The Prisoner in the Castle

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  Teddy reached for another oatcake. “Thank heavens I never had children. I’d never get any fishing done. But if I did, I’d want a daughter like you.”

  “Hmph,” she managed, embarrassed but pleased.

  “Miss Hope,” he said, “you’re a smart, strong woman, and you will do great things in this world.” Maggie opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “For whatever reason—perhaps because you’re a woman—people will undervalue you.” He gestured with his oatcake. “They will try to make you smaller, so they can feel bigger. Don’t let them. You have the potential for greatness. One day, you will be called to make an important choice and I know you’ll do the right thing.” He waggled the pipe at her. “Don’t disappoint me.”

  “And, in the meantime?”

  “Fish.”

  “Fish?”

  “If not literal fishing, find your fishing—whatever it is that calms you, restores you, makes the time fly.”

  Like Mr. Churchill and painting, Maggie remembered. “I’m sorry, Mr. Crane, but I don’t think fishing’s for me.”

  “Fair enough.” Teddy tilted his head, studying her face. “It’s not for everyone. But you’ll find it. Your passion. And your purpose.” He smiled. “You might even change the course of this war—you never know.”

  “I highly doubt that,” she said. Then she changed the subject. “Dinner was interesting.” Maggie watched a peregrine on a nearby boulder examining his black feet, lifting one, then the other, as if he were a dandy in patent-leather opera pumps who’d stepped in chewing gum. “Finding out Killoch was a mass murderer.”

  “I’d heard it from one of the boatmen when I was brought over.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes. Apparently,” he began, leaning back on his elbows, “Sir Marcus had found out his wife was having an affair with one of his competitors and a few business deals had gone sour. He invited his wife, her lover, and everyone who’d ever crossed him to the island. Then he shot them, one by one. He hunted them around the island, like animals.”

  “Good God,” Maggie breathed. “He must have been mad.”

  “Oh, absolutely barking.”

  “And the McNaughtons were here, on the island, when it happened?”

  “Yes. Though old Killoch was quite insane, he did manage to spare the servants. Of course, most of them moved away after the incident, but the McNaughtons stayed on.”

  “I wonder why?”

  “Young Murdo is a bit off, if you haven’t noticed.”

  “I have.” It wasn’t the clubfoot, either—there was something resentful, even malevolent, in his interactions with the prisoners.

  “Might be easier for him here, rather than on the mainland. No one to mock him or pity him. Who knows?” They both finished eating and brushed crumbs from their laps. “Shall we give it another go?” he suggested, anticipation in his voice.

  Maggie exhaled. “If we must…”

  “I insist. You might yet catch a fish.”

  “A cold, most likely.” She remembered words her friend David had once said: My idea of a trip into nature is a suite at the Ritz and a book of Audubon prints. She could see his point now.

  As they waded out and cast their lines, a golden eagle circled overhead. Something caught on the rocks at the top of the waterfall, blocking the rays of the wintry sun. Maggie looked over, watching the object as it finally broke loose. It fell with a noisy splash.

  Teddy frowned. “What’s that? A log?”

  Something was floating toward them. Maggie’s stomach flip-flopped. “That’s no log.” She moved farther out into the loch, heedless of the icy water now filling her waders. “I need a stick!” she called.

  Teddy made his way to the shore and found a piece of driftwood. He splashed back and handed it to her. She used the stick to pull whatever it was closer.

  She was right: it was no log. It was a man, dressed in soggy tweeds, a long, ugly gash on the back of his skull. She and Teddy exchanged a look, and then together they worked to get him onto the shore. On the pebbles, she turned the body over, then gasped.

  It was Ian Lansbury, his face pale and bloated, his lips blue. “My God,” Maggie murmured. She and Ian hadn’t been close, but still—they’d lived together on the island for months. He was a quiet man, handsome in a rugged way, always in the outdoors or reading about it. He’d allowed himself to be seduced by Helene, although whether from passion or just because he was tired of putting up a defense against her constant flirtation, Maggie never knew. Now she never would.

