sure, but in a witty way. He eschewed any and all physical activity except fencing and instead spent his time indoors, reading novels, playing chess, and drinking. “I like the outdoors,” he was known to declare, “but I don’t think it returns the favor.”

  Quentin went to the wireless, turning it on and twisting the dial until he found music. The Glenn Miller Orchestra played “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.”

  “I was afraid Monsieur Reynard and I would be early for cocktails,” he remarked as he walked to the bar.

  “Not at all,” Teddy replied.

  “Welcome, both of you,” Maggie added, smiling at the stuffed fox. Ramsey glanced at Quentin but said nothing.

  “Well, thank heavens there’s more liquor,” Quentin commented, turning on a few more lamps, then mixing gin with bitters in a heavy crystal glass. “Never any lack of alcohol here, at least. They’re keeping us drunk and happy so we won’t complain or cause any problems.”

  He was right. Not only were intoxicants plentiful but personal relationships were almost encouraged. Early on, Maggie had become aware that a number of her fellow prisoners didn’t meet only over a meal or cocktails in the great room. Sometimes footsteps echoed in the corridors at night and there were the faint but unmistakable sounds of doors being opened and shut.

  “Have you caused problems today, Mr. Asquith?” Maggie deadpanned. “Or has Monsieur Reynard?”

  “Neither of us, alas,” Quentin replied, picking up his tumbler. “This life—it’s not bad, really. I rather enjoy the solitude, especially the comfort of a warm lodge, ugly though it may be. It could be a club in St. James’s, you know,” he continued, “with hunting and fishing as topics of conversation instead of politics and business. Even if the décor is Elsie de Wolfe on cocaine.” He winced up at a shrunken head in a glass case. The label beneath read: “TSANTSA, FROM THE AGUARUNA TRIBE, PERU.”

  “Yes, we seem to have found ourselves in a club with very exclusive membership. And far too many antlers.” Maggie’s gaze rested on the tall, cold windowpanes. “I don’t understand why, with such a gorgeous view, anyone would want to use so much stained glass. You can’t see out very well at all.”

  Teddy was refilling his pipe with sweet-smelling tobacco from a suede pouch. “Perhaps it wasn’t about seeing out, but having others not see in. Have you seen those marks on the lid of the grand piano? Damage from ladies’ high-heeled shoes, I believe.”

  “Someone could still peek in through the clear parts.” Quentin smirked. “I heard when old Killoch was building this monstrosity, he paid his workers extra to wear kilts.”

  Maggie raised one eyebrow. But before she could respond, she noticed a flicker of movement. “Anna!” she called.

  Anna O’Malley was dressed in a plain gray frock with a lace collar, her thin hands twisting around each other. She was slight and birdlike, with wiry brown hair obscuring darting eyes. Her face was narrow, ending in a sharply pointed chin. She gave the impression of fragility, but the word that always popped into Maggie’s mind when she saw Anna was scrappy.

  “Miss Hope—may—may I speak with you?” The younger woman looked to Quentin, Teddy, and Ramsey. “In private?”

  “Of course.” Maggie rose and walked over. “Why don’t we put up the blackout curtains?”

  Anna sidestepped a dead palm in a brass pot. She and Maggie both pulled on the heavy black draperies to block the light and protect against the spiking cold. “I keep thinking of Andrew,” she whispered. The night before, Anna had confided in Maggie that she’d become pregnant during training, by a fellow agent who had been sent to France but hadn’t been heard from since. She’d had the baby, a boy she named Andrew, and given him to her mother to raise in London. She hadn’t seen her parents or sisters in over a year.

  “I know, Miss O’Malley.” The two women moved to the next set of windows. “But it’s not good to dwell—” Another curtain closed, making the room confined and dim.

  “I’m not dwelling! But I want you to know that since our conversation last night, I’ve made a decision.”

  “Yes?”

  They pulled shut the final blackout curtains; the room was now a veritable bell jar. “I’ve decided I’m not going home—when this”—Anna waved a hand, indicating the hall, the castle, the island—“is over. I’m taking Andrew and running away. I’ll pretend to be a widow. No one will ever know I had him”—she lowered her voice—“out of wedlock.” She put a finger in her mouth absently and began chewing on the nail.

  “I think that’s an excellent idea.” Maggie took a window seat and patted the dusty velvet cushion next to her. “If that’s what you want. A fresh start for both of you.”

  “You don’t think it’s sinful to lie?” Anna sat.

  “It’s one of the least sinful lies I’ve ever heard.”

  “If Andrew even remembers me…”

  “You’re his mother. Of course he’ll remember you.”

