Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea (16 page)

Damian, who had yet to lower his binoculars, said thoughtfully, “It’s rather a nice farm, though.”

“Exactly.” Peter nodded enthusiastically, as though Damian were his star pupil.

“Look again, Lori,” Cassie said, taking note of my perplexity. “The MacAllens have a satellite dish. They’ve roofed their house with costly tiles and fitted it with insulated windows. They’ve added at least six rooms to the original four-room structure.”

“The sheep interest me,” said Damian.

“They should,” said Peter, unable to restrain himself. “Those are North Ronaldsay sheep. They’re an endangered breed. At last count there were fewer than three hundred ewes on the mainland.”

“How on earth do you know that?” I asked, staring at him.

“I rang an informative lady at the Cotswold Farm Park,” he answered. “Miss Henson is an expert on endangered domestic animals. I described Mr. MacAllen’s sheep to her, and she told me all about them. The rest of Erinskil’s sheep are fine animals that produce high-quality wool, but they’re not rare. Mr. MacAllen is an ovine connoisseur.”

“I still don’t understand what you and Cassie are getting at,” I said, peering down at the sheep with my binoculars. “Mr. MacAllen’s croft is in good shape, and he owns some unusual sheep. So what?”

“The croft isn’t in good shape, Lori,” said Cassie. “It’s flawless. We’ve seen it up close. There’s not a fleck of peeling paint or a tile out of place. The MacAllens have central heating. They have a
sauna
and a
hot tub.
Those aren’t the sorts of things you find on your average farm.”

“But they’re not completely unexpected,” I objected. “If you live on an island, you have to make your own fun.”

“If MacAllen’s croft were the exception, I’d agree with you,” said Cassie.

“Ladies and gentleman,” said Peter, through cupped hands, “I hope you’ve enjoyed Exhibit A. Please follow me to Exhibits B through . . . F, would you say, Cassie?”

“Possibly G,” said Cassie. “We have been rather busy.”

“We have,” said Peter, grinning.

Peter left the half-buried boulder and headed south again, descending from the terrace until he reached a faint trail that wound up and down the sides of the adjoining hills. I was certain that the trail had been made by and for sheep rather than human beings, but Peter was as sure-footed as a mountain goat. As I clambered after him, I sent a silent word of thanks to Rob and Will for keeping me in fairly good condition. The hours I’d spent chasing cricket balls for them had not been entirely wasted.

Peter motioned for us to join him on a slight promontory that jutted out over the valley, and he pointed down to a cluster of long, tin-roofed structures behind another complex of farm buildings.

“The shearing sheds,” he said, “are managed by the Mackinnon brothers, Neil and Norman. The Mackinnons travel with their wives and children to Australia and New Zealand every year to participate in sheepshearing competitions. They’ve won quite a few.”

“Family holidays Down Under are not cheap,” Cassie pointed out, “nor is the equipment they use to shear Erinskil’s sheep. It’s mod cons all the way for the Mackinnon brothers. On we go.”

“Wait a minute.” I spoke up in order to catch my breath before we tackled the sheep track again, but also because a memory had stirred. “I saw a woman hanging laundry on a line when the boys and I flew over the island with Sir Percy. If everything’s so up-to-date on Erinskil, why wasn’t she using an automatic clothes dryer?”

“That would be Siobhan Ferguson,” said Peter. “Mick Ferguson’s daughter-in-law. She doesn’t like gadgets. She owns a tumble dryer, Lori, but she uses it only when the weather forces her to.” He hopped back onto the sheep track. “Let us proceed.”

The next leg of the tour took us all the way to the Sleeping Dragon, the spiky ridge Sir Percy had pointed out to me from the helicopter. I managed to keep up with Peter for a while, but his long strides ate up ground much faster than my short ones, and I was soon lagging behind. Cassie chose to hang back with me, and Damian, of course, was never more than a few feet away from me. I rapidly developed a deep antipathy toward both of them. It was, I felt, cruel, inconsiderate, and possibly unnatural of them to hold a casual conversation when all I could do was pant and puff.

“How did you find out so much about the islanders?” Damian asked the young woman. “You’ve been here less than a week, and they’re reputed to be extremely tight-lipped.”

