The Prisoner in the Castle

by Susan Elia MacNeal

  “Where’s the little one now?” Durgin asked.

  “Napping, thank heavens. Babies aren’t hard exactly, but they’re often, if you see what I mean. Not much rest for the weary.” She gestured to the scarred wooden table. “Sit down! Sit!”

  Durgin did as he was told, crossing his long legs at the ankles and stretching them out. “And your husband? I trust he’s well?” Durgin recalled her husband was serving somewhere in the Middle East.

  “As far as I know.” Chuck busied herself with the tea things.

  “Glad to hear—” Before Durgin could finish his thought, he noticed two green eyes staring at him from the floor. Unblinking, the marmalade cat climbed onto his ankles, then imperiously strode up his legs. The creature then proceeded to saunter up his torso, plunking his front paws on Durgin’s chest and leaning in for a closer stare. Durgin inched his head back from the wet nose. He’d experienced any number of things on the job after all his years, but this inspection by cat was a first.

  The kettle started to boil as Chuck pulled out teacups and a plate of carrot cookies. Durgin cleared his throat. “I—I suppose you’re wondering why I’m here?” The cat began to knead his chest and purr.

  “Well, I expect it has something to do with Maggie?” The kettle screeched; Chuck turned off the gas.

  “I left a few messages…”

  Chuck poured the boiling water into the teapot. “And I kept them for her. Although she hasn’t been around for a while to pick any messages up.”

  The ginger tabby settled himself in Durgin’s lap, purring enthusiastically.

  Taking in the sight of the DCI’s terrified face, Chuck smothered a laugh. “And I see you’ve met His Nibs, Maggie’s cat. She calls him K—or Mr. K when he’s particularly dignified.”

  “It felt like more of an interrogation than an introduction.” He accepted a teacup. “May I ask when you saw Maggie last?”

  Chuck poured his tea. “Sorry there’s no sugar. Or milk.”

  “I take mine black.”

  “Like your clothing? Why am I not surprised.” Her smile flashed. “Let’s see…the last time I saw Maggie was an evening in late June. And she was only here for a moment or two.”

  “The last time you saw her was in June?” He’d last seen Maggie boarding a plane in April. Chuck’s encounter was five months ago. He’d had no idea she’d been back to London.

  “Yes, it was the strangest thing. She and Sarah—you remember Sarah, right? The ballet dancer?”

  “Of course.” Durgin blew on his tea, then took a sip. Mr. K looked up and observed him through slit eyes.

  “Well, Maggie and Sarah returned from goodness-knows-where in late June. They came home together. Sarah went straight up to her room and didn’t speak for days. Now Maggie, on the other hand, left that evening—never came back.”

  Durgin set down his cup. “You weren’t…concerned?”

  “Of course I was concerned! Still am! But you know Maggie does all kinds of government work. Won’t tell the likes of me anything.” She whispered, sotto voce: “No mummies allowed in the Hush-Hush Top-Secret Cloak-and-Dagger Club.”

  “And you haven’t heard from her since? No telephone calls? No letters?”

  Chuck blew on her tea. “Nothing.”

  “And Miss Sanderson? Is she here now?”

  “Sarah’s in Liverpool. Been there since the end of June. It’s been just the baby and me—and Maggie’s ridiculous moggie, of course.” The cat looked to Chuck and favored her with a benevolent blink.

  “Liverpool?” Durgin asked, frowning. “What’s there?”

  “Sarah’s mother. She went home for a bit.”

  “Why did Sarah leave London?”

  “Well,” Chuck said, nibbling on a carrot cookie, “wherever they were and whatever happened there, Sarah had a rough time of it. Couldn’t stop crying. I brought her trays of food up to her room, but she scarcely ate. Never wanted to talk. Next thing I know, she’s left me a note saying she’s gone to see her mother. No word on when she’s planning on coming back. Or even if she’s coming back.”

  “Do you have an address for Sarah’s mother in Liverpool?”

  “I do,” Chuck managed through her mouthful of cookie. “And I’d be much obliged to you if you’d let her know I’ve been terribly worried about her. I’ve written her a few times at her mum’s and haven’t received any answer. And let me know about Maggie, too—please? You will, won’t you?”

