Beatrix looked to Sayid. “What do you think?”
“I think Miss Hope has a point. If we could find you, it’s only a matter of time before someone else does. Might as well get it over with.”
Beatrix smoothed her flowered day dress and pulled her cardigan around her. “I haven’t been downstairs in so long…”
“I’ll go and prepare everyone over breakfast,” Maggie said. “Please wait for my signal and then come into the dining room for introductions.” She smiled into the older woman’s troubled eyes. “We’re getting used to losing people—it’s a blessing to gain one.” She turned to leave.
“Be careful,” warned Sayid.
“I always am.”
* * *
—
In the dining room, the other prisoners—Quentin, Teddy, Ramsey, Anna, and Leo—were already assembled and seated. “Last night—” Quentin began.
“Let’s not speak of it,” cautioned Anna. Maggie slipped into the room and took her accustomed seat; the table hadn’t been cleaned from last night’s dinner. Burned-out candles and hardened wax drips punctuated the crumb-strewn cloth.
The group looked equally untended. Buttons were undone, ties askew, clothes were wrinkled as though they’d been slept in. Everyone’s shoulders were hunched with tension, and Quentin seemed to have developed a nervous tremor in his hands, apparent as he stroked Monsieur Reynard. Maggie realized she hadn’t put up her hair. “Last night—” she echoed.
“—after last night, we couldn’t possibly expect Mrs. McNaughton to prepare breakfast,” Anna interrupted, rubbing at her temples to try to keep the hangover at bay.
“Bugger that. I feel barely human. Dreadful headache.” Leo held one hand to his temple. “I need tea—that bloody woman needs to keep a stiff upper lip and do her duty and feed us.” Teddy was too tired even to object to Leo’s swearing.
“I’ll go see where she is,” Anna offered, standing.
“No, stay a moment, Anna, please,” said Maggie. Anna blinked and sank back down into her chair without protest. The rest of the prisoners glanced around in a daze. There were so many empty places at the table. Five empty places. Seven people murdered in total. The inmates appeared hungover, yes, Maggie thought, but also frightened. There was no idle conversation, just tense, exhausted silence.
“Last night,” Maggie began again, “Sayid and I heard a noise—and went up to the tower.”
Despite his headache, Leo leered. “Is that what you two are calling it?”
Maggie ignored his taunt. “We found Mrs. McNaughton, who was, understandably, quite upset from the evening’s revelations. We also found someone else.”
The eyes of the remaining prisoners focused and snapped to her. Even Ramsey stared her way. “Who?” Quentin breathed.
“Lady Beatrix Killoch. She is very much alive.”
“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” Anna whispered.
“She’s been killing us off?” Leo thundered. “A woman?”
Maggie shook her head. “No. We don’t believe she’s killed anyone.”
Leo’s color heightened. “What the devil is she doing here?”
“Language,” Teddy cautioned, but it sounded perfunctory. Leo pulled a face.
“We all thought she was dead!” Quentin cried. “The newspapers said so!”
“According to Lady Beatrix, the events at Killoch Castle twenty years ago didn’t happen quite the way the official accounts described,” Maggie told them. “Lady Beatrix and Mrs. McNaughton told us that Marcus Killoch had abused young women from the island and the mainland.”
“The pictures…” Anna began, then faltered.
“Yes,” Maggie replied. “What happened to the women was nonconsensual and violent. It was rape. Fiona Morrison was one of Marcus Killoch’s victims. When her then-fiancé, Angus McNaughton, heard a rumor of what was happening, he shot the men in the ballroom, then told the girls to leave. In the confusion that night, Lady Beatrix was injured. Mrs. McNaughton nursed Lady Beatrix back to health in secret,” Maggie continued. “McNaughton made up a story for the police, so they would be convinced it was a murder-suicide. There were no witnesses except the girls—and they certainly weren’t going to say anything.” Around the table, the prisoners’ faces were blank with shock.
Maggie rose and walked to the door of the dining room. “Lady Beatrix? Mrs. McNaughton? Would you please come in now?”
