Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea (25 page)

Peter smiled gratefully and turned a tentative eye toward Cassie. After a brief hesitation, he held his hand out to her. She gripped it as if she’d never let it go and graciously permitted her contrite young swain to escort her from the library. I resumed my seat on the couch and pulled the blanket over my lap, hoping they’d take Will’s advice and hold the wedding at Dundrillin.

“Well, that’s settled,” said Sir Percy, after they’d gone. “She’s been glowering at him all evening. I was afraid I’d have to put them in separate towers. But all’s well that ends well.” He glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. “Half past eleven. I expect you’re both ready for bed.”

“Not quite, Sir Percy,” Damian said quietly. “There are a few points we’d like to discuss with you before we retire.”

“No time like the present.” Sir Percy sat back in his chair and folded his hands across his waistcoat. “Fire away, old man.”

Damian regarded him steadily. “The security dossier you prepared for me and Andrew fails to mention the false memorial tablet, the staircase, and the caves below the monastery ruins. Why were those items left out of the report?”

“They’re not relevant,” Sir Percy replied. “The caves wouldn’t help your quarry to sneak into Dundrillin even if he did manage to discover them, which is hardly likely. Besides, the islanders hold the caverns to be something of a sacred site. They don’t like outsiders knowing about them, and I didn’t care to betray their confidence.”

“I’m afraid that the people of Erinskil have other reasons for concealing the caverns,” said Damian. “Peter failed to explore the tunnels thoroughly, Sir Percy, but Lori and I did not. I believe that what we found there will be of interest to you.”

“Do tell,” said Sir Percy.

“We discovered twelve airtight chests,” said Damian, in a calm, dispassionate voice. “Eleven were filled with currency adding up to millions of pounds. The twelfth held valuable antiquities.”

“Millions of pounds, do you say?” Sir Percy’s eyebrows shot up. “My goodness, but the islanders are thrifty. Can’t blame them for avoiding banks. The fees are outrageous. And who’s to say that the caverns aren’t just the place to store Granny’s gewgaws?”

“Sir Percy,” Damian said patiently, “the objects we found can’t possibly be described as gewgaws. They should be in the British Museum. As for the cash . . .” He pursed his lips. “It grieves me to tell you this, but I strongly doubt that the money Lori and I found was earned through any legitimate enterprise. If you’ll permit me to explain . . .”

“I’m all ears, old man,” said Sir Percy, leaning forward in his chair.

For the next half hour, Damian walked Sir Percy through the long list of clues we’d accumulated, from the light on Cieran’s Chapel to the well-maintained ringbolt and the old laird’s overlarge grave; from the antitourist campaign’s myriad manifestations to the man-made rockfall that blocked the third tunnel.

“The islanders have invested heavily in their own comfort,” said Damian, “but they’ve virtually ignored tourist accommodations. In fact, they’ve made it quite difficult for tourists to visit Erinskil. Why?”

“I’m sure you’ll tell me,” said Sir Percy encouragingly.

“I believe that they don’t want
anyone
to visit Erinskil,” said Damian. “I believe that Elspeth MacAllen diverted your post, sir, in order to prevent the Seal Conservation Trust from building a research facility on the island, because a research facility would bring strangers to the island—something the islanders have gone to great lengths to avoid.”

“You make my people sound positively antisocial,” Sir Percy protested.

“When it comes to outsiders, sir,” Damian stated, “your people
are
antisocial. The lack of a tourist trade hasn’t hurt them, however. On the contrary, they live lives of relative splendor.”

“The tweed business has been very kind to them,” said Sir Percy.

“It must be clear to you, as a businessman, that the tweed mill can’t produce enough income to pay for the luxuries the islanders enjoy.” Damian tented his fingers. “It is my belief, Sir Percy, that the islanders are supplementing their incomes by trafficking in drugs. Drug shipments are deposited by major dealers on Cieran’s Chapel, transferred from there to Alasdair Murdoch’s fishing boats, and taken by boat to the mainland. The islanders store their cash profits in the cavern temporarily, until they can launder them by means of the tweed mill. As a side business, they sell or fence stolen antiquities on the black market. Such enterprises function best away from the public eye. It is, therefore, in the islanders’ best interest to discourage tourism.”

