The Prisoner in the Castle

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “This is the craft that left the island two days ago,” she called to the rest, through chattering teeth. “Captain MacLean’s boat. Not the one we’re expecting from SOE.

  “Captain MacLean and Dr. Jaeger—” She shouted over the rising wind. “They’re—they’re both dead!”

  * * *

  —

  Drenched and shuddering with the cold, Maggie returned to her room to dry off and change into fresh clothes, then made her way to the game larder, nodding to Sayid, who was already there. Two more had been added to the slabs. Maggie approached one. Oh my God. It was Dr. Jaeger, his always pale face even whiter and more stone-like in death.

  “Oh, poor, poor Dr. Jaeger,” she murmured. She hadn’t liked the island’s mandatory psychoanalysis, but she had no issue with the man himself and, in fact, always thought the doctor a wry and witty gentleman. Under normal circumstances, they might even have been friends.

  Then she glanced to the second dead man. His countenance wore the lines of someone who smiled more often than he frowned. On his left ring finger was a plain and well-worn gold band. “And Captain MacLean.” Four dead in thirty-six hours…

  When Sayid was done looking for visible signs of injury, rigor mortis, and lividity, he straightened, his forehead creased in concern.

  “What do you think killed them?” Maggie asked.

  “It’s unclear,” he replied. “I’d need to do a proper autopsy to know for certain, of course. But with both men from the boat, the arch in their backs…Well, let’s just say it’s odd.”

  “What would cause a symptom like that?”

  “We’d need to run tests to be sure. But without laboratory equipment…”

  “But what would you test for?” she pressed.

  He hesitated, then answered, “Strychnine poisoning.” The words echoed in the chilly, tiled chamber.

  I want to go home. The thought came unbidden to Maggie’s mind. But it was true. All I want, in all the world, is to go home. But that’s impossible. Instead, she said, “You think they…were—?” She faltered.

  “As I said, I don’t know—I’d have to do a blood test, to be absolutely sure. Miss Hope, I’m sorry—but—”

  To control her fear, she focused on the practical. “Where would anyone obtain strychnine?”

  “Any household pest control,” the young doctor replied. “I’d guess McNaughton has rat poison around.”

  “And what does it do, exactly—strychnine?”

  “Strychnine works as an antagonist of glycine. It blocks motor neuron postsynaptic receptors in the spinal cord. The result is uncontrollable muscle contractions.” Sayid looked down at Dr. Jaeger, then replaced the sheet. “Death occurs about two to three hours after exposure, most commonly from respiratory failure.”

  “My God,” she said, remembering. “There were two mugs of tea on the boat’s dashboard…”

  “Now, now—we need evidence, not conjecture, Miss Hope.”

  “Yes, yes indeed.” He was impressive in his adherence to scientific method. “I appreciate your not jumping to conclusions, Dr. Khan,” Maggie said, taking the information in, trying to sort it into some kind of order that made sense. “I agree we must be careful when discussing these deaths with the others.” I’m barely holding it together myself….

  “My thoughts exactly, Miss Hope.”

  Reverting to her beloved math to quell her rising fear, Maggie continued, “Statistics tell us when the pattern is likely to be apparent and when it’s likely to be causal. The term is P value—really statistician-speak for ‘how much tolerance for coincidence do you have?’ ”

  “And what would you say about the P value here?” Sayid pulled the sheet back over Captain MacLean.

  Math, math will never fail you. “Statistically speaking, our sample size is too small to have any significance.” She took one last, long gaze at the draped bodies. “Although the reality of so many dead men, amassed so suddenly…”

  Something locked in her throat as she realized she was grasping at straws, attempting to quell the growing uneasiness that threatened panic. It could just be a tragic accident, she thought. Yet the details surrounding the deaths nagged at her. But four deaths? In such a brief period of time?

  Her thoughts went back to Camilla. She’s the new variable. She came with Captain MacLean and Dr. Jaeger on the fishing boat. Could she have done something to them? But why? What could possibly be her motive?

  “And how much tolerance for coincidence do you have?”