“It’s Peter.” Cassie gazed at Peter’s distant back and smiled. “Peter could chat up a stone statue. Everyone—simply
everyone
—talks to him. It’s because he’s so enthusiastic, so authentically sincere. He’s truly interested in every subject under the sun—sheepshearing, family history,
everything.
”

“Why isn’t he at university?” Damian asked.

Cassie laughed and I gave a gasping chuckle as we attacked the Sleeping Dragon’s nearly vertical northern flank. We knew something Damian didn’t.

“Peter took his degree when he was seventeen,” Cassie kindly explained. “He took three, in fact, in natural history, anthropology, and business management.”

“What business does he intend to manage?” asked Damian.

“The family business,” Cassie replied. “Peter will inherit the Hailesham estate when his grandfather dies. He intends to keep it intact for his children and his grandchildren.”

“Britain’s future is in good hands, it seems,” said Damian, nodding.

“Peter’s a smarty-pants,” I agreed, between huffs.

Peter was waiting for us when we finally clambered to the top of the spiky ridge. I insisted on a ten-minute break and gulped a bottle of water before following him to the ridge’s inland tip and the best view of the island I’d seen since I’d flown over it. The small lake shone like quicksilver below us, the windmill farm whirred away to our right, and the castle looked like a toy fort atop its headland far to the north.

Peter immediately made it clear that he hadn’t brought Damian and me there to enjoy the scenery. His pointing finger moved from one croft to the next, up and down the valley, as he reeled off the information he and Cassie had gathered about each of them.

One crofting family coddled a collection of rare orchids in a custom-built greenhouse. Another raised champion sheepdogs. A third made an exquisite single-malt whiskey that was available only on Erinskil. All of the croft buildings had been expanded and improved, using the finest materials, and each was extraordinarily well maintained.

When he’d finished his litany, Peter turned with a sweep of his arm toward the windmill farm.

“I’ve visited all of the islands in the Inner and Outer Hebrides,” he said, “and I’ve never seen anything like
that.
”

“Sir Percy told us that the islanders installed the original system twenty years ago,” I said.

“It seems a curious thing to do, don’t you think?” said Peter. “Why would the islanders spend a fortune to generate power for their own use, yet invest not one penny in improving the harbor? The lake, by the way, isn’t a lake,” he added, peering downward. “It’s a man-made reservoir that supplies the islanders with fresh water.” He gave me a sidelong glance and turned to pick his way back along the ridge. “One more stop and our tour is finished.”

I looked at my watch and saw to my dismay that it was already past noon.

“Is it a long way?” I asked, hoping I didn’t sound as pathetic as I felt.

“Yes,” said Peter, over his shoulder, “but there’s a marvelous picnic spot at the end of it.”

The promise of lunch was the only thing that got me through the last and by far the longest leg of the tour. When we arrived at the spot Peter had in mind—a shallow cave that overlooked the village—he spread a groundsheet for us and I laid out the many delectable treats Cook had prepared. For the next hour or so,
I
didn’t know the meaning of the word “moderation.”

The day packs were much lighter by the time we finished. We even polished off the caviar.

I
’ve seldom enjoyed a meal more. The fact that we were sitting down was a huge plus, but the pleasant company, the beautiful setting, the exquisite weather, and the superior quality of the food helped a lot, too. Even so, I couldn’t keep myself from casting a suspicious glance at the sky every now and then.The previous day’s deluge was still fresh in my memory. I didn’t relish the thought of being ambushed by another one.

“It’s not like that, Lori,” Peter said after I’d craned my neck a half dozen times. “The weather doesn’t follow a schedule on Erinskil. Rain comes when it will.”

“It doesn’t look as if it will anytime soon,” said Cassie, scanning the cloud-free horizon. “Our luck with the weather seems to be holding.”

While Damian and I packed away the picnic things, Cassie unpacked her maps and field guides and scattered them on the groundsheet—for verisimilitude, I assumed. When the stage was set, we sat four abreast among the thrift and quivering sea grasses at the mouth of the cave and looked down at the village. I expected Peter to ask us to raise our binoculars again, but instead he took his story out to sea.

“As you know,” he began, “Cassie and I came to Erinskil on the interisland ferry. It’s a long trip from the mainland, because the ferry stops at other islands on the way. Cassie and I had plenty of time to explore.”

