Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea (21 page)

“Your jacket, Damian,” I said. “She’s freezing.”

“Blankets, Mrs. Gammidge, if you please!” roared Sir Percy as he headed for the liquor cabinet.

I stripped off Cassie’s anorak, and Damian wrapped his blazer around her. Kate and Elliot shoved a chair closer to the fire, Cassie sank into it, and Sir Percy thrust a glass into her shaking hands.

“Brandy,” he said. “Get it down you.”

Cassie gulped a mouthful, sputtered, and tried to speak, but before she could get a word out, Mrs. Gammidge returned to cocoon her in an armful of woolen blankets.

“Shall I ring Dr. Tighe, sir?” the housekeeper asked.

“No!” cried Cassie, finding her voice. “I don’t need a doctor.”

“Not at present, thank you, Mrs. Gammidge,” said Sir Percy. “I’ll ring if I need you.”

“Very good, sir,” said Mrs. Gammidge, and withdrew.

I sat on the arm of Cassie’s chair. “What’s happened? Is it the reporter? Has he come after you already?”

“Reporter?” Cassie said blankly, then shook her head. “No, it’s nothing to do with him. Mrs. Muggoch told him that her rooms were full up. He’s spending the night on his boat.”

“Bravo, Mrs. Muggoch,” Sir Percy boomed. “She knows a rat when she sees one. It’ll be a rough night, too. Ha!” He raised his glass, grinning gleefully. “Serves him right!”

“What is it, then?” I said to Cassie. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s Peter.” The young woman’s voice broke. “He hasn’t come back. Anything could have happened to him.”

My stomach clenched with fear as the reason for Cassie’s distress struck home. Had Peter asked one question too many? I wondered. Had the islanders decided to rid themselves of their meddlesome guest? I looked anxiously at Damian, who shook his head minutely, knelt before the frantic girl, and clasped her free hand in both of his.When he spoke, his deep voice was as kindly as a priest’s.

“Where did Peter go, Cassie?”

“To the monastery,” she answered shakily, and twisted her head to look up at me. “He wanted to hear the monks you told us about, Lori, the ones who’d been killed by the Vikings.”

“When did he leave?” Damian asked, drawing her attention back to him.

“Around four o’clock,” she replied. “He wanted me to come with him, but I didn’t fancy a hike in the fog, so I stayed at the pub. He said he wouldn’t be long, but he’s been gone for nearly four hours.”

Damian chafed her hand. “What route did Peter take to the monastery?”

“The coastal path. It’s the only route we’ve ever taken.” Cassie’s pretty face crumpled, and tears rolled down her cheeks. “If only I’d gone with him . . .”

“Then we’d be searching for both of you.” Damian pulled a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and handed it to her.

Cassie mopped her cheeks and blew her nose. At Sir Percy’s urging, she took another gulp of brandy and tried to collect herself.

“I’ve rung him a dozen times,” she said. “No answer. I thought of going to look for him on my own, but—”

“You did the right thing by coming to us,” Damian interrupted. “We’ll find Peter. In the meantime I want you to go back to the pub.”

“I want to look for Peter,” she protested.

“I know you do,” said Damian soothingly, “but someone has to stay at the pub, in case Peter turns up there. Otherwise we could find ourselves running in circles all night. Kate and Elliot will go with you. You can wait with them in your room.” He pressed her hand. “Please, Cassie, for Peter’s sake . . .”

“All right,” she said, with great reluctance. “I’ll go.” She wiped her eyes, returned her glass to Sir Percy, and began unwrapping the cocoon.

“Take the blankets with you,” said Sir Percy. “And take the car, Elliot.”

Elliot rushed ahead to bring the electric car to the main entrance. Kate put her arm around Cassie’s blanket-draped shoulders and guided her out of the library. When the door had closed behind them, Sir Percy turned to Damian.

“Young scamp’s sprained an ankle, I’ll wager, or wandered off the path,” he said. “Shall I raise the alarm? Form a search party? I can have twenty local men here in a twinkling.”

It suddenly dawned on me that Damian was in an impossibly awkward position. Sir Percy assumed that Peter was injured or lost in the fog. He had no reason to suspect foul play. No one had explained to him that his island was inhabited by a species of lowlife that made paparazzi look like cuddly kittens. How would Damian find the words to tell him that a search party made up of islanders would be more likely to lead us
away
from Peter than toward him? Even if he wished to acquaint Sir Percy with our suspicions, he couldn’t hope to do so without wasting precious time.