  “Usually, a fair amount,” she replied, looking up into his dark eyes. “But, just between us, it’s beginning to wear a bit thin,” she admitted.

  “Wait—” Sayid turned back to the bodies and uncovered their faces. “There’s one test I can do without any equipment….” He bent to sniff their mouths.

  “Anything?” Maggie asked.

  “No.” But at Captain Evans’s body he stopped, then bowed to sniff again.

  “What is it?”

  “Bitter almonds.”

  “What does that tell us?”

  “The scent of almonds, plus the color of his face…could mean cyanide poisoning.”

  She tried to neutralize her expression as she took in the information. “Cyanide?” Like the suicide pill in the bottom of the lipstick tube I took to Berlin. “How can you tell?”

  “Cyanide is a mitochondrial toxin,” he explained. “It prevents cells from using oxygen, essentially causing asphyxiation on the molecular level. In high concentrations, ingestion of cyanide leads to death in minutes. The cyanide-hemoglobin complex can cause the skin to remain flushed…and it has the smell of almonds, since it’s derived from the seeds of the Prunus genus—cherries, apricots, almonds, and the like.”

  “Where else is cyanide found?”

  “Household cleaners. Rust remover.”

  “You examined Captain Evans before and you didn’t notice the smell?”

  “I never thought to check,” Sayid replied, reddening. “Heart attack seemed so obvious. As they told us at medical school, ‘Think of Occam’s razor when making a diagnosis.’ ” Maggie was familiar with William of Ockham’s principle: Among competing hypotheses, the one with the fewest assumptions should be selected. “I’m rather embarrassed to have missed it.”

  “So, Captain Evans possibly dead from cyanide, Ian Lansbury dead from a blow to the head, Dr. Jaeger and Captain MacLean dead from strychnine poisoning? Could it be—” Once again, she had trouble saying the word.

  “Murder?” Sayid took in her expression and his voice softened. “I’m sure there’s a perfectly rational explanation for it. Maybe Captain Evans really did die of a heart attack. Mr. Lansbury could have fallen and struck his head.”

  “And the doctor and Captain MacLean?”

  “Well, that’s harder to rationalize. But that doesn’t mean there’s not a rational explanation.”

  “Of course,” she murmured, lost in thought. But she kept thinking of the boat. Why wouldn’t it just keep going, to the coast of the mainland, even if both passengers were dead? Newton’s law—a body in motion…“When we found The Bonnie Claire,” she said, thinking out loud, “the motor was off and it had been caught by the tide and washed into shore.”

  “You know with the tide, currents, and the whirlpools, everything washes back into the bay.”

  “Not with the motor on. What if something happened to the motor? What if it had been damaged somehow? What if there’s evidence onboard?”

  * * *

  —

  Together, they boarded the craft and investigated. Everything appeared normal. No signs of a struggle…“Let’s check the fuel,” Maggie suggested. The tank was empty. “Captain MacLean was an experienced sailor,” she told Sayid. “There’s no way he would have taken off without checking the petrol level.”

  Th
ey walked on the pitching deck to the crew cabin. Here, too, everything seemed to be as it should. Sayid gestured to the radio. “Should we ring someone?”

  “The boat’s coming. They promised. Still…” She turned on the transmitter and flipped some switches. “Mayday, Mayday,” she said. “This is Scarra. Anyone copy?”

  There was only the hiss of static.

  “Mayday, Mayday,” she repeated.

  Nothing.

  “We can try later,” she said. “Sometimes the weather throws it off.” Sayid nodded. Maggie went to the mugs of tea still on the dashboard. Sayid came up behind her, picked up one mug, and sniffed. “Strychnine,” he confirmed.

  Something wicked this way comes. Maggie looked out the window to the rolling waves. Or, rather, something wicked is already here. “So, it’s quite possible the two men were poisoned. And then the fuel was deliberately compromised, so the boat would wash back into the bay.”

  “But who would do such a thing?” Sayid’s face was stricken.