  “This is bad business.” Teddy rubbed the back of his neck, staring down at the corpse. “He must have taken a fall—hit his head upstream, then washed down here.”

  “Maybe.” Maggie closed Ian’s eyes. Beneath her fingers, his skin was clammy and cold. “Poor Mr. Lansbury.” She shivered. They were alone in the middle of nowhere with a dead man, the second in as many days, their only contact with the outside world a single radio. What are the odds? Two deaths in less than twenty-four hours? Maggie shook off her fears. Captain Evans’s was a heart attack. Mr. Lansbury’s an unfortunate accident.

  Right?

  Finally, she stood. “Mr. Crane,” she said, doing her best to keep her voice under control. “Let’s get Mr. Lansbury back to the castle, shall we?”

  Chapter Five

  Detective Chief Inspector James Durgin straightened the tie of his dress uniform in the driver’s mirror of the taxi as it neared the Royal Courts of Justice. Commonly called the Law Courts, it was a looming gray stone structure in the Victorian Gothic style, complete with pointed arches, detailed finials, and long lancet windows.

  The driver stopped at the curb at the main gates on the Strand. “I’m used to taking you lot to the Old Bailey,” he observed, touching his cap. The Old Bailey, half a mile to the east, had been bombed in 1941, and criminal trials had been moved to the Law Courts. “But whoever the blighter is, I hope you give ’im ’ell.”

  “We could be at the Old Vic for all I care, as long as we get the job done,” Durgin responded, searching his pockets for a few coins.

  “Right you are, sir. I hear this is where they’re trying that monster—you know—the Blackout Beast. Hey—you’re him, aren’t you?” The cabbie sounded delighted. “The copper? The one who arrested the Beast? What’s his name…Reitter?” Durgin didn’t reply, but the driver was undeterred. “You are, aren’t you! Whatever happened to that young chit—ah, my memory’s not what it used to be—Mary? Margaret? Margaret—that’s it. She was working with you? I’d like to shake her hand, I would.”

  Durgin’s countenance was impassive as he handed coins to the driver. “Keep the change.”

  The sidewalks were filled with protesters, shouting, “Hang the blighter!” and “An eye for an eye!” On the opposite side, others proclaimed, “No capital punishment!” while waving cardboard signs with crude drawings of a noose and the writing NOT DO THEY DESERVE TO DIE? BUT DO WE DESERVE TO KILL THEM? In 1938, the issue of the abolition of capital punishment had been brought before Parliament and an experimental five-year suspension of the death penalty was declared. However, when war broke out in 1939, the bill had been postponed—and hanging was still a legal option in cases of murder and treason.

  Durgin let himself out of the cab. He was tall and lean, like a distance runner, and his blue eyes burned with an intense, almost maniacal energy. His brown hair was touched with white at the temples and clipped short, his eyebrows bushy, and the diagonals of his widow’s peak emphasized sharp cheekbones.

  He spotted Peter Frain waiting for him near a sycamore and loped over to him. The tree’s branches were nearly bare, the pavement littered with broken leaves. Frain was even taller than Durgin, with slicked-back dark hair sporting silver and cold gray eyes. He was broad-shouldered and trim, and stood with perfect posture.

  “I thought you were
a colonel,” Durgin remarked, taking in the details of Frain’s dress uniform. As head of the Imperial Security Intelligence Service, better known by the designation MI-5, Frain was in charge of catching spies. A spy himself during the Great War and a professor of Egyptology at Cambridge after that, Frain had become head of MI-5 when Winston Churchill became Prime Minister in May 1940. He and Durgin had been friends for years. Frain was also the man who had arranged for Maggie Hope to assist Durgin on the notorious Blackout Beast case.

  “Honorary promotion last year,” Frain admitted.

  “And I’m sure you’re the very model of a modern major general. The uniform’s an improvement on your usual dandified threads.”

  “I dress like a gentleman,” Frain corrected. “And you, old thing, usually resemble an undertaker.”

  Durgin shrugged. “I like wearing black. Keeps me focused on the important things in life.”

  “Such as friends and family?”

  The DCI gave a crooked smile. “Solving crimes, of course.”