  “Of course, Mrs. Ludlow,” Durgin assured her, wondering how to rise without antagonizing the cat. “I’ll let you know as soon as I can.”

  * * *

  —

  Dinner at the castle was a somber affair. No one said much during the soup course, cullen skink, smoked cod in milk with long strands of green seaweed. As a sour-looking Murdo cleared the dishes, McNaughton brought out the main course. It was haggis, a savory pudding of sheep heart, liver, and lungs, minced with onion and oatmeal, cooked encased in the animal’s stomach, and plated with tatties and neeps—mashed potatoes and turnips.

  As they were served, Sayid quoted:

  Ye Pow’rs, wha mak mankind your care,

  And dish them out their bill o’ fare,

  Auld Scotland wants nae skinking ware

  That jaups in luggies

  Maggie’s voice joined with his:

  But, if ye wish her gratefu’ prayer,

  Gie her a Haggis!…

  “Robert Burns?” Leo drawled. “Now, of all times?”

  “Poetry,” Maggie rejoined, “is the best salve.” Sayid looked to her.

  A cold wind rattled at one of the windows; McNaughton locked it. “Storm’s coming,” he muttered.

  “You see?” Teddy said, taking a bite of neeps. “My arthritis never lies.”

  “Of course Burns,” Sayid told Leo. “Since we’ve had this…extended holiday here in Scotland, I decided to commit a few favorite poems to memory. Seemed only right to start with Robbie Burns, given our location. Miss Hope and I decided to learn verse together, as a way to pass the days. We’re competing to see who can memorize the most in the shortest amount of time. Ian would come by and listen sometimes—” He stopped short, remembering. “I’m not sure if I’ll have the heart to go on, now that…” He left the sentence unfinished, but in her mind, Maggie completed it. Now that he’s dead.

  Torvald, sitting on a chair boosted by a stack of dusty pillows, was pushing haggis around his plate with a tarnished silver fork. “What if someone wanted both Captain Evans and Ian Lansbury dead? As well as Dr. Jaeger and the ship’s captain?”

  Sayid’s eyebrows knit together. As he and Maggie exchanged a look, she remembered the arched backs, the almond scent, the empty fuel tank. She looked to Camilla; the younger woman seemed unconcerned by the news of the two new deaths. Maggie shivered.

  Anna looked up. “That many people just don’t die for no reason. They die because someone wants them dead.”

  “Well, then who?” Helene’s voice was sharp with fear. She pushed her untouched plate away.

  “There’s no need to overreact,” Maggie said, terrified herself, but fearing mass hysteria. “It’s a horrible, awful—”

  “—coincidence,” Sayid finished.

  “Ah yes, Miss Hope and her coincidences,” Leo sneered. He took a bite of the haggis, chewing on a tough bit of sheep heart. Anna grimaced.

  “Well, who do you think would have done it?” Quentin ventured. “None of us, certainly.” He laughed nervously.

  “Why not?” Leo replied. “After all, we’re all trained to kill—and I do believe we’re all capable.”

  Anna blinked. “What if there’s someone on this island? I mean, someone else?”

  “Scarra’s a small island,” Teddy posited. “Surely if we were sharing it with anyone else, we’d have seen h
im—or her—by now.”

  “Not necessarily,” Camilla interjected, dabbing at her lips with her napkin. Tonight she was dressed in a gray silk gown, not her FANY uniform, a strand of creamy pearls around her neck. “Not if they know the island well—and don’t want to be found.”

  “How would such a person live?” Helene asked.

  “We’ve all been trained to live off the land, even in winter,” Camilla replied. “It wouldn’t be easy, but it’s certainly possible someone could do it, and do it secretly.”

  Trying to throw us off the scent, Miss Oddell? Maggie thought.

  “I think it’s Marcus Killoch,” Anna stated.

  “Killoch?” Torvald scoffed. “He’s long gone. Dead since—when was it? Nineteen twenty-two. Twenty years.”

  “I’ve been seeing him,” the girl insisted earnestly. “I’ve been seeing things in the woods—shadows, figures—this has the hand of Killoch all over it—”

  “Marcus Killoch is dead, Miss O’Malley,” Quentin interrupted. “The old bastard is dead and buried. There’s a crypt, you know.”

