"Yes, I know," Harold said. He added, "Studies show that a man can fall in love in six minutes. Not that I was in love with your girlfriend. We just understand, understood each other."
He shook his head. He couldn't believe his brother brought up Caroline and Cassandra Baines, the well-known model he dated years ago, when he was riding a wave of fame from the development of his fault tree analysis. That relationship proved a disaster. She was also another lass that Angus thought he fancied, but she'd chosen Duncan. He'd realized too late that her only real interest was his celebrity. When that disappeared, so did she.
By the time the brothers arrived in their room at the Puffin it was midnight and Duncan had trouble keeping his eyes open while he disrobed.
"Say, Harold, are you aware that you snore?" the investigator mumbled as he slid beneath a blanket.
He didn't hear his brother's answer as he drifted off to sleep, Harold's choice of speaking in present tense about Caroline needling the back of his mind.
-10-
Physical Labor
Duncan glanced at Harold. His younger brother seemed happy pushing the heavy cart from the labyrinth outside, dumping the stones behind the house, and repeating the routine… all morning. The investigator tired of shoveling dirt from the perimeter of the workroom into his own barrow, hauling it through the house, and depositing it in piles beyond the garden. Thank goodness Anna is off today. He guessed she'd be none too happy with the soil, dust, and leaves they'd drug through the house.
When he woke that morning, it was due to Harold's snoring. His brother had remained silent most of the night, but sometime around five, he'd picked his thunderous snoring back up. Duncan tried to roll his brother onto his side, but it proved difficult in the small bed. Nothing seemed to wake Harold once he descended into a deep slumber. He gave the lad one last shove which accomplished the goal. The snoring ceased, as Harold balanced on his side at the edge of the bed. It was too much to hope for. A second later the sleeping young man attempted to continue onto his stomach, which propelled him off the mattress with a thump. Duncan grimaced, hoping his brother could sleep through that as well.
"Hey! What did you do that for?"
Harold's bright red hair appeared above the sheets, followed by his freckled scowling face. He shook his head and rubbed a temple with the palm of his hand before fingering his nose.
"Anything broken?" Duncan asked.
"I don't think so."
"Go back to sleep then, Harold, and stop snoring!"
Harold shrugged, climbed into the double bed and soon fell asleep. The tumble must have accomplished some good because his brother kept quiet. Duncan grabbed his jacket, slipping the garment over his T-shirt and slid on shoes below his sweat pants. He eased the door open and stepped outside. He knew Angela would be up, preparing her morning cup of tea, and he intended to speak with her.
"Hallo, Angela. Good morning," he whispered into his cellular.
"Hello. Is everything all right?" she asked.
"Yes, yes. I just wanted to catch you before you left for the office."
"Why are you whispering, Duncan?"
"I'm outside of my lodgings and trying not to wake anyone."
"Did you forget your key?"
"No, no. It's not that. Harold decided to join me and he snores like a roaring lion. Woke me early and then I shoved him out of bed and I don't fancy him overhearing my conversation and I'm not fit for anyone else to see and I don't want the other guests complaining about my waking them, although how anyone can sleep through Harold's earthshaking rumblings I can't speculate!"
Duncan discharged his words like a blunderbuss, without taking a breath. He was cold and certain he looked a fright. His situation frustrated him and his lack of sleep wore thin. If someone spotted him like this, they might report a suspicious character to the constable.
"Angela, are you there?"
"Yes, Duncan. What did you need?"
The Scotsman drew in a deep breath. Frigid air filled his lungs as he glanced around the small car park behind the Puffin. He looked back at the building, but saw no sign of life. He needed to know if Angela had decided to chose Angus, if she were still dating Johan, or if she would allow him to pursue her.
"I just thought how nice it would be if I were there, enjoying a cup of tea with you before you start your day," he said.
"What a lovely sentiment, Duncan."
Bingo! He'd finally said something right.
"Have you thought about running up to Edinburgh and helping me pick out my office furniture? I'd put you up at the Royal Scotsman and have breakfast with you every morning."
"I've thought about it," she replied after a long pause.
