The Laird's Labyrinth
A Duncan Dewar Mystery
Book 4
By
Victoria Benchley
Copyright
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form without prior written consent of the copyright holder. This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is entirely coincidental. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Although some locations and businesses named may be real, any events involving them are fictional.
Copyright © 2015 by Victoria Benchley
Table of contents
-1- Kept in the Dark
-2- Mutt Madness
-3- Old Friends
-4- History, Geometry, & Brain Stems
-5- Illumination
-6- The Manor House
-7- No Room At the Inn
-8- Big Mo and the Veil explained
-9- Dinner Party Discoveries
-10- Physical Labor
-11- Pamments, Pavers, & A Near Disaster
-12- Progress
-13- A Viking Invasion
-14- All Work & No Play
-15- Walking the Labyrinth
-16- Full Disclosure
-17- Tipsy at the Chippie
-18- Discipline & Refreshment
-19- An Alarm Raised
-20- A Gathering of Forces
-21- Hope Wanes and Waxes
-22- Sheol
-23- Awakening
-24- The Sins of the Father
-25- The Road to Recovery
-1-
Kept in the Dark
Darkness, a black void… at first, that was all he knew. Isolated, he floated in a sea of nothing. How long? What? Where? Gradually, thoughts formed as the synapses of his brain began to fire. At last, a signal he was not alone. He could hear marching in the distance. The longer he listened, he came to believe it was not marching, but chanting -- a never ending mantra that waxed and waned, the words of which he could not make out, no matter how he tried. A steady, continuous chorus that would drive him mad. Enveloped in the dark, his very bones were permeated by a cold dampness. Bones, yes, he had bones and they ached. Searing intermittent pain became permanent, and now raged throughout his body, bringing fire and a heat that was almost unbearable. He longed for the chill he felt when first aware of his being. A musty, charred smell drifted into his nostrils. If this was hell, he wanted out.
* * * * * *
Duncan stopped to read the sign beside the road. He had to reverse the Vauxhall so its headlights illuminated the message. DANGER: DO NOT PROCEED WHEN WATER REACHES CAUSEWAY, the warning stated. He'd already checked the tide schedule, and his crossing would be safe, as there were still two hours until the next high tide began. He eased his car onto Holy Island Road, the auto's headlamps revealing nothing but pavement. He'd left his home in Edinburgh in the wee hours, to get a jump on any traffic and beat the tide to the island. When he veered off the A1, it was barely five a.m., and the sun wouldn't rise for more than an hour. Driving proved quicker than the train and also allowed him to keep his own schedule. Once the sun was up, he'd explore the island before meeting with his client.
Glancing from side to side, Duncan could make out sand and isolated small pools of seawater reflecting light from the moon and stars. He maintained a slow speed, keeping in mind the road narrowed to one lane at some point. Ahead, one of the refuge boxes loomed on stilts with its ladder and wood siding covered in peeling white paint. Should a person get caught on the causeway or the walking path to the island when the North Sea rushed in, these tree house-like structures could be a safe haven, if one reached the box before being swept away by the tide.
If an RAF helicopter came to someone's aid, plucking driver from roof of car, the bill would be around 5,000 pounds. If saved by boat, the lucky citizen would receive a much smaller ticket for over 2,000 pounds. Every month, at least one stranded motorist had to be delivered from their vehicle by Rescue Services. If an individual chose to walk at low tide to the island, as pilgrims did for hundreds of years, an experienced guide was recommended to aid the crossing over mud and sand.
This morning, he easily traversed the 1.6 kilometers on dry pavement, arriving on the island before the coming sun painted the sky a vibrant pink. Duncan drove on until he spotted a car park next to a pasture. He angled the Vauxhall so he'd have a view of the sea and mainland, reached for the thermos of tea in the passenger seat and unscrewed its lid. Steam and the scent of strong Earl Grey met his nostrils as he inhaled the brew's aroma. Now that the engine was off, so was the heater, and with an early morning temperature in the low teens, a hot tea was welcome. He nibbled on the oat cakes he'd packed for his breakfast and thought about what had led him to this isolated place known as Holy Island.
