Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea (14 page)

“No, probably not,” I conceded. “But it makes sense, doesn’t it, Dimity? As you said, if you want to keep people from visiting a place, you scare them off.”

I grinned. “I haven’t even told you the best bit yet.You’ll never guess who I ran into in the pub. . . .”

After she recovered from her initial shock, Dimity was enchanted to hear of my encounter with Peter Harris.

“A very pretty girl,” I said. “Hardy, too, if she was tramping around the island in that storm. Her name may or may not be Cassie Lynton. We’ll find out tomorrow.” I leaned back in the chair and looked at the bedside clock. “I’m sorry, Dimity, but if I don’t hit the sack soon, I’ll be too tired to walk the coastal path tomorrow.”

When the lines of royal-blue ink had faded from the page, I climbed into bed, turned out the light, and smiled sleepily at my pink rabbit.

“Reginald,” I said softly, “I’m really looking forward to my date with Harry Peters.”

I
pried myself out of bed at five o’clock the following morning, showered, and dressed with an eye toward the changeable weather. I layered a fleece pullover on top of a T-shirt and pulled on a pair of trousers I could convert into shorts if by some lucky chance the day became uncomfortably warm. Although a genius in the laundry room had restored my abused sneakers to good health, I elected to wear hiking boots. Damian, too, dressed in sensible outdoor clothes: a tightly woven black wool crewneck sweater, freshly laundered khakis, and hiking boots.

A sturdy, red-haired maid named Pamela arrived in my sitting room on the dot of five-thirty with breakfast for two as well as a pair of oversized day packs so stuffed with picnic provisions that Damian and I had to remove some of them in order to make room for our rain jackets. I could live quite happily without an extra jar of caviar, but my trip to Cieran’s Chapel had taught me never to step outside Dundrillin Castle without rain gear.

We didn’t talk much during breakfast. I was still groggy—I was not a naturally chirpy morning person—and Damian was still absorbed in his private reflections, so our discourse consisted mostly of “More tea?” and “Pass the marmalade.”

We left the castle by the side door we’d used the day before, headed south along the coastal path, and stopped almost immediately to put on our jackets. The pellucid sky held no hint of rain, but the morning air was crisp and the breezes swirling up the cliffs went right through my fleece top.

The fresh air cleared the drowsy cobwebs from my brain, and I began to take note of the landscape. The view from the headland was so stupendous that it would have been nerve-racking if the sunken path hadn’t been so deeply sunken. Centuries of passing feet had worn a wide groove in the rocky soil, with curving, grass-clad banks that were nearly waist-high. It would require a conscious effort to stray beyond the path, and it drifted so close to the cliffs in some places that only the suicidal would make the effort.

From Sir Percy’s headland, all of Erinskil lay before us, glimmering emerald-green in the early-morning sun, but as the path descended, our spectacular view of the island was cut off.To our left, the land rose steeply to form a low range of boulder-strewn hills. To our right, the ruffled ocean stretched out to the horizon. Dundrillin loomed behind us, adding a dash of drama to the headland, and the path meandered ahead of us like a verdant, roofless tunnel suspended between land and sea.

It was just as well that the sunken path kept me from straying, because I could scarcely take my eyes off the birds. There were thousands of them, perched on tiny ledges, taking off or landing, swooping, wheeling, and soaring in crazed, kaleidoscopic patterns that would have made an air-traffic controller throw his hands up in despair. I realized too late that I’d forgotten to bring my camera—again—but consoled myself with the thought that it would have delayed our meeting with Peter. I would have spent far too much time trying to capture still images of the birds’ fantastic flights.

Thirty minutes of brisk walking brought us to a place where the coastal path opened out onto a broad, flat shelf overlooking the sea. A prodigious heap of boulders straggled along the back of the shelf, and there, sitting atop a large, flat-topped boulder at the base of the rockfall, were Peter Harris and his pretty, dark-haired companion.

“Lori!” cried Peter. He hopped down from his perch and enveloped me, oversized day pack and all, in a hug. “I’m so glad to see you! I can’t believe you’re here. It’s magic, isn’t it? I’m sorry I knocked the tea into your lap, but I had to do something. I saw that you’d recognized me, and I was terrified that you’d call out my name.”