“Fascinating,” marveled Sir Percy, leaning his chin on his hand. “I hope you haven’t troubled our young friends with your disturbing revelations. I wouldn’t want their stay on Erinskil to be spoiled.”

“Cassie started the ball rolling,” I told him. “She’s convinced that everyone on Erinskil is involved in a criminal conspiracy. That’s why she didn’t want Mrs. Gammidge to call for Dr. Tighe. That’s why she was so frightened when Peter went missing. She thought Peter had been abducted, possibly murdered, because he’d gotten too close to the truth.”

Sir Percy drew such a sorrowful breath that I almost wished we hadn’t ventured beyond the man-made rockfall. He rose from his chair, shook his head, and walked slowly to stand before the fire. His shoulders drooped as he contemplated the flames, as if a heavy weight had fallen on them, but his expression was oddly quizzical when he turned to face us.

“I never realized you had such a vivid imagination, Damian,” he said. “I thought you were all business, all the time, but clearly I was mistaken. I am, I confess, somewhat taken aback by your portrait of my people. Thieves? Kidnappers? Murderers? What else, I wonder?” His eyes sought mine. “I knew you were inquisitive, Lori, but I’d rather hoped that concern for your own safety, and that of your sons, would override any desire you might have to nose about Erinskil. I should have known better.”

Damian uncrossed his legs. “You’re not as shocked as I expected you to be, Sir Percy.”

“Why should I be shocked?” Sir Percy hooked his thumbs in his waistcoat and threw out his chest. “My dear fellow, I’m the laird. Do you seriously imagine that anything takes place on this island without my knowledge?”

Grinning like a mad magician, he unhooked a thumb, flung a hand out with a flourish, and pressed a button on the Portland-stone mantelpiece. An oak panel to the left of the fireplace slid back soundlessly, and six grim-faced, tweed-jacketed men marched forth to stand like a wall in front of Damian and me. I recognized the hostile eyes of Mick Ferguson glaring down at us and gripped the blanket, confused and a little shaken.

Damian reached for his gun.

D
amian’s hand hovered perilously near his concealed holster but retreated when Sir Percy stepped forward, his blue eyes twinkling with mirth.

“Lori, Damian,” he said, flinging his arms around the shoulders of the men nearest to him, “please allow me the great pleasure of presenting to you the elders of Erinskil.You know Mick Ferguson, of course—he took you to Cieran’s Chapel. Mick, would you be so kind as to see to the drinks? I’m sure no one will refuse a wee dram on such a devil of a night.”

“Yes, sir, your lairdship,” said Mick, and he moved with alacrity toward the liquor cabinet.

“The elders are charged with the awesome responsibility of governing Erinskil,” Sir Percy explained, beaming down at me and Damian. “I hope you won’t be too put out with me when I confess that I invited them here to listen in on our riveting conversation. I thought it might contain information of interest to them.”

“They’ve been
eavesdropping
?” I said, scandalized.

“
Such
a time-saver,” said Sir Percy with unimpaired good humor. “Completely eliminates the need to rehash your side of the story.”

“What made you think that our side of the story would be of interest to these gentlemen?” asked Damian.

“With you and Peter wandering through the caverns, there was no telling what you might have discovered,” Sir Percy replied. “I summoned the elders because they have a right—indeed, a duty—to know if you stumbled upon the airtight chests.”

“I’d like to question them about those chests,” said Damian.

“No doubt you would.” Sir Percy rubbed his palms together energetically. “The first order of business, however, must be introductions. Damian has met the elders already, though he was unaware of their governmental roles at the time. I will, therefore, direct the introductions to you, Lori. From left to right, we have Cal Maconinch, harbormaster; Alasdair Murdoch, fisherman; Neil MacAllen, crofter and mill manager; George Muggoch, publican and baker; and Lachlan Ferguson, pastor.”

The men appeared to be in their sixties and seventies, though Pastor Ferguson’s flowing white hair and deeply creased face made me suspect that he was the eldest elder. George Muggoch was as round as his wife—unsurprising in a man who ran both a pub
and
a bakery—but the others were fit and trim. Alasdair Murdoch was broad-shouldered and burly, as befitted a man who spent his days hauling fishing nets, and Neil MacAllen had the long, lean build of a shepherd. Cal Maconinch’s auburn hair was scarcely touched by gray, which led me to believe that he was the youngest of the six. All of the men wore shirts and ties beneath exquisite tweed jackets—examples, no doubt, of the mill’s fine wares.