Sayid led the two women in, with Murdo a few steps behind. Maggie heard Quentin’s sharp intake of breath. Anna crossed herself.
“I must apologize if I’ve frightened any of you in any way,” Beatrix began. She was pale but composed. “After the events Miss Hope just told you of, I had no wish to return to so-called society. I decided to stay here, on Scarra.
“Of course, when the British government established their camp here, it made things a bit more…difficult. But I have to thank Fiona, Angus, and Murdo. They protected me and nursed me to health and kept my secrets—as I have kept theirs. Until now. And now I’m asking you to keep mine, too.”
Those around the table stared in shock at Beatrix, Anna raising one hand to cover her mouth.
“Who exactly would we tell?” Leo shot back, scowling. “The damn taxidermy?”
“Speaking of McNaughton,” Teddy said, looking around. “Has anyone seen him this morning?”
* * *
—
Frain had been in his office since before dawn, but he was still crisp and impeccable. He put on gold-rimmed glasses to go through the latest dispatches from various Y-stations. As he read one document from the Yorkshire station stamped URGENT, his eyebrows raised when he noted the estimated point of transmission: Y-service’s best guess was somewhere in the inner Hebrides, most likely the Isle of Scarra.
“Sweet Jesus—someone’s expecting a U-boat pickup off that blasted island!” Frain stood, then kicked the wastepaper basket. It flew across the room, spilling crumpled paper. “God damn it!” he thundered.
His secretary, a stout woman used to such explosions, poked her head in the door. “Yes, Mr. Frain?”
“Get me Henrik Martens on the line!” he barked. “Now!”
“Yes, sir,” she said, ducking out.
Frain stormed around his office; finally, Martens was put through. “I know you receive the same decrypts I do,” Frain began without preamble. “Tell me you’ve read what I’ve read.”
“Someone from Scarra is signaling for a Nazi U-boat pickup.”
“He—or she—has asked them to be ready after the storm abates. What’s the weather like up there right now?”
“It’s bad,” Martens replied. “One of the prisoners on Scarra has also been in touch with the nearest SOE camp—in Arisaig. Something odd’s going on.”
“Odder than a German spy asking for a ride home?”
“Scarra and Arisaig have had limited contact, but from what I understand, four of the prisoners are dead, as well as their commanding officer, a doctor, and a ship’s captain. Seven victims in all. The last transmission was spotty, but it indicated they suspect one of them is a Nazi agent.”
“Jesus Christ,” spluttered Frain.
“I suspect the spy is one of the prisoners, but we don’t know who yet.”
“Let’s cut directly to the chase—what’s the worst thing a Nazi spy could learn from that group?”
Martens pursed his lips. “A lot of things we don’t want the enemy to know. But the worst is the secret of Overlord.” For once in his life, Frain was speechless. “One of the agents has knowledge of it—Margaret Hope.”
“Miss Hope? The agent Scotland Yard is trying to find to testify at the Blackout Beast’s trial?”
“Yes,” answered Martens, his frustration apparent. “Now you understand—we thought protecting that information was worth keeping her from testifying.”
Frain’s sudden calm was more terrifying than his temper. “You see the irony, Martens, yes?”
“It’s not lost on me.”
“Well, we need to call the cavalry.”
“It’s a matter of the weather. It’s not safe—”
“If we can’t get to them, our German spy can’t leave either. I guess that’s cold comfort. When’s the storm scheduled to break?”
“We expect the weather to let up shortly before dawn tomorrow. That will make it easier to conduct search operations.”
“It will also make it easier for our German friend to reach the U-boat.” Frain cursed, softly. “All right. In the meantime, get everyone into position to stop this spy from making it off that island. I want every ship, sub, and plane we have.”
“Already on it. I’ve spoken with both the Royal Navy and the local coast guard in Mallaig and Fort William. The Navy at HMNB Clyde is moving a pair of corvettes into the area as we speak, as well as a submarine. They’ll get as close as they can and commence search operations immediately. The coast guard is handling things closer to shore. And the RAF will put up planes as soon as it’s safe.”