  Camilla? But there’s no evidence. No motive. Maggie gazed out the sea-splattered windows; a seagull was carrying a thrashing fish in its black beak as it flew low over the water. But there was opportunity.

  “It’s all right,” Sayid said in a soothing voice, noting her pallor. He put one arm around her and pulled her close. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to lean her head against his chest, relishing the human contact. “It’s all right,” he repeated.

  But it wasn’t all right. Four people were dead. Most likely murdered. She pulled away. Nothing is ever going to be all right ever again.

  Chapter Eight

  The New Scotland Yard on the Victoria Embankment was a cluster of redbrick Romanesque-style buildings slashed by thick horizontal bands of white Portland stone.

  It was chilly inside. In the office, DCI Durgin kept his coat on at his desk, which was surrounded by stacks of cardboard boxes, each marked EVIDENCE in thick black letters. Behind him, a grimy window overlooked the Thames, which curved like a gray-green snake through London.

  Durgin’s desk was spartan. There were no family photographs, no books, nothing personal at all, except for his nameplate and, tucked in one corner, a worn postcard of Hugo Simberg’s Wounded Angel.

  “I heard about what happened at the sentencing,” said his office mate, George Staunton, a broad man with carroty hair streaked with white. “Must have been chaos in the courtroom.”

  “Indeed.” Durgin flipped through the stack of phone messages his secretary had left for him, crumpling each and tossing them into the trash can.

  “So he’ll be going to trial. We know how much you love that!”

  “Sarcasm doesn’t become you, Detective Staunton.” Durgin rummaged through his desk drawers.

  “Maggie Hope will be a witness?”

  “If we can find her.”

  “What do you mean?” George raised fuzzy orange eyebrows. “Where the hell is she?”

  “No one seems to know.” Durgin’s head was bent low as he pawed through one of the boxes underneath the desk. “But we’ll need her in order to make our case.”

  “Without her—” George left the words hanging. Without her testimony, the Blackout Beast could go free.

  “Exactly.” Durgin straightened, a black leather address book in hand.

  “So, she’s a missing person, is she?”

  Durgin didn’t look up from the address he was copying out. “Yes.”

  “And you’re a big-deal cover-making detective.” George pointed to the wall, where a framed magazine cover hung. The headline blared HIS MAJESTY’S GOVERNMENT’S REAL-LIFE SHERLOCK HOLMES, accompanying a photograph of a younger Durgin holding a magnifying glass. Detective James Durgin is far more human than the great fictional sleuth, and the cases he handles are of a bloodier nature, teased the caption.

  “You know I loathe that picture,” he said, ripping off the piece of paper and sticking it in his coat pocket.

  “That’s why we put it up,” George said. “And that’s why we keep it up.”

  “You need a hobby. I understand knitting is popular these days.”

  George’s grin revealed widely spaced teeth. “So, the game is afoot, Detective Durgin! Unless you’re too fancy to put the shoe leather to the pavement these days?”

  Durgin dropped the address book in his top desk drawer. “Sod off, Staunton.”

  George was undeterred. “Plus, Hope’s the first woman I’ve seen you look at in—well, let’s just say, a long, long—”

  Durgin stood, patting the pocket holding the slip of paper with the address. “Really, George,” he said, not without affection. “Sod. Off.”

  * * *

  —

  Using the ship’s radio, Maggie once again reached Arisaig House.

  Yes, Scarra, came the woman’s warm tones over their airwaves. We know you’re waiting on our boat. But a storm warning’s reported now, and we don’t want to take the risk. Colonel Rogers advises you to sit tight. Over.

  We have four dead men here! Maggie wanted to scream. Instead, she said, “Sit tight?” Her voice sounded high and strained. “Over?”

  A storm’s on the mainland. It’s possible it will blow out to sea and we’ll be able to get someone out tomorrow. At any rate, you’ll just have to wait one more night. Over.

  Maggie looked to Sayid, who was frowning. “Arisaig, there’s something else. Over.”

  Yes, Scarra? Then, Over.

  “I have news about the boat—the one taking Dr. Jaeger back to Mallaig. Over.”

