Page 19 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

19

Dunnet Head Thursday, September 18, 1941

Although Cilla preferred sunshine, the gray light of an overcast morning held a gentle appeal.

The lack of reflection off the Fresnel lens also made her work easier, as did the piano music of Kay Cavendish on the BBC.

Leaning against the diamond-paned windows, Cilla logged two plump and ponderous battleships down in Pentland Firth with three destroyers, skinny and low to the waves. The ships coasted back and forth, probably on exercises, the type of activity Yardley and Lachlan approved for her reports.

Cilla closed her logbook, returned to the worktable, and set out last night’s wireless transmission from Kraus, a blank sheet of paper, and her cardboard cipher disc.

Her cipher disc had a larger outer circle and a smaller inner circle fastened with a metal pin in the center. She turned the inner circle to line up the A with the Y in the outer circle, according to Kraus’s instructions.

Then she found each letter or numeral in Kraus’s message on the outer circle and transcribed the corresponding letter or numeral on the inner circle.

In time, the message spilled out on her paper. Kraus asked about shortages and prices, listing certain foods. He asked about changes to the rationing system, the length of queues to buy food, and if people complained of hunger.

Cilla tapped her pencil to her chin. In the Battle of the Atlantic, German U-boats sank dozens of ships each month. Since Britain couldn’t grow enough food to feed her own people, she depended on imports, which made her vulnerable to blockade.

MI5 allowed Cilla to report freely on such topics. The rationing system was strict but fair, and no one went hungry. In fact, everyone was thrilled at the new flow of goods from America under the Lend-Lease plan.

As the BBC switched to Molly Forbes on the theater organ, Cilla finished deciphering the message. Kraus praised Cilla’s reports on ship movements, but he wanted details on shipping losses. How many, where, what type, what cargo they carried.

“How am I supposed to know that?” she said to no one. Lachlan Mackenzie wouldn’t know much, especially as “Samson.”

However, his father would, and Malcolm Mackenzie often shared about the salvage business over Sunday dinners.

But she could hear Lachlan thundering, “Stay away from my parents.”

He was right. She couldn’t use Mr. Mackenzie as a source. Besides, even if Lachlan barely tolerated her, she liked him, and she didn’t want to make his burden even heavier.

He wasn’t nearly as unfeeling as he acted. At home, he was sweet with his parents and his dog. For all his gruff bluster, he was kind to others. He didn’t hesitate to stand up to Cilla—but he’d also stood up for her with Imogene.

At times, he even laughed—all the more enchanting for its rarity.

Last Sunday, Neil was also home, and Lachlan didn’t smile once. Neil goaded his older brother, and Lachlan never replied—except with a taut mouth and hardened gaze.

His noble restraint touched her heart.

Cilla shoved back her chair and went to the window. She’d always preferred men who doted on her and indulged her, something Lachlan would never do. Instead, he challenged her.

So why did she anticipate the weekends? Anticipate his company and the chance of stoking up that rich, deep laugh?

“I need to get out and meet other men.” Where was her prince to stand at the base of the lighthouse tower and call, “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your hair”?

Only birds flew by beneath her, and fewer each day as summer turned to autumn.

At the worktable, she pulled out her basket and arranged feathers and dried flowers in a pretty pattern on a sheet of paper. Gerrit had told her she’d find freedom in the trap. She hadn’t, but she concentrated on her work and the good it could do, and she looked for amusement.

Her cousin Aleida had always collected shells and stones and things. Cilla never understood why, until now as she admired the colors and shapes and designs.

Aleida ... Cilla hadn’t seen her since Aleida and Sebastiaan’s wedding day. Cilla had tried to visit a few times, but the servants had turned her away at the door. Assuming Aleida was too busy for family, Cilla had stopped trying.

Cilla frowned and rearranged a fan-shaped design of feathers. That wasn’t like Aleida at all. Why hadn’t she kept trying? Insisted on seeing her cousin? What if something was wrong in that house?

With a groan, Cilla swept her treasures into her basket. She had to find something to occupy her mind or she’d lose it.