“It’s great to see you, too, Peter.” I stepped back to take a good look at him, for his parents’ sake. He was a handsome young devil, even taller than Bill, trim, fit, and glowing with vibrant good health. Although he was still dressed in the guise of a bird-watcher, he’d removed his black-framed glasses, so it was easier to see the strikingly beautiful cobalt-blue eyes he’d inherited from his father. “Is it my imagination, or have you grown since I last saw you?”

“Two inches,” he acknowledged. “But I think I’m finished now.”

“Good,” I said. “Any more would just be showing off.”

“But what are you doing here, Lori?” Peter exclaimed. “Are you on holiday? Is Bill here? Are the twins?”

“Forget it,” I said, wagging a finger at him. “You don’t get to ask any questions until you’ve answered mine . . .
Harry.
” I looked past him at the young woman, who’d climbed down from the flat-topped boulder and walked over to stand behind him. “Is your name Cassie, or do we need to be reintroduced?”

“Yes to both questions, I’m afraid,” she replied with a wry smile. “It’s a rather complicated story.”

“Damian and I have all day.” I reached back to pat my day pack. “And we’ve brought enough food for lunch, tea,
and
dinner. The cook at the castle doesn’t know the meaning of the word ‘moderation. ’”

After a brief exchange of greetings, Damian stood back to study his new subjects and, as always, to keep an eye on our surroundings.

“You’ve chosen a good spot for our rendezvous, Peter,” I said. “Lots of birds for us to watch and no people around to watch us.”

“It’s historical as well.” Peter strolled over to lay a hand on the flat-topped boulder he and Cassie had just vacated. “This, my friends, is known as the Slaughter Stone.”

“Charming,” I said, eyeing the boulder doubtfully.

“Historically significant,” Peter corrected. “The pre-Christian residents of Erinskil used to come up here and sacrifice . . . well, one hopes they sacrificed animals as opposed to fellow pre-Christians, but no one knows for certain. At any rate, they made their sacrifices on the stone and chucked the carcasses into the sea.”

“How efficient,” I said, retreating a step.

“Who told you about the Slaughter Stone?” Damian asked.

“Our landlady,” Peter replied. “Mrs. Muggoch heard me telling you where to meet us and volunteered the gory story. You see the gutters?” He ran his fingers along four faint grooves at the front edge of the boulder. “Designed for the convenient drainage of sacrificial blood.”

“Good grief, Peter,” I said, grimacing. “You were
sitting
there.”

“I don’t think it’s been used recently.” Peter drew a fingertip along one of the gutters, then raised it for me to examine. “You see? Spotless. But don’t worry, Lori, I won’t make you sit there. The overlook is a bit too exposed for comfortable conversation. Cassie and I have found a better spot, a pleasant little nook the wind can’t reach.”

“Before we go, however . . .” Cassie pulled two pairs of binoculars from her anorak’s cargo pockets. She hung one pair around Damian’s neck and the other around mine, as if she were presenting us with leis. “For verisimilitude,” she explained, “on the off chance that an islander happens by. We’re supposed to be bird-watching, after all, and we’d rather not give the game away until we have to.”

“Now we’re all in disguise,” I said, fingering the binoculars. “Wish I’d brought my false mustache.”

“It wouldn’t suit you,” said Peter, laughing.

Damian and I followed the young pair as they scrambled over the Slaughter Stone, climbed halfway up the rockfall, and dropped down onto a circular swath of turf enclosed by boulders. Peter spread a waterproof groundsheet on the damp turf, and we sat facing each other, with our backs to the boulders and our day packs resting by our sides. Apart from the odd gull passing overhead, we were alone.

“Before you get started,” I said, “I should tell you that my friend Damian has serious doubts about you. He’s convinced that you’re a pair of master criminals hiding out from the law.”

“Are you really?” said Peter, beaming delightedly at Damian.

“Lori exaggerates,” Damian said repressively. “But I am curious to know the reason for your charade. And I’d be grateful to you if you’d explain what you’re doing on Erinskil.”