As they were introduced, each man touched a hand to his forehead in a brief salute, murmured a polite “How do you do?” and took a seat. Three chairs had to be carried from other parts of the library to accommodate the new arrivals, but in the end we formed a snug circle before the fire. The elders sat, wee drams in hand, gazing expectantly at Sir Percy, who lounged back in his great leather armchair, looking uncharacteristically reflective.

“Strangest thing,” he mused aloud, gazing at the ceiling. “Boring old sticks-in-the-mud like Cassie’s father are credited with brains because they never smile. I, on the other hand, have gained the reputation of being a fool simply because I enjoy life. I’ve never quite understood the equation.”

“No one here thinks you’re a fool, your lairdship,” Mick assured him.

“Lori and Damian do,” said Sir Percy, eyeing us shrewdly. “They wanted to shield me from an awful truth I was too simple-minded to perceive. I should sack you, Damian, for poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, but it wouldn’t do the least amount of good.You’re the sort of chap who won’t let go of a bone once he’s begun to worry it.” He let his gaze travel over the elders’ attentive faces. “I’m very much afraid, gentlemen, that we shall have to explain ourselves, and throw ourselves on the mercy of the court.”

“Is it absolutely necessary, your lairdship?” asked Pastor Ferguson, his brow knitting.

“My dear pastor,” said Sir Percy, “my friends are convinced that Erinskil is a den of iniquity inhabited by ruthless felons. Surely it is better for them to learn the truth than to cling to such a grievous misapprehension. Consider the difficulties that would arise if they took their spurious accusations to the police.”

“What about the youngsters?” growled Mick.

“They’re harmless,” Damian said quickly. “They don’t know about the money. They may have suspicions, but they have no proof.”

“Will they go looking for it?” Mick pressed.

“With Fleet Street nipping at their heels and Cupid harassing their hearts?” Sir Percy tossed his head derisively. “I sincerely doubt it.”

Pastor Ferguson turned to us. “I would like it to be understood that what is said within these walls stays within these walls.”

“I’ll tell my husband,” I confessed, with a sheepish shrug. I knew I’d tell Aunt Dimity as well, but I had no intention of trying to explain
her
to the elders. “I can’t help it. I tell Bill everything.”

“We’ll make an exception for Lori’s husband,” Sir Percy pronounced. “I will vouch for Bill Willis, gentlemen, for he is the rarest of hybrids—a lawyer and an honorable man. He won’t betray us.”

The elders exchanged grave glances, then nodded, one by one. Pastor Ferguson, who seemed to be the chief elder, was the last to nod. He turned to Cal Maconinch.

“Cal?” he said. “Will you begin?”

“Only right that I should,” said the harbormaster, “since it began with my father.” He shifted slightly in his chair, as if settling down to tell a story he’d told a hundred times before. “My father was for thirty years the sexton at St. Andrew’s.”

“The church in Stoneywell,” Damian put in, for my benefit.

“Aye,” said Cal. “A sexton has many jobs, but the only one that need concern us is the job of gravedigger. When the tenth earl died, my father rowed out to Cieran’s Chapel to dig the grave. He brought his sturdiest picks with him, because he knew he’d be doing more rock-breaking than digging, and he set to work at the spot James Robert had chosen.When he’d finished clearing away the thin layer of topsoil, he brought his pick down on the bare rock.The next thing he knew,” Cal continued, “he was lying at the bottom of a crater, all bruised and battered and wondering if there’d been an earthquake, because the ground had given way beneath his feet.”

“
Had
there been an earthquake?” I inquired, enthralled.

“Only the one my father started.” Cal smiled wryly. “He was a big man, and he swung a heavy pick.”

Pastor Ferguson took up the story. “Once the dust had settled, old Mr. Maconinch noticed a gold gleam among the rocks that had come down with him.The gleam came from a chalice, as fine and rich as anything he’d ever seen, and there was more to come—gold plates, reliquaries, jewelry, coins—”

“The sort of thing Damian and I found in the twelfth container,” I put in.

Pastor Ferguson nodded. “Old Mr. Maconinch realized at once that he had, purely by chance, discovered a treasure trove.”

“Whose treasure was it?” I asked.