Page 46 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

46

North Ness Royal Navy Hospital; Hoy, Orkney Islands Monday, May 4, 1942

Arthur took a chair beside Lachlan’s bed on the officers’ ward at the Royal Navy Hospital at Scapa Flow. “How are you, old chap?”

“It’s good to see you.” His first visitor, and a smile overcame the grogginess from pain medications. Beneath layers of white bandages, his right knee throbbed. “The doctor thinks he saved my leg, but my knee may never be the same. I may not walk properly.”

“Fine way for that German chap to thank you for trying to save his life.” Arthur huffed, and he leaned closer. “They say he was a spy trying to land near Scapa. You’ll be decorated for this.”

“So they say.” But saving Cilla’s life was his only desired reward. When the motorboat had arrived at Brough, Yardley had ordered the boat’s crew to shuttle Lachlan to the Royal Navy Hospital for care—and he’d promised to look after Cilla.

Lachlan would never see her again, and he fought back a wave of pain.

Arthur leaned his elbows on his knees. “Have they told you what will happen? Will you be invalided home?”

“Or given a desk job. They havnae told me yet.” After Blake demoted him, any duties would be little more than clerking. Compared to what Cilla had done, such dreary work seemed a small sacrifice.

Then he frowned at Arthur. Why hadn’t he mentioned the blockship? Why was he even speaking to him?

Rather, his friend raised his lopsided grin. “A desk job at Scapa, I hope. My wedding is in two weeks—and your parents are hosting us, remember?”

“Aye.” Lachlan patted his right thigh. “I may still be in the hospital though.”

Arthur pressed one finger to his lips and glanced around. “I’ll break you out.”

As if Lachlan weren’t already in enough trouble, but he chuckled.

Lt.-Cdr. Bennett Blake entered the ward.

Speaking of trouble ... Lachlan struggled to sit up, and Arthur stood to attention. “Good morning, sir,” they said together.

“Stand easy, Mackenzie.” Blake motioned for Lachlan to lie back down.

“I’ll visit again later.” Arthur tucked his cap under his arm, said his goodbyes, and took his leave.

Lachlan’s gaze floated in a sea of morphine, and he forced himself to focus on his commanding officer, standing tall and trim beside his bed. “Sir, I apologize for blowing up the blockship. I take full responsibility, and I accept the consequences.”

Blake sat in the chair Arthur had vacated. “I do admit, when I heard the explosions, I was rather shocked and perturbed.”

English understatement at its finest. Lachlan could only imagine the ranting that had taken place that night. “Aye, sir.”

Blake rotated his cap in his lap. “No one knew what had happened. I did remember your request to test those mines, but you were nowhere to be found.”

“No, sir.” He blinked hard. He was supposed to say something about failing to inform or obtain permission. What were the words?

“The next morning, I had a wire on my desk from Rear-Adm. John Godfrey himself.”

The Director of Naval Intelligence?

Blake lifted his narrow nose. “The admiral informed me you had acted under his direct orders, and you had been expressly ordered not to inform your superior officers for security reasons.”

“Aye, sir.” Lachlan had indeed been ordered not to inform Blake.

The commander’s mouth tightened. “I don’t appreciate having an officer under my command under the command of another officer as well.”

“Aye, sir. I dinnae appreciate serving under two commanding officers either.”

Blake’s mouth relaxed again. “The DNI was pleased with your work, and the Admiralty issued a statement that the explosion was caused by a test of explosives on a blockship far removed from population and navigation. The press was satisfied, so no harm done.”

Lachlan’s vision and thoughts swam. MI5 had wanted rumors of sabotage in the newspapers, but if the Germans had received a direct report of sabotage, such rumors were no longer necessary—especially with Cilla presumed dead.

A small smile twitched on Blake’s lips. “Although I imagined many various forms of punishment for you that evening, none will be coming. You followed orders and performed your duty. And no good would come of disciplining an officer being commended for heroism.”

Lachlan’s jaw dangled. No fury? No demotion? Not even a pithy reprimand?

Blake’s smile turned rueful. “I must admit, if the Admiralty should transfer you, this command shall miss you. You’ve been a credit to the Orkneys and Shetlands Command.”

“Thank you, sir.” His voice came out husky.

“I beg your pardon, sirs.” A sick berth attendant stood at the foot of Lachlan’s bed. “Lieutenant Mackenzie is needed in the X-ray room.”

“Very good.” Blake stood, shook Lachlan’s hand, and departed.

