Mystery: The Laird's Labyrinth: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder & Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 4)

by Victoria Benchley

  The most difficult part proved to be chiseling out the newest floor. The slate had been laid in tight with grout. When the day's light waned, neither Duncan nor Harold had reached the mosaics. Julien brushed off the tiny shimmering tiles of his square with a pastry brush. Of course, he'd had a full day to work on his area. He told the brothers to clean up and left at six sharp.

  As soon as Julien cleared out, Duncan said, "Well, should we carry the rubble out now or in the morning?"

  "Let's wait. My arms are sore and I'm hungry. We didn’t take tea today."

  "I never thought of it. We should have paused when we finished unloading everything outside. Come on. Let's clean up and get out of here."

  "Quite right!" Harold said.

  He was starting to sound like Reggie. Duncan took his brother's tools with his own, climbed from the meter-deep pit and propped them against the south wall. Following Harold to the kitchen sink, he happened to glance out the window and saw Julien loading a box into the boot of a car. He paused to observe what was happening. Julien slammed the boot shut, trotted around to the driver's side of the auto and spoke to someone. Then he backed away from the vehicle as it pulled forward and turned to leave the car park. The investigator caught a quick glimpse of gray hair from within the car. He wasn't sure, but he believed Mrs. Peckham was behind the wheel.

  I wonder what those two are up to?

  * * * * * *

  "How about we stop for a pint at the Sailor, Harold? I need to unwind before we eat."

  The Sailor, one of the few pubs on Lindisfarne to stay open year-round, remained a favorite of the locals. For years, a prosperous fishing industry funneled customers to the inn, but now the place survived on a much more limited clientele. In fact, many of the village pubs had been converted for other purposes since the decline in the trawler's trade.

  "One quick pint and then the chippie," his brother bargained.

  Upon entering the Sailor, the brothers first noticed a collection of dozens of whiskey bottles, arranged in a pyramid on a shelf behind the bar. Harold began counting, interrupted by his brother when he reached 84.

  "Two pints, please," Duncan requested from the barkeep.

  They took their glasses to a table along the edge of the cozy but modest room. There were no frills here to appeal to tourists. Harold examined old lobster cages, nailed to a nearby upright, not unlike those Duncan observed by the bay his first morning on the island.

  Duncan sipped his ale, staring at the old photos lining the walls of the establishment. A new patron entered and he saw what could pass as the twin brother of Dottie Peckham. The tall, emaciated man glanced around the room before ordering a whiskey. Drink in hand, he joined a table of men in the middle of the pub. He stood out among his dark, muscular friends with his cream of mushroom soup pallor.

  "I'm going to use the loo," Harold proclaimed, stifling a belch and rising from the table.

  The Scotsman watched the locals stare menacingly at Harold as he loped across the room, oblivious to all around him. This was a side of the island Duncan hadn't seen before. He glanced at his brother's empty glass and gulped the rest of his own drink down, uncomfortable.

  He strained to overhear the conversation of the islanders. They spoke in low tones and he didn't pick up much. They mentioned the Interfere several times before Dottie's twin stood to leave.

  "Only one dram tonight, Davey?" his mate said with disgust.

  "Yes, the missus wants me home early and I'm not about to disappoint her," Davey Peckham said over his shoulder as he made his way out of the Sailor.

  Duncan had heard of couples growing to resemble each other after decades of marriage, but this was one for the record books. Then an awful thought occurred to him, Maybe they're cousins. After all, the island population was limited.

  "Let's go," Duncan said, rising to meet his brother upon his return from the loo.

  Bating the heavy shower, the brothers enjoyed the rest of the evening in town. They strolled up and down the high street, looked in shop windows, and found their chippie on the corner of Lewin's Lane. This had to be the place Reginald described. The smell of frying fish filled Duncan's nostrils as they stepped inside a small, brightly lit café. The investigator could only describe the ambience as clinical. Tidy white walls met white floors which sported chrome and white plastic furniture. Once within the restaurant, Duncan dodged the thin pull chains which dangled from overhead fluorescent lights.

  "He wants the cod, Skippy, not hake!" a tall, corpulent woman with a platinum blonde 1950's hairdo shouted at the kitchen from behind the counter.