"Will you come?" Duncan asked.
"I don't know."
It wasn't the answer he wanted, but it would have to do. He knew pressuring Angela was not the way to go. He felt uncomfortable and signed off soon thereafter.
Things didn't improve when they arrived at Norcroft Manor, either. Julien didn't seem pleased at all to have their help and assigned them the task of emptying the room of all the debris he had exhumed thus far, while he continued chipping away at the remaining top layer of slate. Duncan attempted to make conversation with the handyman, but Julien wanted no part of that, either. Harold didn't mind. His younger brother whistled as he lifted stones into his cart, hummed his way through the house, and sang in the garden before unloading his shift. He was surprised that the wire-thin Harold had that much strength. He didn't seem exhausted. As far as he knew, his brother lived a sedentary life. Duncan ran, lifted weights and occasionally practiced Taekwondo. Still, he grew tired, while his brother appeared a fount of energy.
By the time the investigator's stomach rumbled, the brothers had made a good dent in the debris. Reginald invited them to have lunch in the kitchen along with Donald. Anna had thoughtfully provided enough roast beef sandwiches for them all. Julien brought his own lunch and bicycled off somewhere to enjoy it alone.
"What are ye plans fir dinner tonight, lads?" Donald asked.
"Well, I'd like to find a chippie. Are there any in the village, Mr. Norcroft?"
"You must call me Reggie, Harold, and yes, there is a chippie, of sorts, at the end of our high street. Downright delicious fish there."
"Aye, I'd like to join ye, but I think I'll just enjoy an early night here. I dinnae get that luxury often enough," Donald said.
"We can eat early, if you'd like," Duncan volunteered, somewhat concerned for his friend.
"Nae, Laddie. I'm run down from all the activity at the inn. Dinnae fash yersel, though. I'm just getting too old fir it. It's a fine thing fir a younger man. In fact, it's a very fine position fir someone young and healthy. A fine life indeed," his voice dribbled off as he stared towards the larder, a far off look in his eyes.
Duncan glanced at Reggie, who nodded in solidarity with the innkeeper before stating, "I think it's a fine time of life to start a new venture." The innkeeper flashed a scowl at Reginald but he took no notice and continued, "I intend to convert part of Norcroft Manor into a lecture hall for the bird lovers who frequent the island. I've plans for a hospitality suite where they can come for rest and refreshment before heading out again with their binoculars. Who knows where it all might lead!" he said with such enthusiasm, Harold rose from his chair as if about to give their host a standing ovation.
Duncan tugged at Harold's trousers after an awkward moment, gesturing with his head so as to encourage his brother to take his seat and finish his piece. He nodded at their host and grinned with a gusto Duncan rarely saw.
"You are quite right to pursue the passion you have for fowl!" Harold declared, still standing. "My own mum is planning to start a restaurant and she's beyond fifty," he added with zeal.
"What?" the investigator asked, incredulous. Surely his brother must be mistaken.
Harold dropped into his seat as if a sudden victim of gravity and took a bite of his sandwich.
"My compliments to
Mrs. Dodd," he said, his mouth full with a slice of beef he'd pulled from between the bread with his teeth.
Duncan glanced at the two older men. Reggie gazed with affection at Harold while Donald, looking disgusted, slumped back in his chair. The investigator waited for his brother to finish chewing and swallow before repeating his question.
"What was that about Mum starting a restaurant, Harold? She is coming back from Spain in a few days, isn't she?"
His brother dabbed his lips with the white starched linen serviette left on the table by Mrs. Peckham.
"Yes, she arrives fourth of September."
"Well then, what is this business about starting a restaurant?" Duncan asked, taking a sip of water.
"She and a fellow named Armondo are going in together in Edinburgh," Harold said in the blasé tone one would use to describe a rain cloud in Scotland's capitol. "He's coming for Christmas," he added in the same tenor, gazing around the room as if the sink, shelving, and counters held some special interest for him.
