Page 17 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

17

Dunnet Sunday, August 17, 1941

When Lachlan Mackenzie announced at the Saturday morning meeting that he’d be returning to Scapa Flow in the afternoon, Cilla assumed attending church the next day would be safe.

She hated being wrong.

She squirmed in the pew beside Gwen as the minister spoke about Zacchaeus, despised by all. Yet Jesus had chosen to dine with him.

All Cilla wanted was a break from the monotony at the lighthouse, pretty music, and a chance to see what the ladies were wearing.

The minister’s gaze threaded between all the ladies’ hats and found Cilla. “Do you ever feel all alone in this world?”

Yes, she did, and her eyes misted. Bother. That was even worse than being wrong, and she whipped her handkerchief from her coat pocket.

“Never forget,” the minister said with R s rolling, “Jesus is your truest friend.”

All her life, Cilla had plenty of friends.

Now she didn’t.

At last, the service concluded. Cilla dabbed her eyes, stood, and put on her coat and her best smile.

Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie barreled up the aisle toward her. The lieutenant’s mother shared his coloring, and his father shared his general look—sturdy and square jawed.

Mrs. Mackenzie clasped Cilla’s hand, all warmth and softness, unlike her son. “Miss van der Zee, we are so glad to see you again.”

“Thank you. I’ve been—busy with my duties.”

“I hope you’re not too busy to join us for dinner.”

Oh no. She’d never hear the end of it from the fiery lieutenant. She motioned with her handkerchief toward Gwen. “Officer Reese and I are dining at Dunnet Head.”

Mr. Mackenzie frowned, a trait he’d passed down. “The station has no mess.”

Yes, and the men brought their meals from their billets in the village. “We ladies cook for ourselves.”

Mrs. Mackenzie shook her head, and the feather on her brown hat swayed. “That willnae do at all. Please, both of you, have dinner with us. A simple fare of cock-a-leekie soup and bread, but we have more than enough to share.”

A horrible idea, and Cilla glanced at Gwen for an excuse. Any excuse.

Gwen’s eyes rounded. “Yes, thank you.”

Mrs. Mackenzie burst into a smile, with wrinkles fanning around her mouth and eyes. After she gave directions to their home, the Mackenzies went their way.

Cilla followed Gwen out of the church to their bicycles. “What are we going to do? Why did you accept?”

Gwen’s pale cheeks turned pink. “It would have been rude not to.”

“They’re Lieutenant Mackenzie’s parents. This is a bad idea.”

“I know.” Gwen leaned closer and lowered her voice, glancing over Cilla’s shoulder. “But a lightkeeper would have no excuse not to go.”

“That’s true.” Cilla had to stay in character, and she adjusted her red hat and her attitude. “We might as well enjoy ourselves. This will be fun. This is the first time I’ve been invited to dine.”

Gwen gazed from under the brim of her tricorn Wren’s cap. “Like Zacchaeus.”

Cilla’s step hitched. “Yes.”

When they reached the bicycles propped against the stone wall around the cemetery, Cilla buttoned her black overcoat. Far too warm for the day, but it was the only coat she’d brought to Britain, and a lightweight coat would cost fourteen of the sixty-six clothing coupons she had been allotted for the year. If she could ever convince Gwen or Imogene to take her to town to shop.

Cilla stuffed her handkerchief back in her coat pocket. It rustled.

She pulled out a newspaper clipping. The headline trumpeted the hanging of the two Abwehr spies captured in Edinburgh, and Cilla couldn’t breathe.

“What’s that?” Gwen peeked over. “You kept that?”

“I—I didn’t put it in my pocket.”

“Imogene,” Gwen whispered.

Cilla’s jaw hardened. Imogene never wasted an opportunity to remind her of the gallows.

She forced a smile and jammed the article back into her pocket. “No one can accuse Third Officer St. Clair of not performing her duty.”

Cilla mounted her bicycle and led the way, leaving the tiny village behind and crossing fields spotted with sheep and wildflowers. Imogene could taunt her all she liked, but Cilla was riding through the countryside under the open sky.

Guarded by a fearful Wren with a revolver.

At the even tinier village of Brough, they turned northeast toward Pentland Firth. Before long, the Mackenzie home rose, stately yet simple.

“Is this where you were captured?” Gwen looked both terrified and fascinated.

“Yes.” She squinted at her surroundings. “It was night, so it looked different. There—that cove on the far side of the house.”

She could still see Mackenzie in his kilt, aiming his torch and his dagger and his ire at her.