The sick berth attendant transferred Lachlan to a wheelchair and raised the footrest to elevate his knee, a painful process, and Lachlan gritted his teeth against a rush of dizziness.

As the sick berth attendant wheeled him out of the ward and down the hallway of the wood-framed hospital building, Lachlan inhaled and exhaled deeply and slowly, blowing off the worst of the pain.

The sick berth attendant pushed Lachlan’s wheelchair into the X-ray room.

Commander Yardley stood inside in his naval uniform.

“Commander!” Lachlan sat taller, bubbling with questions.

Yardley put a finger to his lips, then nodded to the sick berth attendant. “Thank you. Please shut the door behind you.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

After the door shut, Yardley pulled a chair close to the wheelchair. “Speak low.”

“How’s Cilla? Is she all right?”

“She had minor wounds, which have been treated. She has been moved somewhere safe—not a prison—and is receiving a new identity.”

Lachlan’s eyes drifted shut. Thank goodness. She was alive, safe—and free.

“Closing her case was necessary,” Yardley murmured. “We intercepted and decoded the U-boat’s message to Hamburg. They reported taking their agent on board and observing the explosion, which they credited to Cilla as sabotage.”

“The Abwehr believes she was a loyal spy—and that she’s dead.”

“Yes. Her family is in no danger, and the Double Cross program remains secret.” One corner of Yardley’s mouth puckered. “And your work at Dunnet Head has come to an end.”

Lachlan gave him a wry smile. “Just when I was beginning to enjoy counterespionage.”

“You have a knack.”

“Only with Cilla.” Not even three days had passed since he’d seen her, but a hole gaped in his heart and his life. She’d been more than a good partner. She’d brought sunshine and laughter and refreshment. She’d brought hard truth and gentle soothing and brisk encouragement.

To say he missed her seemed insufficient.

Yardley cleared his throat. “I allowed her to send a note to your parents, apologizing for not saying goodbye and stating she’d been offered a wonderful job and needed to leave Dunnet Head straightaway. She did not leave a new address, and she will not write.”

His family would miss her as well. “We’ll never see her again.”

“I’m sorry.” Yardley’s eyebrows shoved together. “I couldn’t help but notice you and Cilla growing fond of each other.”

“Aye.” He drew in a searing breath. “We love each other.”

Yardley lifted an attaché case, opened it, and handed Lachlan a paper-wrapped bundle. “She wanted you to have this.”

Lachlan held it in his lap and unfolded the brown paper. Blues and greens and pebbles and feathers and flowers, and his heart smashed into pieces.

He stroked the wee gray feathers on the selkie, and his throat swelled shut.

One kiss. One declaration of love. The tangling of frozen fingers. All when he’d been too wracked by pain to truly enjoy it. He didn’t even have a photograph of her.

But he had memories, and he’d make do. Goodbye, my bonny selkie lass.

****

London Saturday, May 23, 1942

“I’m glad we didn’t execute her.” Thomas A. Robertson grinned at Commander Yardley.

Cilla arched an eyebrow at the men. “So am I.”

“You were right about her, Tar.” Yardley rested his forearms on the table in the office in MI5’s London headquarters, where Section B1a oversaw the Double Cross program. “She was an outstanding double agent.”

“Sank a U-boat singlehandedly—something many of our warships have failed to do.” Tar chuckled. “A shame no one will ever know.”

Cilla managed a sad smile, but she took no pride in her responsibility for the deaths of dozens of men. Her physical wounds had healed with only a few scars, but the wounds inside would take longer to heal.

“How goes your training?” Tar asked.

“It’s going well, sir.” To the world, she worked as a secretary at the War Office. In reality, she worked for MI5, learning the agency’s procedures from the other side. The job suited her and interested her and aided the war effort. “Thank you for this opportunity.”

“You’re welcome, Cil—Cecilia.” Yardley stood and gave her a slight bow. “That’s all for today. Your Saturday afternoon is free as always. I’ll see you Monday.”

“Thank you, sir.” Cilla said goodbye and left the building on St. James’s Street, with her new handbag tucked under her arm.

Her new identity granted her a fresh stock of clothing coupons. Not enough to replenish what she’d lost aboard the U-boat, but she adored her new suit that matched her aquamarine ring.

Stately white, gray, and tan buildings lined the broad road, and Cilla headed south toward St. James’s Palace.

A year ago, she would have been thrilled to stroll through London, passing shops and restaurants and hotels. Such bustle and energy, and so many people.

Yet how she missed the beauty of Caithness. The tiny blooms peeking from the heather, the seabirds careening along the cliffs, the waves tumbling to shore.

