Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea (20 page)

“You don’t think someone was out there . . . digging up the old laird, do you?” I asked.

“Oh, no,” he replied. “I think they dug him up years ago.”

My jaw dropped. “I was
kidding,
Damian.”

“I’m not,” he said, and shifted his gaze back to the fire. “I suspect that the islanders exhumed the old laird’s remains some time ago and reinterred them on Erinskil. The tomb could then be expanded and used for the temporary storage of contraband. I suspect that couriers come and go fairly frequently—hence the installation and meticulous maintenance of the ringbolt. When visitors are on the island, the couriers move by night.” His eyes found mine again. “Your light wasn’t made by Brother Cieran’s ghost, Lori, but by someone picking up or delivering illegal goods stored in the old laird’s grave.”

“Drugs?” I whispered.

“Possibly.” Damian cocked his head to one side. “A consignment of cocaine, for example, would fit easily in the expanded tomb, where it would be stored until called for. Mick’s dinghy could be used to bring the shipment from the Chapel to Alasdair Murdoch’s fishing boats, and Mr. Murdoch would take it to the mainland for distribution. I suspect that the islanders use the tweed mill to launder the dirty money.” He nodded. “Drug transport is a lucrative business, Lori. It would pay for many of the things Peter and Cassie pointed out to us today.”

“Your theory is worse than theirs!” I cried, sitting upright. “And I refuse to believe it. Mick wasn’t faking his affection for the old laird, nor was Mrs. Muggoch.The islanders loved him.They’d never desecrate his grave. They wouldn’t betray him for the sake of a few creature comforts. It’s . . . it’s
sacrilegious.
”

“I won’t argue the point, Lori,” said Damian. “You asked my opinion, and I’ve given it.”

“But what are you going to
do
about it?” I demanded. “If you honestly believe what you’ve just told me, Damian, shouldn’t you do
something
? Shouldn’t you tell Percy?”

“Tell him what?” Damian retorted. “My opinion is just that—an opinion. It’s based on suspicions and suppositions, nothing more. I’ve no real evidence of wrongdoing, and I don’t intend to seek it out. I’m not a policeman, Lori. I’m a bodyguard.” He got to his feet. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to work.”

I wrapped my arms around myself and stared unhappily into the fire. As Damian passed my chair, he paused briefly to put a hand on my shoulder.

“You’re not a policeman, either, Lori,” he said. “You came here to protect yourself and your sons. Remember that. Don’t let yourself be distracted.”

The hand was removed, and a moment later I heard the foyer door open and close. I slowly uncoiled myself from my chair, went to the bedroom, and picked up Aunt Dimity’s journal.

“I spoke with Damian,” I said, standing with the journal open in my hands. “He thinks the islanders dug up the old laird’s body and replaced it with shipments of cocaine. The world’s gone mad, Dimity.”

I smiled wanly, bade Aunt Dimity good night, and went to bed, where my agitated thoughts gave way to agitated dreams involving gangs of sinister fishermen who looked like Mick Ferguson and sounded like Mrs. Muggoch.

T
he next day’s schedule of events could have been torn from the calendar of a child-friendly resort—if the resort offered live-in bodyguards as an optional extra. Damian and I rose early, breakfasted with Andrew and the twins in the nursery, and descended with them to Sir Percy’s sheltered cove armed with the usual cricket gear as well as a bucketful of knights-in-armor to man the sand castles. When the sky began to cloud over, we retired to Dundrillin for a splash in the heated swimming pool, from which Damian abstained. Andrew took his midday meal in the nursery with Will and Rob, and Damian and I had ours in the dining room with Sir Percy.

A misty drizzle settled in after lunch, so we spent the afternoon in the nursery. The twins and I created unsung masterpieces with finger paints and modeling clay until teatime, then whiled away the hours before dinner building a complicated complex of sea caves for their seal pups, using blankets, tables, model cars, knights in armor, plastic dinosaurs, and a variety of other items seldom observed in the wild by the Seal Conservation Trust but which my sons deemed essential to a baby seal’s happiness. After dinner came bath time, story time, bedtime, the elevator ride to the Cornflower Suite, and then, as we stepped out of the elevator, a joyfully breathless telephone call from Bill.

