Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea (15 page)

“We didn’t know what to do,” said Cassie. “We considered giving an interview, but we knew that whatever we said would be twisted beyond recognition, so we decided instead to run for it. Jocelyn Withers, our boss, was incredibly understanding. He smuggled us to the mainland on a supply boat, and we spent a day there, kitting ourselves out as bird-watchers.”

“Cassie dyed her lovely blond hair brown,” said Peter, casting a fond look in Cassie’s direction, “and I purchased my horrible specs. Cassandra Thorpe-Lynton became Cassie Lynton, Peter Harris became Harry Peters, and we boarded the ferry for Erinskil.”

“Why Erinskil?” Damian inquired.

“We’d heard that it was friendly to bird-watchers,” Cassie replied, “but that it didn’t attract many casual tourists.We hoped we could hide out here for a week or two without being recognized.”

“Once the paparazzi give up on us—or a gale sinks their blasted boats—we’ll return to the observatory and continue our work unmolested.” Peter straightened his legs and leaned back against his boulder. “There you have it, the whole absurd story. I don’t mind telling you, Lori, that it gave me a very nasty turn to see you in the pub.”

“I didn’t recognize you at first,” I admitted, “and when I
did,
you managed to shut me up pretty effectively.”

“Sorry about that,” said Peter, “but I couldn’t let you call out my real name. We’ve been lucky so far. No one on Erinskil has connected us to the tabloid stories, and no reporters have come hunting for us.”

“I won’t give you away,” I assured him.

“Nor shall I,” said Damian.

“Never crossed my mind that you would,” said Peter.

“Do Emma and Derek know you’re here?” I asked.

Peter nodded. “I rang Mum and Dad as soon as we boarded the ferry. Cassie rang her parents, too. We’ve sworn them to secrecy, of course, but we didn’t want them to worry.”

I reached over to pat Peter’s boot. “I hope my sons grow up to be just like you, Peter—thoughtful, considerate, kind to their parents.You really are the hope for Britain’s future.”

“Don’t
you
start,” Peter pleaded, wincing. “I don’t want to be anyone’s poster child. The hours are terrible and the rewards, nonexistent.” He eyed our day packs with sudden interest. “I know it’s a bit early for lunch, but I could do with a midmorning snack. It’s hungry work, recounting our misadventures.”

I opened my pack and handed out sandwiches while Damian pulled the large thermos from his and poured hot tea for four. Cook had outdone herself. The sandwiches weren’t the dainty wafers she produced for tea but thick, hearty slabs of fresh-baked bread filled with smoked ham, nutty cheese, and cold chicken. No one wanted caviar, but the homemade pickles and chutney were a welcome addition to the meal.

I split a giant sandwich with Damian while Peter and Cassie consumed one apiece, made a serious dent in the chutney, and emptied the pickle jar.

“Isn’t Mrs. Muggoch feeding you?” I asked.

“Not enough,” said Peter, swallowing manfully. “Cassie and I have been hiking all over the island since we arrived. Our appetites have exploded.”

I kept the tea flowing while they demolished their midmorning snack, but Damian left the sheltered circle of turf to survey the sunken path and the overlook. He returned shortly thereafter to report, quite literally, that the coast was clear.

After forty minutes’ steady gorging, Peter and Cassie were replete. They helped me gather the sandwich wrappings and tuck them into my day pack, then leaned back against their boulders with contented sighs.

“Now that we’ve satisfied your curiosity,” said Peter, “it’s your turn to satisfy ours.What brings you to Erinskil, Lori?”

The sunny day seemed to darken. The cool air seemed to grow cold.The sound of the crashing surf was suddenly loud in my ears, and the screams of the hovering gulls became harsh and eerie. I’d enjoyed a brief respite from fear, but it was back again, closing its clammy hand around my heart.

“Lori?” Peter said encouragingly. “Are you on holiday?”

“Not even remotely,” I said, and told him everything. If Damian had voiced an objection, I would have talked over him. I had no choice but to tell Peter the truth. He knew me so well that he would have spotted a lie the moment it passed my lips.

“Oh, Lori . . .” Peter said in a hushed voice when I’d finished. He’d drawn his knees to his chest again and leaned over them, taut with concern. “I’m so sorry.You must be going through hell.”