  “I’ve seen him,” Anna repeated. Her eyes glittered.

  “The island’s making her batty,” Leo murmured to Sayid behind a raised hand, although they all heard him clearly.

  “Living as we do here, isolated, without meaningful work, is enough to make anyone mentally ill,” the doctor retorted. “Sanity would be odd in these circumstances.”

  “But how do we know Marcus Killoch isn’t here?” Anna persisted. “We don’t actually know he’s dead. We didn’t see him shoot himself. We didn’t see the body.”

  “He murdered his houseguests, hunted them like animals before turning the gun on himself…” Helene said. She glanced uneasily around the table. “His tomb is on the eastern point of the island, isn’t it?”

  “And how do we know he’s in it?” Anna shrilled. “And even if his body’s there—it could be his ghost!”

  “Jung would say ghosts are nothing but projections of our own unconscious thoughts and fears on the outside world,” Maggie countered.

  “I believe in ghosts. And spirits!” the young woman contended.

  “Oh please, Miss O’Malley,” Leo snapped. “Do stop being so emotional and superstitious. Someone might mistake you for a Sicilian.”

  “Miss O’Malley,” Maggie intervened, reaching for the younger woman’s hand. “There are no such things as ghosts.”

  “I don’t believe in ghosts either,” declared Torvald. “And, if you think about it, the deaths began the day someone new came to our little island home.” He trained his glance on Camilla.

  So I’m not the only one here who’s had that thought, Maggie realized.

  “What?” the pretty blonde exclaimed, reaching for her pearls and twisting them. “Me? I did nothing! I didn’t!”

  “We’ve all been here for months, some of us years,” Helene stated. “And no one’s ever died. Yet, since you’ve arrived, Miss Oddell, four people are dead.”

  “I’ve done nothing!” Camilla cried, her eyes shining with tears. “I’ve done nothing! Why would I kill anyone? I don’t even know you people!”

  Torvald turned to Leo. “Although you’re the one with the motive, old thing.”

  Leo was refilling his glass; wine sloshed over the brim and onto the tablecloth, the red stain spreading. “Me?”

  “Mrs. Poole-Smythe and Mr. Lansbury were obviously…friends.” Torvald gestured to Helene. “You’ve mentioned you wanted her to be your ‘friend’ instead. Perhaps you conveniently herded your competition out of the way?”

  “That’s absurd,” stated Leo. His forehead began to perspire.

  The dwarf raised one eyebrow. “Is it, though? ‘Women love to be hunted.’ I’ve heard you say it on numerous occasions—not in mixed company, of course.”

  “Well, what about the other deaths then?” Leo protested. “Poor old Evans? And Jaeger? And some random boat captain?”

  “It could be a cover,” Torvald offered. “To get us off the scent.” His attention went back to Helene. “Or perhaps you were tired of old Mr. Lansbury? Wanted him out of the way for a new lover? That could be motive…”

  Helene rose, one hand raised as if to slap him. “You—you—goblin!” she spat.

  “People.” Torvald took a large bite of tatties, then continued, “Let’s not name-call like children in the school yard. Because I assure you that not only have I already heard every insult about my appearance but I can dish them out as well.” Helene sat and took a gulp of wine.

  “Now, now!” Teddy looked aghast. “Come—let’s not make accusations.”

  “Yes,” Sayid agreed, “we must remain calm—”

  Helene gazed at Torvald with tears flooding her eyes. “I loved Ian. Loved him. How can you possibly even insinuate—”

  “I’m merely speculating—”

  “Shut up, you little monkey,” Leo snapped at the dwarf. “Maybe it was you!”

  Torvald had finished the potatoes and turned to the turnips. “What motive could I possibly have?” he returned.

  Anna narrowed her eyes. “Does evil need a motive?”

  As the table descended into chaos, Maggie decided she’d had enough. “Ladies and gentlemen!” she called, rapping her spoon on her wineglass until everyone quieted. “Idle speculation and finger-pointing aren’t helping. I’ve contacted the mainland several times now. They know what’s happened. As soon as the storm’s passed through, they’ll send someone—with any luck, tomorrow. The SOE and, I presume, the police will sort this all out. In the meantime, we must all stay calm. We are trained agents, taught to perform dangerous missions in occupied territories, to withstand Gestapo torture. Surely we can behave like the professionals we are for another twenty-four hours, until the boat arrives.”