“Yarborough’s men have come up with a lead,” he crowed. “I can’t stay on the phone—too much to do—but Yarborough’s convinced that we’re on the right track. With any luck we’ll capture our man within the next day or two.”

“But who is he?” I demanded. “Who is Abaddon?”

“It’s too complicated to explain right now,” said Bill. “I’ll give you the whole story when I see you, and I’ll see you very soon. Thank heavens Yarborough did those interviews, Lori. I’m sorry, love. I’ve got to go. Kiss the boys for me. I’ll see you soon!”

Bill rang off. I stood in the foyer, staring at the cell phone, dazed and a bit weak-kneed with relief, until Damian took the phone from me and offered a quiet word of caution.

“I’m aware of recent developments,” he said. “They sound promising, but—”

“Stop right there,” I said, warding him off with an outstretched palm. “I’m not letting you rain on my parade. Bill’s not like me, Damian. He doesn’t exaggerate for dramatic effect. If he says something is so, it’s so.”

“But he hasn’t said—”

“I’m not listening,” I broke in. “It’s half past six. Please call Percy and tell him that I
will
join him and Kate and Elliot in the library for cocktails before dinner.” I clapped my hands and danced into the sitting room, closing the door behind me. When I reached the bedroom, I grabbed the blue journal and flung it open, saying, “Dimity! Great news!”

“The best of best words,” I said. “Abaddon’s as good as caught!”

I frowned. “You’re as depressing as Damian.The detectives have a
lead,
Dimity. They’re hot on Abaddon’s trail. Bill’s sure they’ll catch him
soon.
”

“Of course I’ll remain vigilant,” I retorted, “but I’m going to be happy, too, no matter how much cold water you and Damian throw on me. I’ll talk to you later, all right? I have so much to tell you!”

“He will be,” I vowed, and closed the journal.

I quickly changed into a blouse of crimson silk and an elegant, long black skirt and joined Damian, who’d donned his trusty blue blazer. Together we made our way to the library, where we met up with Sir Percy and his assistants.

It was easy to see why Kate and Elliot preferred Dundrillin’s library to the pub in Stoneywell. The oak-paneled room was a softly lit, restful retreat filled with leather-bound books, hung with fine oil portraits of Sir Percy’s ancestors, and warmed by a handsome fireplace of Portland stone. Reading tables and racks of magazines occupied the center of the room, and traditional, masculine leather furniture—a sofa and four armchairs—clustered companionably around the hearth, with polished walnut occasional tables placed conveniently nearby, to receive a discarded book or a Waterford tumbler. An assortment of silver candelabras was also in evidence—insurance, no doubt, against the next power outage.

Kate and Elliot had already claimed the chairs nearest the hearth, so I sat in the corner of the sofa, facing the fire. Damian, who preferred to keep an eye on the door, took the chair next to Kate’s, and Sir Percy took charge of the liquor cabinet, busily dispensing gin-and-tonics that contained far more gin than tonic. He poured a glass of sherry for himself and sat with it at the other end of the sofa. I waited until everyone was seated to announce Bill’s spectacular news.

“Bravo!” boomed Sir Percy, and raised his glass to toast my brilliant husband, the brilliant chief superintendent, and the general brilliance of Scotland Yard. “Knew they’d nab the villain. Couldn’t be happier for you, my dear.”

Kate and Elliot added their congratulations, and Sir Percy proceeded to entertain us with wildly comic speculations about Abaddon’s true identity (“The prime minister’s been looking rather shifty-eyed lately. . . .”). Damian alone took no part in the general merriment. Although he smiled dutifully at Sir Percy’s antics, he maintained an air of sobriety that told the rest of us quite plainly that our giddiness was premature. We paid no attention to him.

“I don’t envy Peter and Cassie their walk to Dundrillin,” Elliot ventured, after Sir Percy had settled down. “It’s a miserably damp, foggy evening.”

“It’ll get worse before it gets better,” Sir Percy said. “I’ve had a peep at the radar. A storm’s brewing to the west. It’ll be here before dawn.” A sunny smile lit his face. “I love a good storm. Thunder, lightning, rollicking surf—you’ll feel the headland quake like a cowardly puppy, Lori.” He sipped his sherry, then added, as an aside to me, “Wouldn’t advise stepping out on your balcony in the thick of it, though.You might find yourself airborne.”