  We know. There was a strained pause. It’s been reported missing. Over.

  “Well, it washed ashore on Scarra this morning,” Maggie said. “Over.”

  What? What are you saying? Over.

  “I’m sorry to tell you, the tide carried the boat back into our bay.” She swallowed. “Captain MacLean and Dr. Jaeger are both dead. And we found the petrol tank empty. Over.”

  There was an explosion of static, then, What? Over?

  “We on the island are now up to four dead in thirty-six hours. Four. Dead. We suspect foul play. Please tell that to Colonel Rogers. Scarra out.”

  * * *

  —

  Anna and Camilla met up with Maggie in the kitchen, their faces accusing. “What were you doing?” Anna asked.

  “Using the radio to contact the mainland,” Maggie replied, keeping her voice level. “As I said I would.”

  “So, you’re allowed to use the radio?” Camilla shrilled.

  “To contact Arisaig,” Maggie replied. “That’s all.”

  The two younger women exchanged a glance. Maggie realized they’d been talking about her. Anna accused, “You could be using that radio for anything.”

  “Well, I’m not, I assure you,” Maggie snapped, in no mood to engage in their paranoia.

  “Next time you use the radio, I’ll come with you,” Anna told Maggie.

  Camilla cocked her head and frowned. “No, I will. It’s only appropriate, given my…background.”

  “Because you talk like a toff?” Anna rejoined, her working-class accent more pronounced. “Because you’re some kind of lady? Not here you’re not—you’re just the new girl. We were fine until you arrived. No one died until you appeared. You should be the last person allowed near the radio.”

  “At least they’ll understand me—how anyone can comprehend what you’re saying through that burr of an accent is beyond me—”

  “Ladies!” Maggie had had enough. “Let me remind you—four of us are dead. I’m only using the radio to communicate that fact with SOE in Arisaig. You’re welcome to accompany me if and when I use the radio again. And both of you must know that any and all radio communication is being monitored by British Intelligence, so even if I wanted to send some sort of secret message—which I assuredly do not—it wou
ld be impossible.”

  There was an uncomfortable moment as the three women appraised one another with suspicion. Then Maggie sighed. “Look, it’s been a hard morning,” she said, attempting to ease the tension. “Why don’t we make tea and take it up to the rest? We can all use it.”

  “I don’t want tea!” Anna cried. “I want to go home!”

  I do, too. But it’s impossible now. Maggie clenched her teeth and walked to the stove, turning on the gas underneath the kettle. As the burner sprang to life with flickering, bright blue flames, she said, “Tea will have to do. Anna, would you please fetch the pot? And Camilla, would you get the cups?”

  * * *

  —

  DCI Durgin knocked at the front door on Portland Place.

  After a long wait, Chuck, really Charlotte Ludlow née McCaffrey, opened it. “Why, Detective Durgin!” she exclaimed in her lilting Irish brogue. “What are you doing here?” She shook her head. “Never mind, it’s cold as last night’s porridge—come in, won’t you?” She wrapped her cardigan around her. “Hurry! It’s a day for the fire!”

  “Thank you,” Durgin said, wiping his feet before entering. He was carrying a small paper bag with the name POLLOCK’S TOY SHOP printed on one side. He handed it over to Chuck. “For the young master,” he told her, referring to Chuck’s baby, Griffin.

  “Oh my goodness!” Inside was blue tissue paper wrapping a puzzle piece matching game with nursery rhyme characters. “How lovely. And thoughtful.” Durgin turned bright pink. “Griffin’s just over a year now—he’d probably only chew on the pieces at this point. But I’ll put it away for him for when he’s older.”

  “I—don’t know a lot about babies,” Durgin confessed.

  “May I get you a cup of tea, Detective?”

  “James, please. And yes, that would be ideal if it’s not too much trouble.”

  “I was just about to make a cuppa for myself, so your timing’s perfect.” Chuck guided him downstairs. “I’d serve in the library, but it’s cold as a brass monkey—slightly warmer in the kitchen.”