And she’d gladly trade the company of the millions in the city for the one man she loved.

Her eyes stung, and she blinked rapidly to clear her sight.

Over time, she’d make friends in London, but she’d never stop missing Lachlan.

Commander Yardley had told her that he was recovering from his injury and was being commended—not reprimanded—for his actions that night.

Although she’d always long for the feast of Lachlan’s presence, she savored the tiny morsel of knowing he’d be all right.

Her afternoon stretched before her. She didn’t feel like taking the Underground to the safe house on the outskirts of London, a home used by many double agents off and on. Soon, Cilla would get a flat in town.

She passed the massive red brick St. James’s Palace and entered the greenery of St. James’s Park.

A tame greenery with manicured grass and trees placed just so, and she crossed a bridge over tame waters. Even the clouds seemed tame, puffy and white, floating above Buckingham Palace in the distance.

Cilla rested against the bridge’s railing and addressed a trio of tame city ducks. “I don’t suppose you’d be willing to fly a message to Scotland?” She’d heard of carrier pigeons, but carrier ducks? A giggle burst out.

“Cilla? Cilla van der Zee?” A woman’s voice—familiar, stretching back through the years.

Cilla spun around. A blond woman in a dark blue dress, who looked very much like her cousin Aleida.

“Cilla? It is you.”

And it was Aleida. Cilla rushed over and gathered her cousin into her arms. “Aleida! What are you doing in London?”

“I was about to ask you the same thing.” Aleida stepped back, gripped Cilla’s hands, and grinned. She’d cut her hair in a becoming bob. “Oh, it’s wonderful to see you.”

“And you. I heard you and Sebastiaan fled the Netherlands when the Nazis invaded, but no one knows what happened to you.”

But the gentleman hovering behind Aleida’s shoulder with a wide grin was definitely not Sebastiaan Martens.

“Sebastiaan was killed by a German fighter plane.” Aleida tilted her head to the gentleman. “I remarried in July. This is my husband, Hugh Collingwood.”

“What a pleasure to meet you.” Hugh extended his hand and gave Cilla a vigorous handshake. “Aleida speaks highly of you.”

The name ... the voice. “Hugh Collingwood? Of the BBC?”

“Guilty as charged.” His hazel eyes sparkled.

Aleida had done well, but Cilla sobered. “I’m sorry to hear about Sebastiaan.”

A quick shake of her head, and Aleida’s eyes went hard. “He was a cruel man, and he kept me from my parents, from Gerrit, from you. I’ve missed you so.” She grasped Cilla’s hands again, and her eyes filled with liquid warmth.

“I—I missed you too. I tried to see you, but I didn’t realize ... I’m so sorry. I should have tried harder. I should have.”

“It wouldn’t have helped.” Aleida squeezed Cilla’s hands. “But how—when did you arrive in London?”

Cilla chewed her lower lip. Time to test her new cover story. “I was helping Gerrit in the resistance, and I found myself in a bit of trouble. I escaped to Britain last April.”

“Last April? A year ago? Tante Margriet never said—have you seen her?”

“She doesn’t know I’m here.” Cilla grimaced.

Aleida drew back her chin. “You haven’t visited her? Why not?”

“I was afraid the Germans would send an agent to find me, so I went to the far north of Scotland and worked in a lighthouse. I didn’t want to endanger anyone.”

Aleida’s green-blue eyes stretched wide. “Last month—weren’t there two German spies ...”

Cilla nodded. “That’s why I came to London, to Scotland Yard, to MI5. They assured me the spies had nothing to do with me, but they gave me a new name to be safe.”

“Cilla.” Aleida gaped at her. “My goodness.”

“My new name is Cecilia Klaasen. It seemed easy since Klaasen is my mother’s maiden name, and Cecilia is my given name.”

“Which you’ve never used.” Aleida gave her a motherly look.

“You can still call me Cilla.” She smiled at her cousin. “And all is well now. I’m safe and I’m free, and now I have my cousin back.”

“And your aunt.” An even more motherly look. “You’ll ring her straightaway.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Hugh draped his arm around Aleida’s shoulder. “Do you have plans this evening? You simply must have dinner with us. We shall celebrate this glorious reunion of the lovely van der Zee cousins.”

If only Lachlan could be there too. If only she could introduce the man she loved to the cousin she loved. She couldn’t. She could never. But she could enjoy the gift she’d received.

Cilla’s eyes filled. “We shall celebrate indeed.”