“And when do we expect that to be?”
“Tomorrow at around seven A.M.” Frain could hear a match scrape.
“No time for smoking, Colonel. You will meet me at RAF Northolt at noon.”
“Sir?”
“I have a few things to wrap up. And then, you and I are flying to Scotland.”
* * *
—
The winds picked up once more as Frain hurried across Parliament Square toward the Annexe. As he strode over the green, he glanced up at the statues of former prime ministers: Lord Palmerston, Edward Smith-Stanley, Benjamin Disraeli. All looked impervious to the damp and cold. All stared down on him in judgment at Britain having reached such a perilous juncture. Frain flipped up the collar of his raincoat and walked faster.
In his bedroom at the Annexe, Churchill was still in bed, wrapped in his favorite dragon-embroidered green silk robe, the first cigar of the day between his fingers. His precious Box, filled with the day’s top-secret documents, was to one side, and his black cat, Nelson, was curled by his sock-covered feet.
He made no move to cover himself as Frain entered. The MI-5 head pulled up an armchair and regarded the figure before him. The P.M.’s complexion was tinged with gray. He did not look well. “Would you like anything more, sir?” Inces asked, taking away the P.M.’s breakfast tray. “Tea? Coffee?”
Churchill waved the butler away as Frain began. “Sir, we’ve intercepted another message from the German agent operating inside Britain to a U-boat. This time, we were able to triangulate the signal. It’s coming from the Isle of Scarra.”
“Scarra,” the P.M. muttered. “Why do I keep hearing about this damn Isle of Scarra?”
“There’s an SOE camp there, sir,” Frain replied. “It was mentioned in our last meeting. Mr. Greene seemed particularly interested in it, as his friend and your former secretary, Maggie Hope, has been stationed there.”
“Well, if you’ve triangulated the signal, man, get the agent! Shoot him! Drop a bomb on him! Take the bugger out!”
“We’re trying. The west coast of Scotland is in the middle of a nasty storm. We can’t get there. But that means the agent can’t get out, either. We have everything and everyone ready for when the weather breaks. But if that agent is able to reach the sub with any information, that’s it—it’s over.”
Churchill growled.
“The good news,” Frain continued, “is that the message from the island said they were aware of the agent and were destroying the radios. In order for our German agent to get any secrets to Abwehr, he or she will have to be picked up by the U-boat. And we have ships, a sub, and planes getting into position right now.”
“Damn it!” Churchill pounded his fists on the bed, disturbing Nelson, who jumped down to the carpet and began grooming. “What’s going on there, on this Scarra?” The P.M.’s cigar had gone dead. He relit it, then puffed on it furiously, until the tip glowed orange. “What a name—Scarra. Like scar. Or scare.”
“Martens won’t say, but I’d hazard a guess it’s a camp for agents who’ve washed out of the SOE program. For spies who know too much, who need to be taken out of the equation, to keep our secrets safe.”
“The SOE’s version of a cooler,” the Prime Minister muttered thoughtfully. “Then how did a German spy end up there, pray tell, Mr. Frain?”
“That we don’t know, sir. We’re poring over the files of everyone assigned there. No one raises any red flags.”
“That’s the unfortunate truth about war, Frain,” he growled, jabbing his cigar into a smoke ring. “While no man alone can win a war, it is entirely possible for a single man to lose one.” He took another long puff. “Or a single woman, in this case.”
“You don’t think Miss Hope—”
The Prime Minister waved dismissively. “Miss Hope’s experienced. She’s done multiple missions abroad. She won’t talk.”
Frain raised an eyebrow. “I certainly pray not.”
Churchill harrumphed again. “Frain, you’ve worked with her. I believe if she’s interrogated about something that important, that imperative to winning the war, she’ll realize what’s going on and…take care of things.” The words hung in the air; both men understood the stakes.
“There’s another factor, sir.”
“Damn it, man, now what?”