“When we went down to the hold,” Cassie continued, “we discovered that shipments bound for Erinskil were packed in containers that were different from the others. We wondered why until we arrived in the harbor and watched the crane swing Erinskil’s cargo onto the jetty.”

“I asked the ferry captain about the shipping containers,” said Peter. “He told me they’d been designed and built to order by a firm in Glasgow, exclusively for Erinskil. He also mentioned that the crane is always in tip-top condition. He’d never known it to malfunction.”

“The boats inside the breakwater piqued our interest, too,” said Cassie. “There are only two fishing boats registered on Erinskil, and both belong to the Murdoch family.” She gave me a meaningful glance. “Erinskil doesn’t support itself with its fishing fleet.”

“Alasdair Murdoch’s catch of the day doesn’t end up in an Edinburgh restaurant,” Peter added, driving the point home. “It ends up on the islanders’ plates or in Alasdair’s cold-storage locker for future use—by the locals.”

“Lucky locals,” I murmured.

“Stunningly lucky,” said Peter. His eyes roved over the village. “We come at last to Stoneywell. I won’t ask you to examine it through your binoculars, because we’re supposed to be studying birds, not buildings. In fact, it would be a good idea for you to point your binoculars toward the sky occasionally, in case a villager happens to see us up here.”

“In keeping with our cover story,” Damian put in. He picked up a field guide and thumbed through it.

“I wish our expedition could include a stroll through the village.” Faint worry lines furrowed Peter’s smooth brow. “But I think we should continue to maintain a low profile there. We want the islanders to go on believing that we’re harmless bird-watchers. It’s a matter of personal safety as much as anything else.”

“Are you afraid of the paparazzi?” I asked.

“Not particularly,” Peter answered, “but I have a healthy fear of drug dealers. They’re not known for their gentle ways. If they suspect us of prying into their business, they might turn ugly.” He lifted a hand to the sky. “So please raise your binoculars while I point to the flock of kittiwakes that happens to be flying by.”

Apprehension made my hands tremble as I followed the flock.

“Peter,” I said from the corner of my mouth, “maybe you and Cassie should move into the castle with me and the boys. Sir Percy won’t mind, and if you’re right about the islanders, you may already be in danger.You’ve been awfully inquisitive.”

“We’ve also been endearingly naive,” Peter said with a lighthearted laugh. “No one suspects us of anything but youthful curiosity—yet. We don’t intend to push it any further.”

“A wise plan,” Damian said quietly. “But keep Lori’s invitation in mind. If you feel threatened in any way, come to Dundrillin.”

“Thanks,” said Cassie.

“Now, about Stoneywell . . .” Peter bent over his map, as though he were consulting it. “Did you notice anything about the village when you were there yesterday, Lori?”

“I noticed that it was wet,” I replied. “Very, very wet.”

“It wasn’t the best day for sightseeing,” Peter conceded. “If it had been, you might have seen some rather unusual sights. . . .”

If I hadn’t lived in Finch for seven years, Peter’s “unusual” sights might not have struck me as unusual. But the longer he talked, the clearer it became to me that Stoneywell was not an ordinary village.

Finch’s village shop was well stocked by small-town standards, but its gourmet-food department was limited to a few dusty tins of fish paste. Stoneywell’s shop, by contrast, supplied the islanders with basic staples as well as freshly ground coffees, a broad range of cheeses and pâtés, and an interesting selection of foreign and domestic wines. Mr. Muggoch, who with his wife ran the small bakery as well as the pub, produced croissants and brioches along with traditional Scottish breads and pastries.

“Finch doesn’t even have a bakery,” I grumbled.

“No, it doesn’t,” said Peter. “Nor does it have a resident doctor with a fully equipped, modern surgery. But Stoneywell does. Dr. Gordon Tighe was born and raised in Stoneywell. He opened his practice here as soon as he’d qualified.”

“The other islands we’ve visited have nothing like Stoneywell’s surgery,” said Cassie. “Dr. Tighe can take care of almost any medical emergency. Only the most desperate cases have to be evacuated to the mainland.”

Peter passed the map to me and picked up a field guide. “Then there’s the school. . . .”

Finch’s two-room village school had been shut down in the 1950s, but according to Peter, Stoneywell’s was still alive and kicking. It had a staff of one full-time teacher, aided, it seemed, by the entire adult population of Erinskil.