If she’d been a real spy, she would have pulled out her pistol and shot him. She’d be free.

But she’d surrendered her pistol without being asked. Didn’t that prove her innocence? Why couldn’t he see?

Her sigh flowed down to the cove. All he’d seen that night was a woman in black, burying spy gear and spinning tall tales.

From what she knew of Lachlan Mackenzie, he could do nothing else but turn her in. How could she blame him for doing right?

Cilla and Gwen leaned their bicycles against a hedge.

The front door swung open, and Mrs. Mackenzie waved, wearing a brown suit, as unassuming as her home, but well cut and becoming. “Welcome to Creag na Mara. It means ‘Cliff of the Sea.’”

“How fitting. And what a lovely home.” Cilla stepped inside, shrugged off her coat, and placed it in Mrs. Mackenzie’s outstretched hands.

“Yes, it is,” Gwen said. “Thank you for inviting us.”

“We are honored having you as our guests.” Mrs. Mackenzie hung up the coats on a coatrack. “Two sailors from Dunnet Head are billeted with us, but they’re here scarcely long enough for sleeping.”

A brown-and-white collie trotted into the entryway—Effie, the lieutenant had called her that night in the cove. But how could Cilla mention she and the dog were already acquainted?

Cilla scratched the dog behind her pricked ears. “Aren’t you gorgeous?”

“Her name is Effie.”

“Effie. Oh my. You are a beauty.”

An intelligent, friendly light shone in Effie’s brown eyes, as if she remembered Cilla—and still liked her. Thank goodness, dogs couldn’t speak.

“Oh dear.” Gwen hung back by the front door and pressed a handkerchief to her nose. “I—I’m afraid I’m allergic to dogs.”

“Oh my.” Mrs. Mackenzie rushed to the door and shooed the dog outside. “Away with you.”

“I’m sorry.” Gwen’s cheeks approached fuchsia in color. “I hate to—”

“Nonsense. She’d rather be outside. See?” Mrs. Mackenzie pointed to the collie loping to the field across the way with her tail curled up over her back. “That flock of sheep is far too scattered for her satisfaction.”

Cilla chuckled. A perfect dog for the orderly lieutenant.

“Come on through.” Mrs. Mackenzie led the way through a drawing room. “The men are already in the dining room. You’ve met my husband but not our son.”

“The lieutenant?” Cilla’s heels clicked on the flagstone floor.

“No, Lachlan had a date last night in the Orkneys. This is our younger son, Neil.”

A date? The lieutenant had said he had a meeting. Oh, she would have fun teasing him about this.

So why did she have a hollow feeling in her chest? She couldn’t be jealous. Why, that was good news. The lieutenant needed a girlfriend to file down his prickly edges.

The dining room had a high ceiling with exposed beams and tall windows.

Mr. Mackenzie stepped forward with a fair-haired young man.

“Miss van der Zee and Officer Reese, this is our son Neil,” Mrs. Mackenzie said.

“How do you do?” Neil gave Cilla a smile, then gave Gwen a slight scowl.

What an odd way to treat a guest.

They took their seats around a hefty wooden table, and Mr. Mackenzie ladled soup from a tureen.

Cilla passed a bowl to Gwen. “What a lovely home. Lieutenant Mackenzie said you moved here when he was five. What brought you to Caithness?”

“Shipwrecks.” Mr. Mackenzie raised a wry smile and handed her a bowl. “My father started a maritime salvage company in Inverness. During the Great War, we set up a branch in Thurso.”

“We grew to love the land,” Mrs. Mackenzie said.

“I can understand why,” Cilla said. “At first it seems stark and bleak, but then you see the seabirds and the tiny wildflowers and the ever-changing clouds and sea.”

“Aye.” Mrs. Mackenzie took a bowl of soup from her son. “Mountains and trees have a showy, obvious beauty. The beauty of Caithness is subtle but exquisite.”

Mr. Mackenzie set a bowl on his own plate. “Shall I say the blessing?”

Cilla bowed her head and folded her hands.

“In the words of our beloved Rabbie Burns, ‘Some hae meat and cannae eat, And some wad eat that want it; But we hae meat, and we can eat, And sae the Lord be thankit.’”

“Amen.” Mrs. Mackenzie chuckled. “With the war on, it’s but a wee bit of meat, I’m afraid.”

“It smells wonderful.” Cilla inhaled the savory scent of chicken and leeks floating in clear broth. She turned a smile to her host. “How is the salvage business?”

Mr. Mackenzie scooped soup onto his spoon. “Sadly, German bombs and mines and U-boats give us plenty of business.”