Voices and footsteps rose up the stairs.

Cilla turned off the wireless and headed down one flight of stairs to the top apartment, which had more space for a meeting.

Commander Yardley, Imogene, and Gwen joined her at a round table, and Cilla showed them her deciphered message.

“Excellent,” Yardley said. “On your next day in town, collect the prices of goods.”

Cilla shot a glance to Imogene, then sent Yardley an innocent smile. “I haven’t yet been to town, except to attend church.”

A rumble rose from Yardley’s throat. “St. Clair and Reese, we had an agreement. One of you is to take Cilla to Thurso once a week. She hasn’t given you a bit of trouble, and she’s borne her confinement with nothing but cheer and grace.”

Cilla’s chest lightened. “Why, thank you, sir.”

“Your privileges can be revoked.” He glared at her.

“Yes, sir. But thank you. My reports will sound more authentic if they come from experience.”

“Which is why we had our agreement.” Yardley swung his glare to the Wrens.

“Aye, aye, sir,” they said, Gwen lowering her chin and Imogene jerking hers to the side.

Yardley tapped Cilla’s transcript with his finger. “As for the information on shipping losses, tell Kraus you don’t have access to that information.”

Cilla’s idea floated out of her mouth. “I might. Through Mr. Mackenzie, the lieutenant’s father. He owns a salvage company, and he—”

“We can’t use him as a source.” Yardley knifed the air with his hand. “Nor can we say ‘Samson’ knows about the salvage industry. It stretches credibility.”

“No, but as a double agent, I’m supposed to develop other sources, yes? People I’m supposed to have met in town. I could attribute the information from Mr. Mackenzie to a fictional source.”

“That would be most unwise,” Imogene said.

“Hear her out.” Yardley dipped his chin to Cilla. “Continue.”

She clasped her hands together in front of her chest. “I met her in town whilst shopping. Her name is Margaret, but she’s called Maggie. She’s nineteen, moderately attractive, very quiet, but if you ask the right questions, she’ll talk forever. Her fiancé was killed in the retreat in France, and she blames the English—which makes her willing to share information. She works at a salvage company as a secretary. She’s a good typist. Her work is very interesting to her, but it bores everyone else. However, I find it fascinating, so she tells me all sorts of things.”

Yardley’s eyebrows elevated. “You’ve thought about this.”

Cilla could see Maggie in her mind. “She’s the third of four children, the only girl, lived in Thurso all her life, but she longs to travel. My Dutch heritage intrigues her, and she loves to hear my stories. And—yes! She has a new boyfriend. Oh! He belongs to Free Caledonia. Yes!”

Yardley laughed and made a patting motion. “Slow down.”

Her hands clapped, over and over, barely making a sound. “Can’t you see? I could use information about Free Caledonia from Neil Mackenzie and attribute it to Fergus.”

“Fergus?”

“Yes, Fergus.” His image formed, stepping out of the fog and into the light.

“That’s brilliant.” Gwen sat up taller. “Mr. Mackenzie and his son talk freely.”

“Gwen.” Imogene spoke in that sweet but condescending tone of hers. “Don’t be so quick to accept her ideas, simply because she’s nice to you.”

“Ladies.” Yardley flipped up a hand to them, then fixed his gaze on Cilla. “Let’s keep Fergus on hold, but I’ll run Maggie by the Twenty Committee. It might work.”

Cilla couldn’t stop smiling. She hadn’t had such fun in months, even when teasing Lachlan.

Gwen kept her chin down, not concealing the bright pink of her cheeks. She wasn’t having fun, not after Imogene had belittled her again.

Speaking up wouldn’t help, given her own status in the group. It had always bothered her when girls like Imogene used their social position to shove others lower. Cilla had never used her own popularity like that—but she hadn’t always stopped those who did.

Like her own sister. She hadn’t stopped Hilde that day at the seashore many years before.

And a girl had died.

Cilla bolted from her chair. “Are we finished? I should return to my watch station.”

Mulling over regrets did no good whatsoever.