  “We should leave right now,” Camilla said. “We could take that fishing boat—make it to Mallaig, or at least one of the other islands…”

  “We’re not going anywhere in this weather, with that tide and those whirlpools,” Maggie stated. “It would be suicide.”

  “Better than just sitting here. Waiting,” Anna muttered.

  Maggie looked to Camilla. The blonde had dried her eyes and was tucking into her haggis. Death doesn’t seem to affect her appetite.

  A bolt of lightning zigzagged across the sky, followed by the ominous rumble of thunder. “I told you a storm was coming,” murmured Teddy as he pushed tatties and neeps around his plate. “Arthritis never lies.”

  Chapter Nine

  Early the next morning, Durgin took the first train from Euston Station to Clubmoor in Liverpool. He easily found the address Chuck had given him—39 Red Cross Street, just off the Strand. The door to the flat was sandwiched between a doctor’s office and a pharmacy. A baker’s delivery cart stood at the curb across the street, the elderly horse shifting his weight and snorting, breath from his nostrils white in the cold air while deliveries were made. Passing a poster warning LOOSE LIPS MIGHT SINK SHIPS! Durgin rang the bell.

  A woman in her fifties answered, tall and slim, her dark hair flecked with silver. Seeing him, she hesitated. “Good morning,” she offered, smiling.

  “Hello—are you Mrs. Mary Sanderson? I’m DCI James Durgin, with Scotland Yard.”

  The smile faded from her lips. “What’s all this?”

  “I’d like to speak to your daughter, Sarah Sanderson, if I may.”

  “Sarah? How do I know you’re really a detective?”

  He pulled out his identification and let her examine it. She did at length, squinting. “Is my Sarah in any trouble?” she asked as she passed it back. Her eyes swept the street to make sure no one was watching.

  “No, no,” he replied. “Not at all. But one of her friends is missing, and she might have been one of the last people to see her.”

  Mrs. Sa
nderson studied his face a moment, then nodded. “All right, then. Please come in.” She led the way upstairs. Durgin removed his hat and followed.

  The flat above the pharmacy was spacious and bright, with two bay windows overlooking the street. The furniture was plain, but in good repair and well polished. There were Bakelite-framed photographs everywhere of Sarah with the Vic-Wells Ballet in costumes from various ballets—Swan Lake, La Sylphide, and Sleeping Beauty. “Please have a seat, Detective Chief Inspector. Would you like tea?”

  “No, thank you.”

  “I’ll just get my Sarah, then.” Durgin perched on the edge of a buttoned chair, hat in his hands.

  Mary Sanderson left him. There was a knock down the hall, then a flurry of exchanged whispers. Finally, she returned, alone. Durgin stood.

  “Sarah will be with you shortly,” she told him. “Are you sure about tea?”

  “No, no thank you, ma’am.” Then, “Yes, I’m sure. I mean, no thank you to the tea.”

  “All right then. I’m on my way to work.” She went to a small closet near the stairway and shimmied into a coat, pinned on her hat, slipped on gloves, and picked up her purse.

  “It was a pleasure to meet you, Detective.” She stabbed a few extra pins into her hat to secure it against the frigid wind. “I do hope you find the young lady you’re searching for.”

  When Sarah’s mother had left, Durgin rose and walked to one wall, to scrutinize a framed newspaper clipping. It was from the Daily Herald, May 15, 1940. The headline blared: BRITISH BALLET GIRLS WERE IN 24 RAIDS IN DAY: They Watched Nazi Parachutists Land. Durgin read the article, about the Vic-Wells’s tour to the Netherlands, which coincided with the Nazi invasion. At the time, the ballet company was close to the German border and forced to evacuate, leaving behind all its scenery, costumes, and music scores.

  A sound at the threshold interrupted his reading. The slim brunette was standing there, dressed from head to toe in black, her face drawn and without makeup. There were dark circles under her eyes.