“Only when I let myself think about it,” I said with a weak smile.

“Is there anything we can do?” Cassie asked.

“Yes,” Damian cut in. “You can keep your eyes open and your mouths shut.”

“Don’t be stupid,” Peter snapped. His grandfather’s fiery temper blazed suddenly in his blue eyes. “Lives are at stake. Do you think we’d take something like that
lightly
?”

“No,” said Damian, chastened. “Of course you wouldn’t. I apologize.”

“It’s all right,” said Peter, his fury fading as quickly as it had flared. “You’re here to protect Lori and the boys. I do understand.”

Damian took a pen and a small pad of paper from his breast pocket, jotted a note, and passed it to Peter. “Here’s the number for my mobile. Please ring me if you notice anything out of the ordinary.”

“Here’s mine,” said Peter, tearing the paper in half and scribbling his number on the slip. “In case you need an extra hand. I’d do anything for Lori.”

“We already have, by the way,” Cassie said casually. “Noticed something out of the ordinary, I mean.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “What have you noticed?”

“There’s a little island off to the west of Erinskil,” said Cassie. “It’s called Cieran’s Chapel.”

“We know it,” I said, nodding.

Cassie leaned forward. “We were up on the coastal path the night before last, looking at the stars, when we saw a light out there—several lights, in fact. They were no more than faint flickers, but we thought it odd.”

I shot a triumphant glance at Damian. “I
told
you there was a light.”

“You saw one, too?” said Cassie.

“Yes,” I said, “but I only saw one brief flash.”

“What time did you see your lights, Cassie?” Damian asked.

“Between eleven-thirty and midnight,” Cassie informed him. “That’s why it struck us as odd. On our first night here, Mrs. Muggoch had told us an absurd tale about a monk’s ghost haunting the Chapel. She seemed to believe it, but we didn’t. Still, we couldn’t imagine why anyone would be out there at such a late hour.”

Damian peered at Cassie with a curious intensity. “Did you mention the lights to Mrs. Muggoch?”

“Certainly not,” she said. “Peter and I don’t want to draw attention to ourselves. And after a good night’s sleep, it dawned on us that the same might be true for whoever was on Cieran’s Chapel.”

“Cassie thinks it must have been drug smugglers,” said Peter, “dropping off a load or picking one up. And I agree with her.”

“Drug smugglers!” I exclaimed. “You can’t be serious.”

“We’re perfectly serious,” said Peter. “The Western Isles are a hotbed for drug smuggling. I’ve read stories about it in all the newspapers. Dealers drop shipments off in remote locations, and locals take the shipments to the mainland for distribution. You have to admit that Cieran’s Chapel would be a useful transit point.”

“Quite useful,” Damian murmured.

I looked from one face to another in disbelief. “You think the
locals
are involved?”

“I’m afraid we do,” said Cassie. “No outsider could use the Chapel without their full knowledge and cooperation.”

I opened my mouth to protest but closed it again. I didn’t want to believe that the illicit drug trade had sullied Sir Percy’s little corner of paradise, but it might be true. I recalled the revelation I’d had the night before and realized with a sinking heart that my newborn suspicions dovetailed rather neatly with Cassie’s.

Aunt Dimity’s words came back to me so clearly that I could almost see them written in the air:
If you want to keep people from visiting a place, you scare them off.
Erinskil was all but inaccessible to casual visitors, and the few tourists who found their way to the island could theoretically be kept away from Cieran’s Chapel by the spooky mythology the islanders had built up around Brother Cieran. It was entirely possible that the islanders’ antitourism campaign had been designed to protect their drug-trafficking operation.

“You needn’t look so shocked, Lori,” said Peter. “Smuggling is a traditional source of revenue in the islands. Drugs are simply the latest—and most lucrative—cargo.”

“But they don’t need drug money,” I said feebly. “Percy told us that the islanders are part of a tweed-making cooperative.They make a good living selling high-quality tweed.”

“Tweed?”
Peter said incredulously. He and Cassie exchanged glances, got to their feet, and slung their day packs over their shoulders. “Come with us, Lori. There are a few things we’d like to show you.”

D
amian and I scrambled after Peter and Cassie as they climbed the boulder-strewn hill above the overlook. It wasn’t a long climb, but the hill was steep, and I was overheated by the time we reached the crest. I paused to unsnap and unzip my rain jacket, then jogged to catch up with the others. They’d made their way across the rounded summit and stood just below the hilltop, looking east.