“We
are
hiding out,” Cassie admitted, “but not from the law.”

“Hold on, Cassie,” said Peter. “If we start the story in the middle, it’ll become irretrievably tangled. Let’s start from the beginning and go on from there.” He pulled his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms around them. “Cassie and I have been working for the Seal Conservation Trust for the past year. We’ve been conducting population and migration studies with a team of students and scientists at an observatory in the Outer Hebrides. Everything was going along splendidly until nine days ago, when Grandfather decided to trumpet my accomplishments to the press.”

I leaned toward Damian. “Peter’s grandfather is Edwin Elstyn, the seventh Earl Hailesham.”

“Ah.” Damian nodded knowingly, as though a piece of the puzzle had fallen into place. He looked at Peter and said, “You’re
that
Peter Harris. The one mentioned in the letter.”

“You saw the letter?” said Peter.

“I did,” Damian acknowledged.

“Letter?” I said, looking confusedly from him to Peter. “What letter?”

“Don’t you read the
Times
?” asked Damian.

“Lori avoids newspapers whenever possible,” Peter explained. “She finds them depressing.”

“They
are
depressing,” I muttered.

“They’re also filled with useful information,” said Damian. He turned to Peter. “Your grandfather must be very proud of you.”

“He is, bless him.” Peter heaved a forlorn sigh and spoke to me. “Grandfather’s so proud of me that he wrote a letter to the
Times.
He wanted the world to know that not
all
children of privilege are brainless wastrels whose pointless lives revolve around cocaine, clubs, and haute couture. He held me up as a shining example of how
some
of us are doing useful work, far from the limelight. He thought more attention should be paid to those of us who are involved, hands-on, in worthy projects, and concluded by saying that praise should be given in public to those who’ve earned it.” Peter sighed again. “Grandfather meant well, but I’ve never been so embarrassed in my life.”

“My dad chimed in the next day,” said Cassie, rolling her eyes.

“Who is your dad?” I inquired.

“Festhubert Thorpe-Lynton,” she answered. “I’m Cassandra Thorpe-Lynton. Dad’s in the House of Lords. He read Lord Elstyn’s letter aloud in Parliament and followed it with a long-winded speech extolling the unsung virtues of privileged youth.”

“In which Cassie featured prominently,” Peter added.

“And from there things simply spiraled out of control,” Cassie went on. “No one wanted to be shown up. Every peer with a hardworking son or daughter came out of the woodwork to make a statement for the public record. Those without could do nothing but sit and steam.”

“Cassie and I were suddenly at the center of yet another debate about the role of the nobility in the modern world,” said Peter, cringing.

“We don’t get newspapers at our observatory,” Cassie went on, “so we had no idea of the whirlwind that was beginning to swirl around Lord Elstyn’s letter and my father’s speech.”

Peter nodded. “It came to our attention a week ago, when boatloads of reporters—”

“And photographers,” Cassie inserted.

“—came flocking to our research station to grab a story,” Peter finished.

Cassie pressed a hand to her breast. “I’m the peer’s do-good daughter.”

“I’m the hope for Britain’s future,” said Peter, laughing.

“And, naturally, we’re hopelessly in love.” Cassie buried her face in her hands, though she, too, was laughing. “It’s been simply too ghastly for words.”

“The story must be all over Finch by now,” I commented.

“It is,” said Peter, and his laughter died. “I rang Mum and Dad on my mobile as soon as I realized what was happening, but they knew about it already. They’ve had a knot of paparazzi lurking at the end of their drive for nearly a week.”

“I wouldn’t worry about it,” I said. “If the paparazzi sneak up the drive, Bill will be happy to help Emma and Derek sue them for trespassing. In fact, he’ll be ecstatic. He’s always wanted to take a tabloid twit to court.”

Damian regarded the two young people somberly. “I imagine the media invasion made it difficult for you to work.”

“It was impossible!” Peter burst out. “The idiots zoomed around the observatory in their rented boats, frightening the wildlife and our colleagues. We prayed that a storm would drown them or at least drive them back to the mainland, but our prayers went unanswered.”