  Her roots gave away the secret that she was in reality a brunette.

  "Another mackerel, crisp, in double time! Customer doesn't want to be here all night," she shouted instructions with a vengeance, as sweat beads formed on her forehead and dripped down her temples, past her ears to her jowls.

  They waited in a short queue, as the tow-headed woman barked orders. Her loud, sharp tone was an anomaly on Holy Island. The other locals all had a soft accent with a slight lilt.

  Duncan made a quick inspection as they inched closer to the counter. The woman in charge wore a red plaid apron over a white shirt and skirt and name tag that said, Marilyn. The irony wasn't lost on him. Patrons stood to the side of the room awaiting their orders. Some took their dinners and left, he assumed to eat at home. Others sat around the tiny, out of date tables that crowded the floor, enjoying their meals.

  Harold tapped Duncan's shoulder and he turned to find they had reached the counter. Marilyn dropped her jaw to say something but stopped, clamping her lips together.

  A grin formed on her face and widened into a smile before she said, "I'll be right back."

  She dashed into the kitchen which Duncan could see through a large cutout in the wall behind the cash register. Marilyn waddled to a freezer in the back where a worker was bent, the upper half of her body invisible inside the chest. She yanked the unsuspecting girl from the deep freeze, grabbed her by the shoulders, spat orders in her face and spun her around towards the dining room. Although Duncan could not hear what scolding the worker received, he did see Marilyn's smug expression as the girl disappeared from view.

  "What would you gentlemen like this evening?"

  It was the redheaded lass from the freezer. She'd approached the counter from their right side as Duncan eyed Marilyn, still standing in the kitchen.

  "The salmon is especially good, as is the mackerel if you get it with gooseberry jelly," she added with a shy smile, casting her large blue eyes downward towards the counter.

  "Gooseberry jelly is extra!" Marilyn yelled from the back. "Tell 'em that before they order," she added, looking at the ceiling as if not interested in what happened at the counter, but the investigator caught her eyes shooting them sidelong glances from behind long, fake lashes.

  "The gooseberry jelly is extra," the lass repeated in a soft tone. "But worth it," she added.

  Duncan enjoyed the drama being played out in the chippie, but had no idea what fueled it. Meanwhile, his brother looked from the large menu board posted above the pass-through to the lass behind the counter.

  "What else do you have tonight?" Harold asked.

  "Haddock, cod, and hake, in addition to the salmon and mackerel," the lass said in almost a whisper, lifting her large eyes to meet Harold's.

  Duncan caught a side view of his brother and took a quick glance at the girl before looking at Marilyn in the kitchen. The lady boss had moved closer to the opening, crossed her fleshy arms over her ample chest and watched the interaction between his brother and her worker. Her plump face reflected satisfaction.

  "What would you recommend?" Harold asked.

  The girl stumbled over her words, finally suggesting the mackerel or the salmon. She obviously wasn't used to someone asking her opinion. She batted her eyelashes at Harold before looking back to the floor.

  "Then we'll take one of each," Harold said with cheer. "And the jelly for the mackerel," he a
dded.

  The lass smiled and took their money. She had a sweetness about her that impressed Duncan. Harold grabbed a nearby table, and before the next customer reached the counter, Marilyn reappeared, shuffled the young lass into the kitchen and resumed command.

  "She's a pretty lass, isn't she?" Duncan asked, at last understanding the kitchen drama.

  "Yes, a bit podgy for me, though," his brother answered.

  "Nae, Harold, not Marilyn!" Duncan whispered, shaking his head in exasperation. "The tiny lass who took our order. I thought you handled yourself well."

  "Really?" Harold said, craning his neck to see the counter.

  Marilyn noticed and gave him a smile and a wink, then yelled out an order number.

  "She might take a shine to you. Try and get her name and make some conversation with her before we leave," Duncan urged.

  "What kind of conversation?"

  "Say you noticed you were about the same age and what would she recommend for a young person to do on the island. Ask her what she enjoys and so forth." Honestly, Harold has a lot to learn.