“We received a message from Scarra last night. Seven on the island are dead. It looks as if the agent’s picking them off one by one in order to make an easier escape.”
The Prime Minister appeared exhausted, his face chalky and drained. He patted the bedclothes next to him, and Nelson jumped up, purring triumphantly, rubbing against Churchill’s offered hand. “That’s a good boy,” he murmured. “Those on the island must channel the bravery of your namesake, Lord Nelson, and keep bloody buggering on.”
“I’m on my way to Scotland, sir, to oversee the assault on the island when the storm lifts,” Frain continued, rising. “I’ll send word the moment I know anything. Right now, it all depends on the weather and Miss Hope.”
“Miss Hope, I believe, we can trust. The weather, alas, is in God’s hands.” As Frain gathered up his things and showed himself to the door, he heard the P.M. growl behind him, “KBO, Mr. Frain, KBO. That’s what we all must do, including our Miss Hope—Keep Buggering On.”
Chapter Nineteen
Back from Milton Keynes, David arranged to meet DCI Durgin in Queen Mary’s Garden in Regent’s Park. The two men sat on a wooden bench in the early morning light, looking out over circular beds of rosebushes, the crimson, yellow, and white blooms dying. Gray clouds scudded overhead, threatening rain.
“You were right,” David told the DCI. “Or your gut was, anyway. Maggie isn’t on a mission—she’s at some sort of SOE ‘training camp’ in Scotland.” He ground his teeth. “Look, Durgin, I know you’ve signed the Official Secrets Act, so I can tell you—it doesn’t seem to be a training camp. It’s a prison for agents who’ve learned too many secrets. It’s a way to isolate them. To keep them quiet.”
“For how long?”
“Until the end of the war, I imagine.” David grimaced. “Although there was verbiage on the document I saw to indicate they may be imprisoned indefinitely.”
Durgin gave a bitter laugh. “Sounds to me like no one’s getting out alive.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re being held prisoner by their own government. Whoever set that situation up isn’t going to want it to get out—”
“The Official Secrets Act—”
“Official Secrets Act be damned! That’s huge. Enormous. They won’t want a syllable of this coming out after the war. And while patriots will keep wartime secrets for the governmen
t they fight for, if they feel they’ve been treated unfairly by said government…”
“And so you think they’ll—kill them?”
“Maybe imprison them there indefinitely,” Durgin amended. “Who knows? But it doesn’t look good for Maggie—or any of them.”
“So,” David said, after a moment. “How do you feel about taking a wee trip to the Scotland Highlands?”
“Yes! I’m ready to leave when you are—don’t feel right with her in there.”
“I thought you’d say that. Already procured us tickets for the Caledonian Deerstalker to Fort William. It leaves this morning from King’s Cross. From there, we’ll transfer trains and go on to Beasdale; it’s the private stop for Arisaig House. We’ll get in late, but they’ll be expecting me and I’ll talk you in.”
“Good, good. We need to get Maggie out of there.” Durgin gave David a sharp glance. “Are you sure the Prime Minister can do without you for a few days?”
“Since the war started I haven’t taken a single day off. I deserve this. Actually”—he grinned—“I deserve a beach holiday on a warm tropical island with a fruity drink and a tiny paper umbrella, but Scotland in November will have to do.” David handed Durgin a slip of paper. “So it’s not just about the trial?”
“Of course it’s about the trial,” Durgin insisted, standing and pocketing the ticket. “Of course.”
David stood as well. “If you say so.”
“I do.”
“See you in an hour.” He called back over his shoulder, “Don’t forget your Sherlock Holmes hat.”
* * *
—
The group ran downstairs, calling out for McNaughton. There was no reply.
As they headed along the servants’ corridor, Anna glanced at a window protected from the worst of the pounding rain by an overhang. “There’s something out there,” she shrilled. The others peered out and saw McNaughton, lying on his side. His leg was pinned in a steel animal trap, the rusty teeth biting through his shin and calf. A puddle of blood mingled with the rain.
The Prisoner in the Castle Page 23
