The Prisoner in the Castle

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “And what do you have there?” Quentin asked.

  “Nothing…Well, my sketchbook. I did do a few little drawings today. Not anything grand. Just a couple of hats I might want to make, when I return to the real world, that is.”

  “May I see?”

  Anna handed over the notebook for Maggie to take a look. She turned the pages, admiring the delicate pencil sketches and beautiful designs featuring feathers, flowers, and ribbons. “Gorgeous!” she exclaimed. Anna had real talent. “I’ll be your first customer!”

  Quentin peeked over Maggie’s shoulder. “These aren’t bad, really.” He sounded surprised. “You know, we were just talking about my father—he’s a bit of a bigwig at Harrods. I might be able to convince him to take a few of these to sell. When we’re all back in that land we call ‘civilization,’ of course.”

  “Harrods?” Anna whispered the name reverently.

  “I’m not promising anything, mind you, Miss O’Malley—but I’ll see what I can do. I’ll at least endeavor to get your designs into the hands of the right people.”

  “Oh, thank you, thank you, Mr. Asquith!” Impulsively, Anna jumped up and kissed him on the cheek.

  “Well, no need for that,” Quentin muttered, although he seemed pleased. “Cocktail? I’m serving up Forbidden Islands. Allegedly Marcus Killoch’s own concoction.”

  “They’re potent,” Maggie warned the younger woman.

  Anna was still beaming. “I usually don’t drink, but tonight I’ll take one.” She looked to Maggie. “And what did you do today?”

  Maggie wasn’t ready to relay the whole story, at least until all the prisoners were present. “I tried fly-fishing. With Mr. Crane.”

  “Mr. Crane! Why, he’s a hundred and three at least.”

  “Hardly,” rebuked Maggie. She had Teddy Crane pegged as somewhere in his forties. “And I like him, I really do.”

  “Really.” Quentin waggled his eyebrows.

  “No, not like that, you horrible man. I find him interesting. And I always wanted to try fly-fishing. Alas, today I learned I’m not very good.”

  “Actually,” Anna ventured, “I thought maybe you and Dr. Khan…?”

  “No.”

  “No? Because he’s Indian?”

  “He’s British,” Maggie corrected. “His father is from Vadodara, Gujarat, and moved to London decades ago. His mother’s family is also from Vadodara, but she was born and raised in Bloomsbury. Dr. Khan was born in London, so he’s British—not English, but British. And he’s already engaged—to a young woman from India his parents have chosen for him. So Dr. Khan and I are friends.”

  “Ah,” said Anna. “I’m relieved to hear it, Miss Hope. A fine Christian woman such as yourself should find an equally upstanding Christian man.”

  If only Anna knew how long it’s been since I stepped foot in a church…

  “Someone at home then, Miss Hope?” Quentin asked, handing Anna her drink. “Anyone waiting for you there?”

  As far as DCI Durgin went…No, even if there had been something between them, the Chief Inspector had undoubtedly moved on by now. She’d been gone much too long, over eight months with no word, no call, no letter between them. Life is passing me by, and it’s not just the war.

  “I don’t kiss and tell,” Maggie replied lightly.

  Teddy Crane entered the great room, chewing on his pipe and limping. “I’m telling you—a storm’s coming,” he was saying to Ramsey, silent at his side.

  At that instant, a plump black cat darted across the carpet, ducking low. They could see the tail of a dead rodent hanging from its jaws before it disappeared down the hall.

  “Ugh!” Anna pressed one hand to her heart, grimacing.

  “It’s Mrs. McNaughton’s cat,” Maggie explained. She couldn’t help but smile. “Sooty. Usually he’s kept belowstairs, but he seems to have escaped.”

  “With a rat!” Anna shrilled.

  “Looked more like a mouse,” Maggie suggested.

  “Mice are horrible! They spread plague!” Anna took an unwise gulp of her cocktail and spluttered.

  “They probably came to the island on a pirate ship in the time of Mary, Queen of Scots,” Quentin offered. “They’re rodents with a pedigree!”

  “It doesn’t help,” Anna sniffed.

  “I have a cat at home,” Maggie offered. “Named K, for kitty—although I like how it makes him sound like the head of a secret intelligence agency. He used to bring me the occasional mouse and I always had to remind myself that, for cats, it’s the ultimate compliment to their human, really. They’re just trying to add to the house’s food supply.”