“I’d rather not complicate matters, sir,” Damian said smoothly. “Visibility is poor tonight. I don’t want a search for one man to turn into a search for twenty. I’ll look for Peter on my own.”

“Oh, no you won’t,” I said. “I’m coming with you.”

“I don’t think you are,” said Damian, frowning.

“Think again,” I stated firmly.

Damian squared his shoulders. “Lori, you are not—”

“I’d save my breath if I were you, old boy,” Sir Percy interjected. “I’ve known Lori longer than you have.”

I squared my own shoulders and calmly explained the situation to Damian. “Peter’s parents aren’t just my neighbors. They’re my best friends. They’d dodge bullets to help my sons, and if you think I’m going to sit around wringing my hands while
their
son is in trouble, you’re
incredibly
mistaken.”

“Don’t waste time arguing with her,” advised Sir Percy. “She’s as stubborn as a stoat.”

I lifted my chin defiantly. “You’ll have to chain me up and lock me in the dungeon to keep me here.”

“Don’t tempt me,” Damian growled. His jaw hardened ominously, but he evidently knew when he was beaten, because after a moment’s bristling hesitation, he relented. “You’ll have to change into something dark-colored and warm.”

“Give me five minutes,” I said, and dashed past him into the corridor.

He caught up with me at the elevator, and we both rode it to the suite, where I swapped my elegant evening clothes for a pair of tweed trousers, a heavy, dark brown wool sweater, wool socks, and hiking boots. I grabbed a stocking cap and my rain jacket from the wardrobe, ran through the sitting room, flung the foyer door wide, and stopped short.

I’d caught Damian in the midst of pulling his black crewneck sweater over his head. He must have heard the door open, because he hurriedly yanked the sweater down to conceal his naked torso, but it was too late. I’d already seen the scars—puckering the skin above his collarbone, below his ribs, on his chest, curving like a snake over his shoulder.

I’d also seen the gun. The deadly looking automatic was tucked into a holster on his belt.

“You told me you were unarmed,” I said, trying not to think about the scars.

“I was, when you asked.” He turned away from me, put on his rain jacket and a black watch cap, and squatted to rummage through his duffel bag. When he stood, he was holding two black-handled, hooded flashlights on black lanyards, but he didn’t offer one to me. Instead he spoke quietly, urgently, as if he still thought he could persuade me to change my mind. “Peter may have twisted an ankle or broken a leg. He may simply have lost track of time. It’s not hard to imagine him perched on a boulder on one of the hills, watching the fog move in over Erinskil. But we don’t believe he’s been delayed for any of those reasons, do we, Lori?”

I shook my head.

“We believe he’s in trouble,” Damian went on. “We believe he’s been waylaid by people who will stop at nothing to protect their business ventures. We’re not going on a picnic, Lori. This is a serious affair.You’re taking a great risk by coming with me. I wish you wouldn’t.You can stay here with Andrew. No one will think less of you.”

“
I
will.” I took one of the flashlights from him and slung the black lanyard around my neck. “Besides, you’re my bodyguard. You’re not allowed to leave me behind.”

His lips twitched into a grudging smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, then vanished. He gripped his own flashlight tightly, punched the elevator button, and we were on our way.

W
e stepped out of the tower’s side entrance into a world changed beyond recognition. The headland’s breathtaking views had been transformed. Shifting banks of fog blanketed the island’s central valley and mantled the ocean in a heavy shroud, deadening the surf’s thunder. The cliff path and the hills bordering it stood above the mist, like an island chain rising from a sea of cotton wool.

“Don’t use your torch,” Damian instructed. “I’d rather we didn’t advertise our movements.”

I agreed with him about the flashlights—we didn’t need them to find our way. The full moon bathed the sunken track in silver light, and the path’s waist-high banks would not allow us to totter over a cliff or wander off into the hills by accident.

There was hardly a breath of wind stirring, and the evening air was heavy and damp. As I jogged along behind Damian, clammy droplets gathered on my hands and face, clung to my trousers, and trickled like icy fingers down the back of my neck, until I thought to pull my jacket’s hood over my stocking cap. I quickly yanked it down again when I heard Damian muttering to himself up ahead.

“Fool,” he said under his breath. “Thoughtless, stupid, selfish young fool.”