When he returned from Spain after his last investigation, Donald, his good friend and owner of the Blue Bell Inn at Taye, Scotland, seemed anxious to meet. The innkeeper had mentioned finding him his next case and requested the detective come to Taye. The village held painful memories for Duncan, and he hesitated several weeks before making the trip. He dreaded the idea of returning, but for some reason Donald remained adamant. He acquiesced to the older man's wishes and drove the two hour trip, arriving just before dark at the inn. He had to admit, it was good to see his comrade and daughter, Skye. They'd proven themselves true allies and visiting with them warmed his heart. He entered the Blue Bell and headed straight for the inn's desk.
Upon spotting the investigator, Donald said, "I've got room nine all ready fir ye, Duncan. I know ye'll be looking to get reacquainted with Bluie, but first let's have dinner. The chef made yer favorite, steak and kidney pie."
The heavyset innkeeper moved from behind the counter and with a twinkle, gave Duncan a hearty slap on the back as the younger man reached out to shake his hand. Donald couldn't resist teasing him about the supposed ghost that inhabited room nine, although the investigator never came across any evidence that the inn was haunted.
"I'm not one to turn down an offer such as that."
Donald hobbled towards the inn's pub and Duncan noticed he moved without his cane. His knees must be feeling better. The cheerful innkeeper was in his sixties, and time had left him with aching joints and silver hair that barely covered his crown. Skye leaned against the bar with elbows bent supporting her body. Her thick, auburn hair cascaded beyond her shoulders and her brown eyes twinkled just like her father's. Laughing with one of the customers, she looked happy.
"Ah, Duncan! I wondered when ye'd arrive," Skye said with her local brogue.
She turned and signaled to the barkeep, who produced a pint for Duncan and another for her father. The men took their drinks to a table where she joined them, sipping a cider.
"Tell us, how did ye find Spain?" she asked.
"Sunny," he responded, beaming. "And hot," he added.
"Ach, it's been a cool summer here," the innkeeper stated.
"So, now that we've covered the weather, what brings me to Taye?"
He lifted an eyebrow and glanced from father to daughter. Skye averted her eyes from him and tried to hide the smile that curled at the corners of her mouth.
"Well, Donald?" he said, training his stare on the innkeeper.
"The son of an old friend from school needs yer help. Have ye heard of Holy Island, Duncan?
" Donald blurted out.
The innkeeper's sudden haste seemed suspicious. Duncan thought for a moment, running his fingers through his thick black hair.
"Do you mean Lindisfarne, where they brew mead?"
"Well, they don't brew it there anymore, but it's still bottled on the island. Aye, Lindisfarne. Are ye familiar with its history, Duncan?"
"Not really, except that it was the spiritual center of England for a time," he admitted.
"Aye. During the seventh century monks built a monastery there. Later, Saint Cuthbert became prior. In 793, the Vikings invaded and pilfered the lot. There's no telling what was lost to those marauders. The monks had already moved Cuthbert's body to a safer location. When his coffin was opened in 1827, gold, silver, and jewels were found as well as an illuminated manuscript of the Gospels," Donald whispered while leaning towards Duncan, as if he was afraid someone might overhear.
He raised both his eyebrows and turned his ear to his friend, encouraging the older man to continue. He threw a quick glance at Skye who eyed him with an intense stare before averting her gaze. Duncan had an interest in history, and Donald's tale grew more intriguing by the minute.
"Reginald, he's my mate's boy," Donald said, continuing in a conspiratorial tone, "inherited Norcroft Manor. I call him laird, because he owns a place outside of Dumfries. He recently discovered something on Holy Island that needs yer attention."
"What?"