  Duncan watched as Marilyn called out order numbers and customers picked up their meals. His brother fidgeted in his seat, getting more nervous by the minute.

  "Should I request her number?" he asked just as the lass appeared at his side.

  Startled, Harold leapt from his seat, knocking his chair over in the process. It appeared as though he was trying to flee from the waitress, an inauspicious beginning.

  "So sorry," Harold said, red-faced, reaching down to pick his paper serviette from the floor.

  "Careful!" Duncan said, too late to keep Harold's head from coming up fast, beneath a plate in the girl's hand.

  His brother bumped the dish hard with his skull, and chips, fish, and gooseberry jelly flew everywhere. But that was only the beginning. Food and platter midair, Harold's cat-like reflexes kicked in, and he tried to salvage the meal. In his haste to recover a chip, a fillet, or a shred of lettuce, he slipped, his legs shooting out from beneath his wiry frame like missiles from a nuclear submarine. Perhaps there was water on the floor, or maybe a customer had spilt a bit of condiment earlier in the evening, or Harold was just incredibly awkward and nervous. No matter, for a split second, he remained suspended, horizontal in the air, just like a levitating magician's assistant, before landing flat on his back, kicking the poor waitress in the process, who fell backwards, settling in an ungainly position. Duncan felt sure he had witnessed a similar maneuver in a cage fight on the telly at his local pub.

  Before Duncan finished flinching, Marilyn arrived, lifted him from his chair and deposited the Scotsman and his meal at a neighboring table. Clearly, Lady Boss had enough muscle to compete in the Highland Games. Somehow the young lass had kept his plate steady, above her head during the upheaval.

  The commander in chief wrapped an arm around the young waitress, who was about to burst into tears, and wiped the jelly from her nose with a floral hanky. Marilyn bid her take a seat opposite Harold, who had righted himself and his seat, but still on his knees clung to the back of a chair as if it were a lifeboat and he adrift in the North Atlantic on 15 April 1912. She introduced the couple and left Penny in the care of Duncan's younger brother, while calling for Skippy to mop the floor as their fellow patrons stared at the scene, too stunned to move or speak. The spectacle had sucked all the oxygen from the room.

  Taking a moment to catch his breath and assume an attitude of indifference, the investigator marveled that Marilyn had not called for the constable and insisted that Harold be placed in a pillory to experience the villagers' scorn and perhaps the stray cabbage as recompense for his sins.

  Without a dinner companion, Duncan focused on his meal and bit into the best chippie he'd ever had. It was his first time experiencing salmon prepared this way, and he savored every bite. He stole a quick glance at the young couple sitting at the next table. He was shocked to see that Harold had taken Penny's hand in his, in a valiant effort to calm her frazzled nerves. The lass responded well, smiling and fluttering her lashes at his brother. Marilyn returned with dinners for both of them and gave Duncan a nod towards the door that said, Clear out. Oh, she smiled after the gesture, just to let the investigator know there were no hard feelings, but that three was still a crowd.

  He guessed Harold could find the Puffin and take care of himself. Taking one last look at the couple and assuring himself of Penny's innocence, he left the chippie, his stomach full and his mind amazed at the evening's turn of events. That Marilyn certainly knows what she's about.

  -12-

  Progress

  Duncan woke as a beam of light flooded his room, illuminating every corner and nearly blinding him. He squinted and rolled away from the window, taking the duvet with him. Cocooned in the warm fluffy blanket, he was drifting back to sleep when he realized something was amiss... Harold. He pulled his arms from under the bed covers and patted the mattress to his left and right. Where is my brother?

  The investigator shot up, feeling the room's chilled air like a slap in the face. There was no sign of Harold, and he suspected he'd had the bed to himself all night. He felt rested and refreshed. Duncan checked his watch, surprised to see it was almost noon. He jumped from the bed, fumbled for his suitcase and retrieved a pair of pants and a shirt. He dressed, checked himself in the mirror, and ran a comb through his unruly locks.

  There was no sign of last night's storm. The sun ruled the cold but clear skies again. The investigator trotted to the Puffin's restaurant and inquired about his brother. Harold had eaten breakfast, three hours before, alone. Duncan ordered a cup of tea and bowl of oats, downed each in minutes and drove to Norcroft Manor, where once in the drive, he spotted his brother carting a load of stones to the garden.