  “At least the Bli
tz stopped last year—although I know the bombings will most likely resume. The only thing I keep turning around and around in my head, though, is where will we live? I don’t have any money. Everything I’ve made I’ve sent home for Andrew. I know my mother hasn’t saved any of it for me. Not that I’d want her to, of course…” Maggie nodded. “I can sew,” Anna declared resolutely. “It’s what I did before SOE—I made ladies’ hats. Pretty hats, too, with hummingbirds and flowers and ribbons and things.”

  “They sound beautiful.”

  “It’s like a record skipping—I just can’t think of how I’ll be able to support us when I get out of here. If I get out of here.”

  “First,” Maggie said, “you will get out. We all will. And second, if you and Andrew need a place to stay, I have a house in Marylebone—that’s far enough from the East End, isn’t it? At any time, any number of my friends live there. Sarah is a ballet dancer.” Maggie swallowed. Sarah had been a dancer. And then a spy. What she was now, Maggie didn’t know. She plunged on. “My friend Chuck—really Charlotte—has a darling little boy named Griffin. They’re staying with me because their flat was bombed. Griffin and Andrew could play together!”

  She took the younger woman’s hand. “Why don’t you both come live with us, until you get on your feet? There’s plenty of space for hatmaking. And I can only imagine when this war’s over, women will want new hats to celebrate. Come, live with me! It will be fun!”

  “Are you—are you certain? I can cook and clean, earn my way…” Anna’s face was hopeful but unsure.

  “We all take turns with the chores, don’t worry. And you’ll be doing me the favor. I don’t like living in such a big place alone, especially with so many in London without homes. Seems only right to share.”

  “Are you serious?” Anna straightened, eyes glowing. “Cross your heart and hope to die?”

  Maggie made an X over her chest. “Cross my heart and hope to live, but yes.”

  “Miss Hope, you don’t know what this means to me. I can’t tell you how much better I feel.”

  “Well, good!” Maggie exclaimed. “Now, why don’t you think of new hat designs, instead of fretting? I can’t wait to see what you come up with. I happen to know a woman who started out as a hat designer in Paris”—Well, that’s one way to describe Coco Chanel—“who became quite successful.”

  “Thank you, Miss Hope. Thank you so much. I’ll start sketching…”

  Maggie looked over to the alcove. Quentin and Teddy were deep in an intense discussion of anglers and writers, while Ramsey sat staring at Anna, his eyes unblinking. “Don’t look now,” she told Anna, “but I think you have an admirer.”

  “Ugh, Mr. Novak.” Anna made a face. “He’s always watching me. Don’t you think he’s a bit, well, creepy? He never says a word.”

  “Well, maybe he needs someone to talk to. You could help him. Perhaps he’d start talking again, with a little encouragement.”

  “Mr. Crane talks to him a lot, but it hasn’t seemed to help.” Anna frowned. “Do you think there’s something…funny going on with Mr. Crane and Mr. Novak?”

  “I think Mr. Crane is simply being kind.”

  “I don’t know. There’s something wrong with Ramsey Novak, I can feel it.” Anna shivered.

  Maggie was on alert. “Has he done anything to make you feel uncomfortable?” After a disastrous outing with a man from Mr. Churchill’s office had nearly ended in her rape, Maggie had vowed she’d always trust her intuition. If Anna’s gut was telling her something, it was worth Maggie’s attention. “Did anything happen?”

  “No—nothing, really.” Anna brightened. “Did you hear about the new girl?”

  Anna didn’t appear to be concerned about Ramsey, so Maggie dropped it. “There’s a new prisoner?” Maggie was intrigued. This latest arrival was the first since she’d come to the island. “Did you meet her? What’s she like?”

  “I just caught a glimpse,” Anna said. “She was going off by herself at sunset, into the woods—isn’t that odd? But she’s young. Posh. Quite beautiful.”

  “Who’s beautiful?” purred a voice from the doorway. It belonged to Helene Poole-Smythe. A statuesque woman with a raven bob, she made a grand entrance in a scarlet high-necked dress with a gold-beaded dragon around her neck, a cigarette in a long ivory holder pinched between two fingers, both hands loaded with heavy rings. The air shimmered with her sandalwood perfume. Helene had once been a showgirl but married a rich gin distiller, and loved to put on airs. Maggie found her pretentious and disliked the way she flirted with the men.

  Leonard Kingsley, one of Helene’s admirers, trailed at her heels. “You are, of course, darling. The most beautiful woman on the island.”

  “More gin—thank goodness. Make me a martini, Mr. Kingsley, won’t you? Wet. I do so love vermouth.”