  “Dead mice left for you? How creepy.” Quentin stroked the stuffed fox in his arms.

  For someone who carries around a stuffed fox, that’s rich. “It’s tribute,” she tried to explain.

  Teddy smiled. “I like cats.”

  “Good.” Maggie was pleased. “I do, too.”

  “They’re tasty,” he said, with a wink.

  “Ugh…that’s terrible!”

  “The moggie does more for the war effort than you lazy Sassenachs,” Maggie heard Murdo mutter as he passed in the hall outside.

  “Murdo,” Maggie called to him, “would you please get your mother and father and then would you all come to the great room? There’s something everyone needs to know.” He colored, then ducked his head and continued on his way.

  “Now?” Teddy asked Maggie.

  “We might as well get it over with,” she replied, steeling herself. “Mr. Asquith, would you be a dear and turn off the wireless, please? And Miss O’Malley, would you run and fetch the rest of the group? I’d like them to hear this, too.”

  Anna exited to the foyer, where she rang the gong. The balance of the prisoners trickled down to the great room—the new girl, Camilla; Helene on Leo’s arm; then Sayid followed by Torvald. When all three McNaughtons had arrived from belowstairs, Maggie took a deep breath. Her eyes met Mrs. McNaughton’s, who gave a small nod. “This morning, Mr. Crane and I were fishing in Loch Scresort. We found Mr. Lansbury.”

  “Well? Where is he?” Helene and Leo exchanged a look. “Is he all right?”

  “No.” Maggie bit her lip. Then she continued: “I’m sorry to say Mr. Lansbury was dead when we found him. It’s likely he fell and hit his head on the shore, then ended up in the water. It appears he drowned.”

  Helene froze, then forced her lips to move. “No. I don’t believe it. He’s out hunting…”

  “My condolences,” Maggie said softly.

  “No!”

  “I’m afraid it’s true, Mrs. Poole-Smythe,” Teddy interposed. “I was there as well. We—Miss Hope and I—brought the body back to the house. He’s in the game larder.”

  “No!” Helene repeated, but she didn’t mean it anymore. She crumpled to one of the sofas, wrapping her arms around herself, moaning. Leo went to her, putting a hand on her shoulder. The rest of the group looked shocked, except for Camilla, who merely seemed curious, and Mrs. McNaughton who already knew. Of course. Camilla’s never met Ian, Maggie remembered.

  “I’ll fetch you a cup of tea, ma’am,” Mrs. McNaughton said and turned to leave the room.

  “Jesus Christ!” Leo exploded. “Two deaths in less than twenty-four hours! First Evans and now Lansbury? Bloody hell!”

  “Sir!” admonished Teddy. “This is not a bar in Marseille—there are ladies present!”

  The ladies have no doubt heard worse. “Yes, two deaths—one heart attack and one accident,” Maggie clarified.

  Anna pulled at her brooch with trembling fingers, then picked up her drink. “People just don’t die for no reason.” She took a greedy gulp.

  “Unfortunately,” Maggie disagreed, “sometimes they do.”

  Torvald used a footstool to climb up onto a chair. “W
hat are the odds of that?”

  Maggie had studied probability theory. “The events aren’t necessarily correlated, Mr. Hagan. For instance, when you roll one die, its outcome is independent of the roll of the second. The two dice rolls don’t affect each other.”

  She could see everyone’s confusion. Well, at least it’s taking their minds off things. “A coincidence is something that’s not planned or arranged—but seems as though it is. Technically, a coincidence is an occurrence of events happening at the same time, but by accident. From a purely statistical point of view, these events are random, not related. And they shouldn’t be surprising because they happen all the time. Extremely improbable events are actually quite commonplace.”

  Sayid nodded. “True, true.”

  Leo remained unconvinced. “I’d say worse, but since we’re in mixed company, I’ll settle for—balderdash.”

  “No offense, Miss Hope,” Torvald agreed, “but it seems unlikely.”

  Mrs. McNaughton had returned with a cup of tea, which she handed to Helene. The brunette put it to her lips, but couldn’t manage to take a sip. Clumsily, she returned the cup to the saucer, wincing at the ensuing clatter.