  Frain checked his watch. “Shall we?” Together, the men made their way through the crowd of noisy protesters, past barristers and judges in robes and wigs, more men in uniform, and women—stenographers or secretaries, presumably—in dark wool coats and hats.

  As they approached the arched doors, Durgin flinched when a throng of journalists turned toward them. “I hate this,” he muttered.

  “Steady on, old thing.”

  The journalists, men in somber suits and bowler hats, swarmed the pair. Bulbs flashed and popped as the shouting began. “DCI Durgin, you must be looking forward to this day with relief!”

  “It’s just a plea. Once it’s entered, Mr. Reitter will go back into custody before he’s sentenced. Wheels of justice and all that.”

  “But the Blackout Beast’s guilty!”

  “Yes, based on evidence,” Durgin said, “we believe Nicholas Reitter is guilty of murder. A team of dedicated officers has conducted a thorough investigation.”

  A short, stocky man with a pen and notebook pressed, “How will it make you feel to see him again?”

  Durgin looked away. “Today is about the law.”

  “He’s an animal, a monster—surely you must have some reaction?”

  “I’m thinking of the victims and their families. As should you.”

  The two men walked on. Another reporter shouted, “Miss Margaret Hope brought the bastard down—shot him square in the face. Will she be here to witness the plea?”

  At this, Durgin exchanged a look with Frain. A flashbulb exploded, temporarily blinding them both. “Right then, we’re finished,” Durgin managed. “Good day.”

  * * *

  —

  The two men walked past elaborately carved arches. At the highest point of the upper arch was a figure of Jesus; to the left and right at a lower level were those of Solomon and Alfred the Great. Inside the grand hall, with its ornate marble floor and soaring ceiling, the air smelled of wax and hair tonic.

  Frain said conversationally, “Did you know the personification of justice balancing the scales dates back to the goddess Maat, and later Isis, of ancient Egypt?”

  “Show-off,” Durgin muttered. “We’re in courtroom number thirteen.”

  “Lucky us.” They walked down a long corridor until they found the chamber, marked with a sign in block lettering reading R V REITTER.

  The high-ceilinged room was crowded but preternaturally quiet. Frain and Durgin slipped into one of the few empty leather-upholstered benches in the back.

  “No blindfold,” Frain murmured, gazing up at a statue of Lady Justice. “They say her ‘maidenly form’ is supposed to guarantee her impartiality, which renders the blindfold redundant.”

  Durgin was studying the people dressed in black. The families of the victims.

  “I’m trying to distract you, old thing,” Frain said by way of explanation as two barristers in robes and white horsehair wigs passed.

  Durgin turned back to Frain. “Where is Miss Hope, by the way? I’ve left messages, but she’s always ‘away.’ ”

  “Some hush-hush mission, no doubt.”

  “She should know what’s happening with the trial—”

  But he was cut short. “The court is in session, Mr. Justice Langstaff presiding. All rise!”

  In unison, all stood—the families, the visitors, the barristers, the court clerk, the stenographer, the usher, and members of the press.

  The judge entered, a tall, gaunt man, his white wig and red official robes relieved only by a lace jabot at his throat. The tippet over his shoulder indicated it was a criminal court. “Ah, Langstaff,” Durgin whispered, recognizing him from other cases.

  “What’s he like?”

  “Strict. But fair.”

  The judge mounted the stairs to reach his seat, at the highest level, just below a carved wooden Royal Coat of Arms.

  “The case of The Crown versus Nicholas Reitter,” droned the same voice. The stenographer, a woman with lavender-white hair and thick glasses, began typing. The clack of the keys pierced the atmosphere of hushed anticipation.

  “Bring him up,” intoned the judge.

  There was a moment of rustling and whispering, and then the accused man emerged from a staircase underneath the courtroom. He’d been hospitalized and looked thin and weak, but was nonetheless escorted by two burly guards to the elevated dock, with metal railings. The lower right half of his face was swathed in bandages and his hands were cuffed in front of him. He fixed his eyes on the judge, the sentinels keeping watch behind him.