  Leo obliged, handing a coupe to Helene, who stretched, catlike, to reach it. “Anyone else for martinis?” he called to the room. Maggie didn’t know Leo well. Tall and athletic, with a thick brown mustache and raffish beard, he played the piano and sang beautifully, which was a wonderful after-dinner diversion, and spoke with a slight Belgian accent. He was charming, but slippery, and hard to read. What was obvious was his infatuation for Helene, despite her ongoing affair with another prisoner, Ian Lansbury.

  “Where’s Mr. Lansbury?” Anna responded, ignoring Leo’s question. Maggie had a sneaking suspicion Anna had a crush on Ian and was jealous of his relationship with Helene. Ian, originally from the streets of Manchester, had enthusiastically embraced the blood sports of the island, often being gone all day to hunt, fish, and trap. While the inmates were not allowed guns, Ian had carved a bow from an oak branch and whittled arrows, which he’d used to bring down any number of deer.

  Helene responded with a graceful wave of her cigarette in its holder. “Ian took off early this morning. Hunting, of course. That man’s insatiable.”

  So I understand, Maggie thought. She shared a bedroom wall with Helene and often overheard her and Ian together in the night.

  “And he’s not back yet?” Maggie asked.

  Helene shrugged narrow shoulders. “How should I know?”

  “You’re thick as thieves,” Anna retorted. “Although they always told us marriages made in the field never work out.”

  “Who said anything about marriage, Miss O’Malley?” Helene retorted with a wink, then turned to Leo. “Darling, do turn off the wireless and play a little something for us, won’t you?” Before the war, Helene had been a chorus girl in Noël Coward’s Operette in the West End, and she loved to sing and dance after a few cocktails, as well as regale them all with intimate tales of the theater. Maggie wondered how many of her stories were true.

  Quentin turned off the radio, and Leo sat down at the piano. Lifting long, elegant fingers to the ivory keys, he played a familiar melody. Helene, recognizing the tune, came up behind him, and began to sing, her voice loud and brassy:

  A-hunting we will go, a-hunting we will go

  Heigh-ho, the derry-o, a-hunting we will go!

  A-hunting we will go, a-hunting we will go

  We’ll catch a fox and put him in a box

  And never let him go…

  Quentin got to his feet, the stuffed fox cradled in his arms. He had gone pale. “Monsieur Reynard doesn’t find that sort of thing at all amusing!”

  Leo stopped, his hands hovering over the keys. Helene opened her mouth to retort when the gong sounded from the front hall. The metallic echo reverberated through the great room.

  Teddy rose. “Ladies and gentlemen,” he announced. “Time for dinner.”

  Chapter Three

  As they entered the dining room, Maggie overheard Leo saying to Quentin, “We meant no offense to the fox, old thing. None of those ancient nursery rhymes are about pudding and plums and pretty maids, really—if you read them closely, y
ou’ll notice the plague and the murder.”

  “I’m well aware.” Quentin reached to stroke the fox’s ruddy muzzle. “Those mice with their tails cut off symbolized the Protestant bishops during the reign of Bloody Mary, who had their heads removed.”

  Dinner at Killoch Castle was held in the formal dining room, at the bottom of the western turret, round and red and always slightly damp. Sir Marcus had commissioned an artist to paint the walls and ceiling with depictions of grotesque primates clothed as humans—shooting, fishing, smoking, living the life of the Highland gentleman. The room was furnished with claw-foot Chippendale mahogany swivel chairs from Killoch’s steamship; the table lights evoked Japanese incense burners. In the back of the room was a huge black marble fireplace. A dusty waterfall chandelier, dripping with prisms and ropes of cut-crystal beads, glowed overhead, cutting through the shadows.

  As Leo pulled out a chair for Helene, he added, “And I read somewhere that ‘Eeny, meeny, miny, moe’ and all those counting rhymes actually derive from ancient methods of choosing human sacrifices.” Quentin was not at all comforted; he clutched Monsieur Reynard closer.

  “Really, darling,” Helene chided as Leo sat beside her. “Not appropriate dinner conversation.”

  Castle dinners were generally odd, a blend of the formal and casual, a ritual for individuals who under normal circumstances would never have broken bread together. The conversation of prisoners, Maggie thought. She found the meals tiresome, but unavoidable.

  “We’re talking about nursery rhymes?” asked Sayid as he entered the room. He smiled, his teeth white against his skin, and sat next to Maggie. The space between them felt small and charged. Her cheeks turned pink, but she forced herself not to look away. “They’re rather grim aren’t they?”

  “And political, too, Dr. Khan,” Maggie replied. “ ‘Baa, Baa, Black Sheep’ was protesting taxation. And ‘Sing a Song of Sixpence’ was about Henry the Eighth and his break from the Catholic Church.”