  Maggie didn’t want them to panic. “Actually, coincidence—unfortunate and sad—is the most likely scenario here.” Still, her mind raced. Captain Evans’s death. Ian Lansbury’s death. The stag head. All in less than twenty-four hours. Are they really all just coincidences? Or are they somehow related? And if so, how?

  Then a thought popped into her mind: Camilla Oddell. Camilla is the new variable in our equation. No one died until after she arrived. She looked at Camilla, so petite and delicate, her face bright with curiosity. She’s new—she doesn’t know anyone. And has no reason to murder her fellow agents. Don’t be ridiculous.

  “Are you all right, Miss Hope?” Sayid stepped in front of her, frowning. “You look pale.”

  Maggie looked up at him and forced a laugh. “I’m a ginger—I’m always pale.”

  He put a protective hand on her shoulder. She said lightly, “I’m fine, Dr. Khan. Thank you, though, for your concern.”

  “I think it’s a suspicious coincidence,” Leo insisted, getting up to make a drink. “And coincidences may alert us to threats hiding in plain sight.”

  Camilla took a walk into the woods this morning. She could have killed Ian. And she had time before dinner yesterday, when we were all having cocktails, to put poison into one of the port glasses in the billiards room…Maggie thought. But there’s absolutely no proof it’s even murder, let alone that Camilla had a role….

  “When is the boat coming?” Torvald asked, his voice shrill. “Shouldn’t it be here by now?”

  “Arisaig told me the boat’s been delayed. They need a replacement part before they can sail out. It should be here tomorrow.” Please, please let it be here by tomorrow. The worst of this situation is feeling so isolated on this island, cut off from civilization.

  “Well, better late than never,” stated Quentin. “They’ll investigate these deaths, bring in the police, and get the bodies to a coroner’s.”

  “We must have a service…” Tears ran down Helene’s cheeks. Anna frowned as Mrs. McNaughton touched her cross.

  Maggie nodded. “I’ll help you plan it, if you’d like. You can choose some readings. I can pick holly and evergreen boughs. We can have it here, or even open the chapel, if you’d like.”

  Helene nodded. “Thank you,” she said, as if she were a windup doll. She suddenly appeared smaller, older, and broken.

  Anna shook her head. “I have a very bad feeling about all of this.”

  As do I. “The boat will be here by tomorrow.” Maggie forced a smile. “I’m sure of it. We just need to hold on one more night.”

  Chapter Seven

  Breakfast at Killoch Castle was typically a simple affair, with oatmeal and circles of fried blood pudding, greasy and dark, plus dried fruit and tea, all laid out on a carved buffet table in the dining room. The next morning, the prisoners helped themselves to food and drink, reaching for toast in stag’s head racks.

  As she entered the room, Maggie heard Anna saying, “My father’s words of wisdom were ‘While it’s fine to eat cold buttered toast, you shouldn’t butter cold toast.’ ”

  “A wise man,” said Teddy, raising a teacup.

  Anna sniffed. “About toast perhaps.”

  Ramsey started at Maggie’s approach, dropping his slice mid-butter. Teddy bent to pick it up for him. “Why does it always land butter-side down?” he asked rhetorically, handing it back to the younger man.

  Anna shuddered. “They say it happens when the devil is near.”

  “Thanks ever so much.” Maggie, wearing tweed trousers, a white blouse, and a thick blue cardigan sweater, took her seat. She looked over to Helene, who was silent and very pale, the food on her plate untouched. “Good morning, Mrs. Poole-Smythe,” she said. Helene flicked her eyes in Maggie’s direction, nodded, then reached for her tea. “And to whoever left me the gift in my room yesterday, I’d like to say thank you.”

  Those at the table—Teddy, Helene, Leo, Sayid, Anna, Torvald, and Quentin—looked over. At the sideboard, Camilla didn’t glance up, while Ramsey, silent as always, focused on pouring his tea. “What gift is that?” asked Anna.

  “A bloody stag’s head,” Maggie answered. She found it was easier to be angry than scared, as she had been all night. “And I’m not blaspheming—it literally was bloody.”

  “What?” exclaimed Teddy, aghast. The others stared. Only Quentin appeared unsurprised by Maggie’s announcement.