  Despite the fact that the plea was a formality, the atmosphere of the courtroom was intense.

  “Are you Nicholas Reitter?” The judge’s query boomed in the silence.

  “I am, my lord,” the bandaged man answered quietly.

  “Nicholas Reitter, you are charged with eleven counts of murder contrary to common law. How do you plead? Guilty or not guilty?”

  The accused man mumbled something.

  “Speak up!”

  He swallowed. “Not guilty, my lord.”

  His words were greeted by a long silence, then a collective gasp. Then a little girl in black clapped both gloved hands over her mouth and her mother began to weep. There was a soft “No!” Then, increasingly louder, a chorus of “Oh my God!” “What’s happening?” “He can’t do that, can he?” As the courtroom’s disbelief turned to outrage, a high-pitched scream rent the air and a young woman in a dark blue WREN uniform fainted.

  Facing the judge, both lawyers appeared shocked. The lawyer for the defense, Tobias Skynner, was slim and elegant, a pince-nez on a gold chain falling from his face. He stood unblinking. On the other side of the courtroom, Aloysius Fullford, short and stout, poured a glass of water and gulped it down.

  The judge glowered at the crowd. “I must ask for silence!” The crowd quieted.

  “My lord,” Skynner asked, “may I confer with my client?”

  Judge Langstaff quirked one bushy gray eyebrow. “The Crown was not informed of the plea, I take it?”

  “No.” He added hastily, “My lord.”

  The judge turned to the accused. “Mr. Reitter, would you confirm your plea?”

  This time, the prisoner didn’t hesitate. “Not guilty, my lord.”

  “Well, then.” The judge gazed at the lawyer. “I suggest you have a nice long chat with your client in the Tower, as we will now be going to trial.”

  The tall frame of the barrister swayed. “Yes, my lord.”

  The judge glanced down at his papers, then rose. “We shall convene Monday at ten,” he announced as the stenographer’s keys clicked, “when I shall hear opening statements. Good day.”

  All scrambled to their feet as he exited the courtroom. As the guards led Reitter down the stairs to his holding cell, Durgin exha
led. “Well, that was…”

  “Unexpected?” suggested Frain.

  “His victims—save one—are all dead! The devil could blame his fiancée or shift the culpability for the crimes with no witnesses. Miss Hope’s our only living eyewitness—the only one to have survived. We need to bring her back to give evidence, or else there’s a possibility this monster could walk!”

  “Well.” Frain scowled. “This changes things.”

  “It most certainly does!” Durgin’s eyes blazed with frustration.

  Together, the two men left the courtroom. “I don’t suppose you know where Maggie is—”

  “The honest truth is, I don’t,” Frain stated. “She’s with SOE now, not MI-Five. They keep their secrets under the hat, just as we do.” Then, “I’m not sure if you noticed in the papers—”

  “About the execution of the German spy? Jakob Meier? Of course I did.”

  “Well, we took care of that one, but I’m sorry to say Home Security’s been reporting a significant increase in illicit Morse signals in the U.K. My boys are on it, of course—but there will always be one or two agents we overlook. And we can’t always pinpoint where the signals are coming from.”

  “These illegal radio transmissions—any patterns emerging?” Durgin asked.

  “Sorry, old thing—can’t tell you.”

  Durgin rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

  “Just tell your own boys to be on the alert, without giving any specifics. With any crime, have them check for a radio or any evidence of coding. What’s that awful propaganda film they’re pushing now? Next of Kin?” He quoted: “This is the story of how you are unwittingly working for the enemy.”

  “Unfortunately, I’ve seen it,” Durgin said. “Be like Dad, keep Mum. Two hours of my life I’ll never get back.”

  * * *

  —

  Prosecuting Council Fullford summoned Durgin to his office, which was lined with gold-tooled leather-bound law tomes.

  “Thank you for coming,” Fullford said as he eased his plump frame into his tufted desk chair. He looked different without his robes and wig, the top of his head bald and shiny, a pair of half-moon glasses perched on his nose. Above him hung a gold-framed reproduction of Abraham Solomon’s Waiting for the Verdict.