Duncan didn't know what to say. The last thing he wanted was Chef Mondo becoming part of the family. He'd managed to leave Spain on good terms with the irascible man, but then, he never expected to see him again, either. In addition, Armondo seemed far too fond of his mum. How could Dad allow this?
"Tell us about the birds we can expect to see here," Harold asked Reginald, ending any further discussion, for the time being, regarding the chef in the middle of Duncan's last case.
"You're in for a treat, that I can promise," Reggie began, tilting his head towards Harold with an affectionate smile on his face. "While Spring holds its own allure here for birders, it's the Fall migration that excites me the most. Holy Island is the first landfall many wildfowl encounter, especially those from the Arctic breeding grounds, and because there's little foliage, they're all easy to spot!"
He paused for effect and Duncan was sure he saw his brother's eyes widen.
Their host continued, "First, the long-legged waders arrive. You can gaze out to the causeway and see a plethora of genera. If you spy a bird with a speckled back that appears yellow and black when the light hits it just right, and a white border surrounds his black face like a question mark, you've found an American golden plover. Then there are the yellowlegs, whose lower appendages are, in fact, bright yellow. They have a white belly, but the rest of them resembles a dalmatian, all black and white spots. Small sandpipers with their long beaks join the others. Of course, these are some of the more common fowl that come to us."
"What other birds visit?" Harold asked, enthralled.
Reginald continued, like a master storyteller, "Holy Island is the top place in all the Northeast for the crusaders of the sky. After the waders, colorful plump ducks and geese turn up, like the pale-bellied svalbard, pink-footed goose, shelduck, and wigeon. In October, hoards of others arrive, looking for a place to lay their heads during winter. We'll see the redwing, a blackbird with a circle of startling red and yellow on each wing, and we'll hear the beautiful, loud melodic tunes repeated by countless song thrushes. Surrounded by these and countless other wildfowl, the true rare gems can be spotted."
"What are those?" Harold asked.
The investigator glanced at Donald, who had drifted into a nap. He guessed the innkeeper had heard the laird discuss the island birds many times before. His brother seemed enrapt with the subject. Reggie paused for effect and then continued.
"The red flycatchers make their appearance. You can identify them by the bright white patches on either side of the base of their tail. They possess red feathers on their breast and back, as if wearing vests. Some even have near scarlet feathers on their head with only their black beaks, eyes, and wings differing in color. In addition, yellow-browed warblers materialize besides icterine, with their pastel yellow bellies and necks. A brighter version, the citrine wagtail, emerges with the red-eyed vireo and the white desert wheatear. Imagine a bird called desert here on Holy Island!"
Reginald laughed, joined by Harold, waking Donald.
"What's all the frivolity aboot?" The innkeeper asked, blinking his eyes.
"Oh, we were just considering the irony of the desert wheatear wintering here in wet, northeast England, on an island no less," Reggie said between chuckles.
"Where is the best place to bird watch?" Harold asked.
"I don't think there's a bad spot. But, many of the birders congregate out on the Heugh, the finger of land that points to Lindisfarne Castle. Its higher elevation allows a view all the way to the Farne Islands in the south, and Scotland to the north. The Farnes are lucky enough to have puffins. On a clear day, one can see west from the Heugh all the way to the Cheviot hills on the mainland. With over 50,000 wildfowl joining us for winter and over 300 species identified on the island, you'll have no problem observing our winged migrants from anywhere," Reginald said, satisfaction and pride evident on his face.
Duncan, the only one to notice when Julien passed through the kitchen as Reggie expounded on Lindisfarne's visiting birds, had seen the handyman's scowl and felt a tad guilty they hadn't joined him in the old chapel.
"Thank you for a delicious lunch, Reggie. I think my brother and I should get back to work while we've still got the sun overhead."
"Quite right. Sorry I held you up so long with my rambling. I can hear Julien at it now. Thank you so much for your help," their host said.
"The topic is fascinating, Reggie. I know we both enjoyed our conversation," Duncan replied, standing.
"Yes, I hope you'll share more with me before my holiday is over," Harold added with enthusiasm.