  “Yes, someone left it in my bathtub. After all that happened yesterday, I didn’t mention it—it seemed inconsequential compared to the truly serious events of the past two days. But I want whoever left it to know I didn’t appreciate it. It would be less than amusing under the best of circumstances, but now, considering everything…”

  Sayid glared around the table and saw that Leo was smirking. “This isn’t funny.”

  “No one’s laughing,” Camilla pointed out. “Miss Hope, that’s absolutely horrible!”

  You say that….But did you have time to do it and still get changed for dinner? “Well, will anyone admit to it?” Maggie pressed. “Mr. Kingsley? I interrupted your hunt yesterday—perhaps you wanted to pay me back?” Leo glared at her. But he said nothing.

  “What about Murdo?” Torvald suggested. “He’s an odd one, to be sure.”

  “I doubt it,” Maggie replied. “Especially since I asked him to help me clean it up last night and he seemed as shocked and horrified as I.”

  Anna began to cry. She pulled a handkerchief from the sleeve of her dark dress and wiped at her nose. “The poor deer! And Captain Evans! And Ian!”

  “Hush,” Maggie said, laying a comforting hand on the young woman’s back.

  “I—I have no words,” Helene said. “Why…” She gave up. “So much death,” she moaned.

  “It was inexcusably rude,” Quentin stated, patting Mr. Reynard’s head. “I like a good prank as much as the next chap, but given everything going on here—”

  “As Hemingway said, ‘Everyone behaves badly—given the chance.’ ” Leo waved his napkin in mock surrender. “All right, you found me out, Miss Hope. I was annoyed with you for getting in the way of my shot—and then being so high and mighty about it. It was meant to be funny, is all. And done before I’d learned about our fallen comrade.”

  Sayid shoved back his chair and stood, his face murderous. “Apologize to the lady. Now.” Those around the table looked shocked that the usually charming doctor was so enraged.

  Leo recoiled from Sayid’s glare, then turned to Maggie, placing a hand over his heart. “I apologize, Miss Hope.”

  All right then, the culprit was Leo, not Camilla or Murdo. Maggie felt a sense of relief.

  “Leonard!” Hele
ne exclaimed, as Sayid sat. “That’s dreadful. And in poor taste.” The two exchanged glances.

  “Thank you for owning up to your actions, Mr. Kingsley,” Maggie said. “I’m glad we could resolve this matter. From now on, I’d like you to stay out of my room, if you please.”

  He dropped his gaze and everyone pushed food around their plates, silver scraping against china.

  It was Quentin, seated facing the windows with a view of the bay, who saw it first. He jumped up and ran to the glass. “Look!” he called. “The boat! It’s here!”

  The inmates all rushed to see. There was a fishing boat in the bay, yes, but it didn’t seem to be moving very fast. In fact, it appeared to be quite at the mercy of the tide.

  Maggie ran through the castle and out, over the dry winter grass to the stones of the craggy inlet, overlaid with bladder wrack, a bright orange lichen. The shallow water of the bay was a silken blue-green, growing darker as it grew deeper. It was so clear, Maggie could see every pebble and strand of seaweed as if under glass.

  She saw the vessel clearly, too—a small fishing boat, the hull painted scarlet and white. It was about sixty feet long, with an inboard motor and the name THE BONNIE CLAIRE painted in black on the wheelhouse. The cabin was large enough to hold two men, standing, plus the dashboard and controls; an aerial indicated a powerful long-range radio.

  The boat was being carried by the tide as it flooded the shore in a silent, almost menacing arrival. The shearwaters and seagulls screamed as they swooped overhead, The Bonnie Claire continuing to drift in a desultory way, even as Maggie ran to the dock, waving her arms. But she couldn’t see anyone on deck or through the windows of the crew cabin.

  One by one, the other prisoners joined her, watching and waiting with excitement. And then in silence. For something was wrong. Dreadfully wrong.

  When the boat was finally close enough to shore, Maggie stripped down to her blouse and trousers, kicked off her boots, and dove into the cold water. She reached the vessel, then climbed aboard. She bent down behind the red gunwales for a moment. When she rose, her face was stricken. She threw out ropes so Sayid, Leo, Ramsey, and Quentin could pull the vessel to the dock.