“I hope you’re referring to Peter,” I murmured, catching up with him.

“Why did he go off on his own?” he demanded, keeping his voice low. “The boy’s convinced that Erinskil’s riddled with murderous thugs, but he goes off on his own regardless. When I think of the state Cassie’s in . . . of the danger Peter may be in . . . of the rules I’ve broken by allowing you to come with me . . .” Damian ground his teeth. “If the islanders haven’t wrung his neck already, I may do it for them.”

“I know you’re worried about him, Damian,” I said. “I am, too, but I’m not really sure why we should be. Peter shared his suspicions with us, but I’m certain he didn’t share them with anyone else on Erinskil. How do you think the islanders found out?”

“Mrs. Muggoch,” Damian replied shortly. “She’s his landlady, and it’s a landlady’s duty to listen at keyholes. If she overheard his conversations with Cassie, you can be sure that she wouldn’t keep the information to herself.”

“She could have heard them talking about the monastery, too,” I said anxiously. “She must have told someone he was going to the ruins.”

“I suspect she alerted more than one someone.” Damian consulted his wristwatch and began to jog faster. “They may simply want to chat with him, Lori, to get him in a corner and frighten him into keeping his mouth shut. Threatening to harm Cassie would do the trick, and he’s certainly made it easy for them, going off by himself and leaving her with no protection. How could he be so
stupid
?”

“He’s young,” I offered.

“He’s an idiot,” Damian muttered, and charged onward through the fog.

We came to a halt a short time later. While I caught my breath, Damian peered into the murk, as if to confirm his bearings. He nodded once, then swung around and put his mouth close to my ear.

“Here’s the plan, Lori,” he whispered. “We’re going to leave the path here, in case they have a lookout posted at the Slaughter Stone. We’ll cut around the side of the hill until we reach the monastery terrace—it’s the highest of the three, remember? Then we’ll see what’s what. Keep close to me and don’t use your torch until I tell you to. No more talking—not even in whispers—from this point on. Understood?”

I demonstrated my understanding by nodding.

We boosted ourselves over the edge of the sunken path and began to climb. The hill was steep and the long grass was infuriatingly slick, but although I slipped and slid and bashed my knees repeatedly on half-buried rocks, I managed to keep my vow of silence. More important, I managed to keep up with Damian, who was as goat-footed as Peter.

I was greatly relieved when we came across a sheep track, where the grass was sparse and the footing a trifle less treacherous. We followed the faint trail as it curved around the side of the hill, until our boots hit close-cropped grass and level ground. We’d reached the outer edge of the highest terrace.

Damian motioned for me to crouch beside him while he surveyed the ruins. They gave me the willies. The plundered monastery’s skeletal remains loomed before us in the moonlight. Shreds of mist drifted like ghosts between the stunted pillars and clung like cobwebs to the broken arches. Shallow pools of vapor swirled sinuously along the ground, obscuring the foundation stones and curling like smoke around the crumbling walls. The only element missing from the magnificently haunting scene was the soul-rending scream of a massacred monk.

Fortunately, the only sound to reach my straining ears was the muted gurgle of the spring-fed brook tumbling merrily downhill, and though I stared long and hard at our surroundings, I couldn’t see so much as a flicker of light glimmering in the gloom. It seemed to me that if a gang of thuggish islanders were grilling Peter in the ruins, they were being extraordinarily stealthy about it. The monastery appeared to be deserted.

Damian evidently agreed with my assessment, because he put his lips close to my ear and whispered, “They may have taken him somewhere else, but we’ll have a look round, just in case.”

We crawled from the edge of the terrace to the heap of stones that was all that remained of the church’s north wall. Damian stepped over the stones, bent low, and turned on his hooded flashlight. Tendrils of fog wrapped the narrow beam in a gossamer veil as he swung it from side to side, scanning the ground for clues. I moved beside him, my eyes trained on the cracked and pitted slabs that paved the church’s central aisle until he flung an arm across me and knocked me flat onto my bottom.

I swallowed an indignant croak and stayed where I was, wondering what had set him off. Rolling onto my knees, I followed the ghostly thread of light from his flashlight as he inched toward the church’s eastern end, where an incised memorial tablet marked the burial site of a long-forgotten churchman. I raised myself higher, to get a better view, and clapped a hand over my mouth to suppress a gasp.