"Ye'll have to see it fir yersel. I'm going to join Reginald there in a few days and I hope ye'll come along," he said, pausing as the waiter placed a small kidney pie before each of them.
Duncan inhaled as much air as his lungs could hold and released his breath at a slow pace. The dim room smelled of embers from the fireplace and tantalizing scran. He looked at Skye, who still seemed a bit uncomfortable with his gaze. A reflection of the flicker of a candle danced in her eyes. What was going on?
"Why did you need me to come to Taye if the case is on Lindisfarne?"
Coming back here was the last thing he'd planned on doing. Skye started to say something, but was interrupted by her father who cleared his throat and coughed several times.
"How's yer pie?" the innkeeper asked at last, adding, "don’t let yer scran get cold."
"D-o-n-a-l-d, what's going on here?" he inquired, smiling.
Something was definitely up, something that his friend was hesitant to relay.
The older man went back to clearing his throat, took a sip of his pint, and stumbled, "Sk-, Skye wanted ye to have a go at getting to know Mr. Lincoln."
Huh? Mr. Lincoln was the dog Caroline Menzies left with the Merriwethers when she decamped for the States. He was a large, black mutt with a penchant for licking Duncan's leg and face whenever he got the chance. Duncan had been in love with Caroline but when she fled Scotland, she didn't take her dogs with her. She claimed she wanted to give Mr. Lincoln to him, since the dog was so fond of him. He was not an animal person and the Merriwethers had cared for the canine for almost nine months. He imagined they were more than ready to unload Mr. Lincoln.
"Skye's been training him fir ye… " Donald started, but was now interrupted by his daughter.
"Clipe! That was supposed to be a surprise, Dad," Skye said, frowning at her father. She continued, "Dinnae fash yersel, Duncan. He's a smart dog and I'm sure ye'll grow to love him."
He stared at Skye who no longer avoided his intent look. She was prettier than ever, and her enthusiasm for the animal made her somehow even more attractive.
"Will you show me tomorrow?" he asked the lass, succumbing to Skye's exuberance.
Why did I say that? I've no place for a mutt, he thought. Her face illuminated like the sun.
"Aye, Duncan. I'll show ye all he's learned in the morning."
He decided it was worth it to see her face light up.
When he retired to his room, Duncan thought about that night's conversation. Donald was up to something and he'd bet it had nothing to do with that canine, Mr. Lincoln.
-2-
Mutt Madness
Duncan finished off his oatcakes, comparing them unfavorably to a sumptuous breakfast he'd enjoyed at the Blue Bell. He savored another cup of tea from his thermos and glanced out the rear view mirror. The sky was light now, although the sun hadn't yet cleared the eastern horizon. Stray clouds hovering above reflected a flaming hot pink. There, behind the Vauxhall, stood a mob of sheep. They were eerily still, no bleating or moving, and appeared to be watching his vehicle from their pasture. He tried to ignore them and wait for the first rays of the sun to hit Lindisfarne Castle. He had heard it was an inspiring sight to see. Still, those sheep unnerved him. His recent contact with the animal kingdom had led to a sore tail bone. He shifted in his seat and again thought about his visit to Taye a few days before.
Back in Scotland, Skye had pulled the vintage Range Rover off the road in front of a small cottage on the edge of the village. He realized he had not yet been to the Merriwether home. He never thought of them dwelling anywhere apart from the Blue Bell. Curious to see how Donald and Skye lived when away from the inn, Duncan leapt from the car and ran around the front of the vehicle to open Skye's door. He'd almost forgotten the purpose of his visit.
"Thank you, Duncan," she said, stepping down from the Rover.
She'd arrived at the Bell just in time to share breakfast with him, a proper Scottish breakfast. Although he had enjoyed the petite rolls and fried churros of the Spanish morning meal, he was happy to return to the hearty fare of his homeland. That morning, they each had the fried haggis, beans, tomatoes, mushroom, and oatcakes of the inn's Special. Duncan cleaned his plate while Skye had just picked at her scran.