The hill’s inland slope didn’t end in precipitous cliffs but fell gently to the wide valley below in a series of broad, deep terraces. On the highest terrace, commanding a sweeping view of Erinskil’s sheep-dotted fields, lay the monastery’s skeletal remains.

“There’s not much left,” said Peter, gazing down at the ruins. “But Mrs. Muggoch told us that there wasn’t much there in the first place. It was never a wealthy priory, like Lindesfarne in Northumberland. It didn’t last long enough to become well endowed and powerful. It was an outpost that failed.”

Wandering sheep acted as the ruins’ groundskeepers, cropping the grass as neatly and far more quietly than any lawnmower. The short grass made it easy to see the layout of the little community, outlined in crumbling stone. Six nave pillars and a few paving slabs were all that remained of the church, and the cloister was marked by the stumps of broken arches.

A dark stream cut a trough in the turf as it tumbled downhill from a spring some twenty yards south of the monastery, and the terraces below might once have been divided into garden plots. The monks, it seemed to me, had chosen their site wisely. It offered them fresh water, arable land, and protection from the winter gales that blew in from the west. It had not, however, saved them from the Vikings.

I looked to my left and saw the distant specks of Stoneywell’s tidy houses gleaming white in the morning sun. The marauding Norsemen had swept through the village like flames. They’d poured into the valley to plunder the farms, then moved up the terraced hillside to slaughter the monks, loot the monastery of its humble treasures, and burn it to the ground. From the Vikings’ point of view, it had been a good day.

“The monks must have seen what was coming,” I said, half to myself. “Why didn’t they run and hide?”

“We’ll never know,” said Damian. “The answers to some questions are buried too deeply in the past. We can never resurrect them.”

“On the other hand,” Peter piped up, “some answers are buried mere inches beneath the surface. It takes only a bit of scratching to uncover them. I’ll show you. Come along.”

We zigzagged down the slope to the highest terrace, then headed for its southernmost edge, stopping on the way to look into the ruined church. The cracked and pitted paving slabs led to an oblong block of stone that lay near the church’s east end, the spot where the altar had stood.

The block of stone appeared to be a memorial tablet, similar to the one marking the old laird’s grave on Cieran’s Chapel, but far older. The passage of time had long since erased the name of the man who’d been buried there, but the tablet’s incised decoration could still be discerned—a diamond-patterned border, bold in its simplicity.

“Only the head of the order would have been buried so near the altar,” Peter commented, nodding at the tablet.

“Poor man,” I said. “I wonder if he screams along with his fellow monks?”

“Screaming monks?” Peter’s face came alive with interest. “Mrs. Muggoch hasn’t mentioned a word to us about screaming monks. Are you making it up?”

“No, but Sir Percy might have been,” Damian answered dryly. “He likes to embellish legends.”

I smiled, then turned to Peter. “Sir Percy told us that if you stand inside the monastery ruins on certain nights, when the moon and stars are just so, you can hear the screams of the massacred monks.”

“Fantastic,” said Peter, gazing eagerly at the tablet. “I wonder if Mrs. Muggoch can give me the proper coordinates for the moon and stars?”

“Peter,” Cassie scolded, “you’re being revoltingly insensitive,
and
you’re allowing yourself to be distracted. Shall we move on?”

We moved on, jumping over the tumbling stream and walking to the edge of the terrace, where a half-buried boulder served as a convenient bench. When we’d taken our seats, Peter pointed toward a cluster of farm buildings not far from the foot of the hill. A long, graveled drive connected them to the road that crossed the valley from north to south.

“MacAllen’s croft,” he said. “Look at it through your binoculars and tell me what you see.”

I raised the binoculars to my eyes and focused them on the farmhouse. After a short time, I moved on to the outbuildings, the pens, and the walled fields. I could tell by Damian’s movements that he was subjecting the croft to an examination that was far more minute than mine. Finally I lowered the binoculars.

“It’s a farm,” I said. “Or, as they say in Scotland, a croft. It has a farmhouse and farm buildings and farmyards filled with sheep, which qualify as farm animals.” I shrugged. “It’s a farm.”