I was about to tell him that I fully intended to enjoy the storm from the safety and comfort of my bed when Damian’s cell phone rang. I held out my hand, hoping against hope for news of Abaddon’s capture, but Damian didn’t pass the phone to me. He kept it pressed to his ear, and I could tell by his taut expression that he didn’t like what he was hearing.

“You’ve confirmed his identification?” he asked. “And the hire agreement? What about the boat? Have you searched it? Good. It’s unfortunate, of course, but there’s not much we can do about it. Keep me informed.” He ended the call and returned the cell phone to the inside breast pocket of his blazer.

“Well?” said Sir Percy.

“That was Cal Maconinch, the harbormaster,” Damian announced. “It’s bad news for Peter and Cassie, I’m afraid. A journalist from the
Morning Mirror
—a chap called Jack Nunen—has dropped anchor in Stoneywell Harbor, in a powerboat he hired on the mainland. The good news is that his ID checks out—Jack Nunen is who he claims to be—and he came alone. Cal searched the boat from stem to stern and found nothing to indicate that our stalker hitched a ride to Erinskil.”

The good news should have cheered me, but I was too sorry for Peter and Cassie to think of myself.

“Bloody
Morning Mirror,
” Sir Percy fumed. “If they’ve sniffed out the trail, the rest of the pack won’t be far behind. Mark my words, the wolves will be circling en masse by tomorrow night.”

“Didn’t Mr. Nunen object when Mr. Maconinch searched his boat?” Kate inquired. “I would have expected him to kick up a fuss.”

“He probably would have, had he been aware of the search,” Damian acknowledged. “Cal elected not to trouble him. He boarded the boat after Mr. Nunen had gone to the pub to book a room.”

“Excellent!” Sir Percy roared. “The
Mirror
’s maggots have no respect for anyone else’s privacy. Why should we respect theirs?”

“You’re Erinskil’s laird, Percy,” I said. “Can’t you ban reporters?”

“I can, but I won’t. It would only add fuel to the fire.” Sir Percy spelled an imaginary headline in the air as he spoke: “‘Feudal Laird Shields Lurking Lovers.’” He dropped his hand. “I assure you, Lori, interference from me would only make matters worse for our young celebrities. They should have come to Dundrillin when I asked them to. Mrs. Gammidge is an expert in pest control.”

“We can warn them, at least,” I said desperately. “You’ve got Peter’s phone number, Damian. Call him. Tell him the jig is up.”

“I expect he knows it already,” Sir Percy murmured.

“Even so . . .” I looked beseechingly at Damian.

He took out his cell phone and dialed, but there was no answer.

“Peter must have turned off his mobile,” he said, returning the phone to his pocket. “We could send someone down to the pub with a message, Sir Percy.”

“Don’t be daft, Damian. They’ll be here in less than an hour. We’ll break the news to them when they arrive.” Sir Percy heaved himself to his feet, returned to the liquor cabinet, and busied himself with topping up our drinks. “If they change their minds about moving into the castle, Kate and Elliot can fetch their things from the pub.”

The clock on the mantelpiece ticked ponderously as we sat brooding over our drinks. Sir Percy expressed his feelings by stabbing the fire viciously with the poker, but Elliot was the first to speak.

“I’ve been meaning to ask, Sir Percy,” he said. “Have you had a word with the postmistress about the missing mail?”

“A misunderstanding,” said Sir Percy, “just as I predicted. Mrs. Gammidge asked Elspeth MacAllen to dispose of junk mail addressed to me through the Stoneywell post office. Elspeth decided that letters from something called the Seal Conservation Trust had to be junk mail and disposed of them.” He tossed more turf onto the fire. “It won’t happen again. Elspeth will deliver
all
of my mail to Dundrillin from now on. You and Kate will decide what to discard.”

“A safer system for all concerned, sir,” said Elliot. “I was also wondering—”

We never found out what Elliot was wondering, because at that moment Mrs. Gammidge appeared in the doorway, with a bedraggled and breathless Cassie on her heels.

“Miss Thorpe-Lynton to see you, sir,” she said to Sir Percy. “She seems quite agitated.”

I hastily set my glass aside and ran to Cassie. She wore no hat or gloves, and her anorak was wide-open. Her hair was disheveled, her jeans and crewneck sweater were wet, and she was shivering.