Skye led him through a quaint iron gate and small garden filled with hedges and flowers. The cottage, constructed of red brick, had a bay window in front and steep pitched green roof. A twisted brick fireplace rose from the center of the house, while white fretwork at the eves created a picture of Victorian charm. She opened the painted green door and invited Duncan into the home she shared with her father. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he noticed a woman's touch in the furnishings and decorations that he attributed to Donald's late wife. Skye threw back the heavy curtains on the bay window to allow more light in the parlor.
"We haven't changed much since Mum passed," she said. Moving to another window, she asked, "Would ye like a cup of tea first? Steady yer nerves and all?" before pulling more curtains aside.
"No," he answered, taking in as much of the room as he could with a quick glance, "I think I'm ready to get reacquainted with the old boy."
"All right then, come along."
She threaded her arm around his and walked him through a cheerful 1950's kitchen and out the back door. The lawn sloped away from the house with the grasses becoming wild before meeting a dense wood of Scottish fir and pine. The garden was au naturel. Capability Brown would have approved. Duncan caught a glimpse of fencing running beyond the trees.
"Mis-ter-Lin-coln," the lass called.
He heard a rustling from beyond the lawn and in another second Mr. Lincoln came bounding towards them.
When the dog got within a few meters, she held her arm out, palm facing the mutt and said in a soft voice, "Stop."
The large black canine froze.
"Sit," Skye commanded, flicking her wrist so her fingers pointed to the ground.
Mr. Lincoln sat on his haunches.
"Stay," she ordered, moving her palm up again. "Let's approach," Skye whispered to Duncan, and without taking her gaze from the mutt, moved near the animal.
To the Scotsman's astonishment, Mr. Lincoln stayed put, although he seemed to be eyeing him like a dog biscuit as he panted. Skye reiterated the Stay command and reached down to scratch the beast's ears. Mr. Lincoln allowed his tongue to slip from behind his large cuspids, giving the impression he was happy. Duncan noticed black spots on the animal's otherwise pink tongue.
"Go ahead, Duncan, pet him."
He advanced a f
ew steps, reached down to pat the dog and received a prompt lick on his wrist. Next thing he knew, the animal had his paws on his chest and was attempting to rake his tongue across his face. Duncan arched his back and turned his head away as Skye scolded the canine, who seemed to take no notice.
"Well, this is as far as I've gotten with his training," she said, exasperated and blushing.
"You've done a brilliant job, Skye. He does seem better behaved," Duncan stated with generosity as he took a step back, continuing to avoid the hound's tongue.
The investigator resembled a boxer, dodging licks to the head with a bob, duck, and sway. The dog moved several paces on his hind legs, attempting an awkward dance with him until he was forced to land on all fours again. Lincoln then plopped on his side as if he'd been shot and rolled onto Duncan's foot, exposing his belly while pinning his official owner to the spot.
"He wants a scratch," Skye said.
Duncan drew a deep breath.
"I suppose he does," he said and bent over the dog, scratching his stomach while wondering if rewarding the mutt's bad behavior was wise.
Mr. Lincoln soon reached a state of nirvana, his tongue extending from his mouth to the ground with eyes closed and breath slow and steady. Docile, he appeared unconscious.
"He prefers a scratch to a treat. It's like a reward for his obedience," Skye stated, smiling at man and beast.
What obedience? The investigator pondered Skye's future parenting style and the mixed signals sent to Mr. Lincoln.
Duncan continued rubbing the dog's tummy and asked, "What became of General Washington and Roosevelt?"
"Caroline left both her other dogs with the Charmicles. Ye remember them, don't ye?"
"Yes."
The Charmicles were Caroline's friends and neighbors. Mrs. Charmicle provided Caroline's alibi for the time of her husband's death. A heavy silence fell between the two friends, broken only by Lincoln's steady panting.
Mystery: The Laird's Labyrinth: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder & Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 4) Page 1