Cilla swallowed a mouthful of the soup, delicate but tasty. “Do you raise sunken ships?”

“Only in shallow waters. It’s a difficult and expensive endeavor. Most of our work comes from beached vessels or those dashed on rocks.”

“I’m glad we can use the metal again.” But Cilla’s mind trailed in another direction. Would information on salvaging ships be good chicken feed to send Hauptmann Kraus?

Mrs. Mackenzie turned her sweet smile to Gwen. “We heard Miss van der Zee’s story, but what about you, Officer Reese? Where do you come from?”

Gwen sniffled, and her light brown eyes widened, showing reddening. “I’m from Swansea.”

“You’re Welsh?” Neil’s narrow nose wrinkled. “But you wear an English uniform.”

“Neil, please,” his father said with a growl in his voice.

Neil shrugged. “I only want to know how she justifies it.”

“I ... I ...” Gwen’s gaze darted about, and she pressed a handkerchief to her nose. “I’m serving my country.”

“Please, Neil.” His mother’s voice shook. “I’m sorry, ladies. I’m afraid our son—”

“Dinnae apologize for me, Mother. I’m not ashamed.” Neil’s light eyes burned in a familiar Mackenzie way, and he lifted his chin high. “I was imprisoned for refusing to register for conscription.”

“Oh?” Cilla almost choked on a bit of leek, and she swallowed hard. “Why would you refuse?”

“I belong to Free Caledonia.” That chin edged even higher. “We believe in Scottish home rule, free of English oppression.”

Cilla put a smile in her voice. “How wonderful. Officer Reese also believes in home rule—free of Nazi oppression. You have much in common.”

Neil drew back his chin and blinked.

Cilla kept her smile firmly in place. How dare he insult a guest in his home? Lachlan Mackenzie might be stiff and serious, but he’d never be rude or unkind.

Gwen sneezed and groaned into her handkerchief. “Oh no. I’m sorry. The dog—my allergies. I—I have to leave.”

“Oh, you poor dearie.” Mrs. Mackenzie squeezed Gwen’s arm. “I’m sorry. Did you get enough soup?”

Gwen nodded, although she’d consumed maybe a quarter of her bowl.

Cilla shoveled in one last mouthful. She hated leaving, but she had to stay with her guard—rather, her guard had to stay with her. “Thank you for your hospitality. The soup is delicious, and I enjoyed your company.”

“Another day.” Mr. Mackenzie rose. “Haste you back.”

Not without a guard, and her guard would never return. But Cilla nodded and smiled and followed Gwen to the front door.

After more apologies and thanks and goodbyes, the ladies pedaled toward Dunnet Head.

“I’m so sorry,” Gwen said. “These allergies.”

“I’m sorry you’re miserable. Are you feeling better? The fresh air should help, yes?”

“Yes.” Gwen blinked rapidly. “I should feel better in about half an hour.”

“Let me know if you need to stop and rest.”

“Thank you.”

Wispy clouds streaked and swirled over the blue sky, and a cool breeze brushed Cilla’s cheeks. Subtle beauty, but exquisite. She quite agreed with Mrs. Mackenzie.

At the village of Brough, the path headed up an incline to Dunnet Head.

Lachlan Mackenzie, the stalwart officer, had a brother who refused to register for conscription.

How interesting. So was Neil’s conversational topic, as uncomfortable as it was for his parents—and Gwen.

“Free Caledonia,” Cilla said. “It sounds like a Scottish separatist group.”

“It does.”

“My handler has been asking about separatists.” She sent a sidelong glance to the Wren. “A lot.”

Gwen sniffled and shook her head. “Yardley decided not to pursue that.”

Not a soul to be seen on the empty green plateau. “Because Lieutenant Mackenzie—or Samson, I should say—isn’t a believable source.”

“That’s right.”

Cilla could play with the idea, find a way to make it work. “How about the salvage company? That made me think. A salvage company knows where ships are sunk, how many, what types, how they sank—my handler would be very interested in that.”

“Maybe.” Gwen pedaled around a slight bend.

“It would confirm their own records, yes? But not reveal anything new.”

Gwen brushed light brown hair from her eyes and clamped her hand back on the handlebar. “We’re already sending information on ship and aircraft movement, on radio direction finding readings, on security at Scapa. And Yardley is pleased with your work. I doubt he’ll want to expand it.”

He was pleased? He hadn’t shown it. But a smile edged upward. If she expanded her work, how much more would MI5 be pleased?