  "Hallo, Harold! Missed you this morning."

  "I got an early start," Harold said, exhaling steam in the cold air. The temperature turned the young man's nose and ears a bright red, lending him an elfish appearance.

  "Did you ever come to bed?" Duncan asked.

  "Oh, yes. You were dead to the world, sprawled across the mattress, so I slept in the chair with a suitcase as a footstool."

  "Ach, that must have been miserable. How did you get any sleep?"

  Harold moved close to his brother and said, "Didn't really. Too much on my mind."

  Harold tapped his temple and smiled, then rolled his empty cart to the house.

  He added over his shoulder, "The walk here, fresh air and what not, cleared my thoughts. We're ready to start digging again. I've carried off the rubbish already."

  When Duncan entered the chapel, Julien was busy brushing dirt away from the mosaic while Harold grabbed a trowel and worked his area. As he reached for his own tools, Julien looked up.

  "Heard you were cavorting with Penny Bowes last evening," the handyman said, gazing at Harold.

  Oh, oh. Just what had his brother got up to the previous night? Duncan didn't want any trouble with the locals.

  Harold stopped his digging, set his trowel down and said, "Yes, and I'm about to cavort again with her in," he paused, checked his watch and continued, "oh, I'd say about thirty minutes. In fact, I think I'd better clean up now. Thank you for the reminder, Julien."

  Duncan watched as his brother rubbed the dirt from his hands onto his trousers, smiled at the dumbfounded handyman, and loped from the room, dropping his tools beyond the pit on his way out. He chuckled at his brother's response, shrugged at Julien and jogged after Harold.

  He found his brother in the kitchen, washing up at the sink. Anna sat at the table, peeling potatoes and allowing the skins to fall into a large metal tub at her feet. Duncan waited for Harold to finish his sponge bath.

  "Hallo, Anna. How are you today?"

  "I'm fine, Duncan. Are you enjoying our sunny weather?"

  "Yes. I'm hoping it lasts a day or two," he replied. Seeing his brother turn from the sink, he added, "Good to see you, Anna. I'm just going to walk Harold out."

  Dunc
an followed his brother out the main entrance and into the car park.

  "Harold, what is all this cavorting business?" he asked, reaching for his brother, who was a step ahead. "Did you actually sleep in the chair last night?"

  Harold faced his brother, eyebrows furrowed.

  "Now see here, Duncan. Penny and I closed the chippie down last night. We get on well. After I walked her home, I was in high spirits and felt charitable, so I didn't disturb you. I took your advice and asked her about the island. She suggested we have a picnic today and explore the place on foot. She's meeting me here in a few minutes, so make yourself scarce. I'm taking the rest of the day off. I did all the muscle work for you this morning, anyway. It is my holiday, after all."

  "Quite right!" Duncan said, beaming. "Enjoy yourselves!"

  The thought of sharing an afternoon cooped up alone with the taciturn Julien didn't appeal to him. And why did Harold direct him to get scarce? Was he afraid Duncan would embarrass him in front of Penny? That was a joke, considering the boy's circus performance last night in the chippie.

  He tracked Reginald down and explained that he needed to spend more time in the archives. Happy to oblige, his host escorted him to the small room and left him with instructions to ring the bell when he felt like taking tea.

  The Scotsman settled into the straight-backed wooden chair in front of the lone window. He rested his elbows on the small desk and drew in a deep breath, trying to relax his brain and his body. Duncan took a quick glance around. The room resembled a cubbyhole with all its ledgers and books jammed into shelves. He ran his fingers through his hair and thought about the prior evening.

  After returning from the chippie the night before, the investigator did a bit of research on the internet before the small black letters on the screen's background began to melt together and he succumbed to sleep. Cornelius Walford, the name David Norcroft had scribbled next to his last sketches, died in 1885. It was doubtful that Reggie's grandfather knew Mr. Walford. In an odd coincidence, Cornelius was an insurance man, just like Duncan. Since no record of his name existed in the family accounts, he had to dig deeper to find a connection with Norcroft Manor.