"I'd be happy to, Harold. In fact, why don't you think about joining me next week. I'm going to be lecturing at Newcastle University on this very subject. It's only about an hour south, by train. I'm hoping Donald tags along as well, and of course, you're welcome, too, Duncan," he said, looking from one guest to the other.
"Brilliant!" Harold exclaimed.
"It's a wonderful opportunity, but I doubt your case will be solved by then, so I'll just keep put on the island."
"Skye needs me at the inn, so I'll pop back to the Blue Bell and give her a day or two away. Poor lass," Donald said, shaking his head with solemnity, "requires a partner more capable than I, in me dotage."
The innkeeper glanced from Duncan to his plate and back again during this speech, then left the table.
I hope Donald's not ill. He keeps moaning about how he's not up to running the inn.
"All right then, let's hit it," Harold said, loping away from the kitchen towards the room where the lost labyrinth lay partially uncovered.
They had the misfortune of running into Dottie Peckham in the corridor outside the dig. She looked the brothers up and down with a stony glare before squeezing past them without a word and disappearing into the darkness beyond.
"What kind of apparition was that?" his brother whispered.
"That was Mrs. Peckham, Anna's helper," he replied.
-11-
Pamments, Pavers, & A Near Disaster
"Finish hauling the rest out," Julien said, pointing at the remaining rubbish piled against the walls. "Then I'll show you how to work at unearthing the mosaic."
Duncan raised his eyebrows at Harold. He hadn't anticipated so many words from that quarter. Julien's sudden verbosity was almost shocking. Perhaps a full belly put him in a better mood.
It took another two hours of shoveling, heaving, and carting to empty the room of the debris. A new storm blew across the island, and a drizzle accompanied the brothers as they worked. Duncan noticed the unusual cadence of his brother's walk. Harold moved as if he had music from a discothèque playing in his head. He guessed his brother burned extra energy with his up and down stride that included a twitch of hip action. Harold ate like a horse yet remained rail thin.
Their last load moved, the brothers returned to the labyrinth and waited for Julien's instructions. After a few awkward minutes of silence, the handyman addressed them.
"Before you s
tart digging, examine the layers I've found," he said, gesturing for the Scotsmen to come closer. "See here where the mosaic is covered by a deposit of soil? That's the first level the monks put down to conceal and protect their labyrinth. I remove this tier with my trowel and a brush."
Julien reached in his back pocket and produced what looked like a pastry brush with a wooden handle. Then he bent down and retrieved a trowel from the ledge surrounding the dig.
"You didn't pinch that from Anna did you?" The investigator asked, pointing towards the brush and laughing.
Julien was not amused.
"These are going to be your main tools on the job, except for when you haul dirt out," the handyman replied to his joke in a stern tone.
He continued, "The next stratum is a slate floor, put down on top of the dirt. This was no doubt used as the floor for centuries. I use my trowel to loosen the stones, then take care prying them out. You can stack them along the perimeter." Julien gestured to the sides of the room. "Above the slate are pamments which I believe workers installed in the 16th century. They look imported and I've found a pattern forming a border around the room."
He held up a square terracotta tile, about nine centimeters across.
"Why weren't any of those piled around the chapel?" Harold asked.
"Because they're valuable and I saw to their removal myself," Julien answered. "When you remove the pamments, place them along the north wall and I'll attend to them. See that you are gentle with them," he added. "The top layer consists of more slate tile, added in the early 1800s. It's what I grew up seeing in here. These stones must be chiseled out with care, so the layers beneath remain intact."
Julien demonstrated how he attacked a meter by meter area of the floor every day. He explained how Reginald insisted they keep a topographical plan of the excavation area when finished each night. They must also draw a cross section of the spot to scale. These were kept as records in case the government became involved in their find at a later date. He mentioned that the process moved quicker now that he didn't sift all the soil through a screen, as he had at first. Since they'd found no artifacts in the dirt, they gave up on that step. Otherwise, they followed typical archaeological dig protocol. He handed each Dewar a chisel, trowel, and brush, then assigned each their own area to cover.
Mystery: The Laird's Labyrinth: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder & Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 4) Page 9
