The auburn haired beauty, clad in a simple trench coat and wellies, stood beside her vehicle, touched by the macabre seen. The group before her looked otherworldly, pale and lifeless. She hoped she wouldn't raise false hopes, but anything was worth a try at this point.
Sky opened the passenger door and stepped aside, allowing Mr. Lincoln to spring from the back of the car. She grabbed his lead line before he got away, and he strained towards the small crowd in front of the house. Sky tugged on his leash and moved to the back of the Range Rover, released the hatch, and retrieved what appeared to be a large dark rag.
"This may be straining the odds, but this jacket belongs to Duncan. Mr. Lincoln here pinched it when he visited Taye right before coming to the island. I put it in the back of the Rover and forgot about it. Luckily for us, the hatch window leaks now and then, and I'm afraid the damp coat smells rather revolting, which is what drew my attention last night. The thing is, it's still got Duncan's scent on it and Mr. Lincoln is wild about him. We might be able to use it to get the dog to find him."
Skye held her breath, awaiting a response. No one said a thing. Everyone stared at her as she held the jacket aloft and the dog leapt in an attempt to steal it again. Embarrassed, she cast her large brown eyes downward and remained silent.
"Quite right! It's worth a try, isn't it?" Reggie said, glancing around at the Dewars and Donald.
The innkeeper advanced towards Skye and stood beside her. He placed his hands on his hips and looked over the wretched group. They'd all succumbed to depression and exhaustion, and for good reason.
"Which one of ye feels up to trundling over the island with Skye and the mutt?" He turned to his daughter and added, "First the island, then the mainland beaches and coastline."
"I do!" Harold said, popping his hand in the air. "I know the island as well as anyone here with the exception of Reginald and your father. Let's get started," he said with enthusiasm.
After a whispered consultation with Angus, Harold joined Skye and Mr. Lincoln next to the Range Rover. He took Duncan's jacket from her hand with a smile and thrashed it in front of the now hyperactive excited dog while everyone else looked on, a bit shocked. When the animal yelped and barked, a seed of hope grew in their party and they waited to see the three off, not daring to expect a good outcome.
"Go get him, Boy! Go find Duncan!" Skye said to the dog.
At his would-be master's name the canine cocked his head, barked and began pulling like a sled dog towards the house. Skye shook her head and gave Harold a pleading look.
"No, not there. We need to find where he went," Harold said to the animal as if he were speaking to a human. "Follow me," he commanded, heading up the lane away from the house, waving Duncan's jacket as he went.
Mr. Lincoln lunged after Harold, jerking Skye forward and almost tearing her arm from its socket. The procession continued that way, Harold jogging ahead waving the coat like a flag, the dog pouncing forward, pulling Skye along. Once outside the estate, Harold paused every so often, wriggling the jacket in front of Mr. Lincoln's nose, always careful not to let the dog latch on to their only hope of locating Duncan.
Harold thought they should start with the perimeter of the island, so they headed down Crooked Loaning in the direction of the ocean.
"We're going to start at a small bay where I spent some time the other week," he explained, continuing "as far as I know, Duncan never ventured out there, so if the dog gives us a response, we'll be on to something."
"That sounds like a good plan, Harold."
They marched on, the paved lane giving way to dirt, then grass. As they neared the ocean, they negotiated their way through brambles and other tough undergrowth, Mr. Lincoln jumping over whatever got in his way. A rocky outcrop rising from the otherwise flat terrain marked the incline above the bay. The dog dashed for the sands below, pulling Skye with him in an uncontrolled descent onto the beach. Harold followed, inching his way down a rugged path onto the sands where he and Penny had shared a picnic and a bottle of mead with a kind stranger in happier times.
He shook the jacket in front of the dog again and Skye allowed some slack in the animal's lead line. Mr. Lincoln put his nose to the sand and sniffed his way around the bay, crisscrossing his own path as he went. Once, he chased after a bird and Harold had to thrash the coat over his nose to gain his attention. The canine made his way over the entire beach, and his companions were about to despair when the mutt set to barking near a collection of rocks. The stones protruded from the cliff, and upon closer inspection Harold determined that the recent storm had left large ruts in the sand, exposing whole new layers of boulders.
He took Duncan's jacket and flailed it back and forth near Mr. Lincoln's nose, then reached down and released the leash from his collar. The dog dashed for a fissure in between two large stones, continuing his barking. The couple watched as Mr. Lincoln put his nose between the rocks, wagging his tail with a vigor not witnessed before, and snapping continuous barks They approached the animal, who took no notice of them.
Skye glanced at Harold, then said, "Go get Duncan, Mr. Lincoln. Go get Duncan!"
The dog again placed his nose in the crag and wriggled his head, forcing his cranium between the boulders. Once, he tried to pull out, but the space wouldn't allow it. Skye flashed Harold and alarmed glance, but he held his hand up as if to tell her not to worry. The animal continued squirming until his shoulders disappeared and then in one swift movement, so did the rest of Mr. Lincoln.
They ran towards the fissure, amazed that the dog could fit in such a small space. The crag couldn't have been 20 centimeters wide at its broadest point. They stared at each other as Mr. Lincoln's barks became faint until they couldn’t hear the animal anymore. They stood, glued to the spot several minutes more in case the canine returned, but there was no sign of the black mutt with the spotted tongue.
"What do we do now?" she asked.
The weight of their situation hit her at once, and Skye felt like crying.
"What if this is all a fool's errand and Mr. Lincoln ends up trapped and drowns when the tide comes in?" she wailed.
The lass started to tremble. Harold, unaccustomed to damsels in distress, checked his watch.
"We've got six."
"What?" Skye asked between sobs.
"We've got six hours until the tide comes in."
Harold pulled his mobile phone from his pocket and tried to call Angus.
"Ach! The battery's dead. Do you have your phone, Skye?"
She shoved her hands in the pockets of her trench coat, but came up empty-handed.
"I must have left it in the car," she said, dejected.
"We better hoof it back to the house and let everyone know what happened. We've got to get in this tunnel and see where Mr. Lincoln went."
Harold helped Skye up the incline away from the tiny bay. He looked back to the south where the North Sea now glistened, reflecting the overhead sun. The fog had cleared in that direction, but still hovered over the rest of the island. The couple raced for the house, as many thoughts pouring through their minds as the steps they traveled. When they entered the estate's lane, the heavy marine layer kept them from spotting the strange cars lining the drive. The couple burst through the front door and almost collapsed in the grand hall, surrounded by strangers.
-22-
Sheol
Sulfur filled his nostrils as he regained consciousness. Something tore a pinch of flesh from his hand while the now familiar scurrying of quadrupeds traversed his chest, neck and face. He no longer felt anything but searing pain in his legs, and he wondered if his lower extremities had already slid into a lake of fire. As he fought off sleep, or maybe it was death, he tried to swat the vermin from his body. A sharp stab in his side stopped him. He'd forgotten that any movement brought with it the torture of a knife penetrating his body from his rib cage to his navel. He became aware of the infernal chanting that accompanied his every waking moment, throbbing in time with the pounding agony at t
he back of his head. Something pricked at his neck as Duncan ceased struggling to stay awake, to figure out this place, and drifted out of consciousness, just as the rats abandoned him.
Duncan gazed up at his mum. He felt guilty for getting so dirty and knew she wouldn't be happy with him. They were due at a family party and now they'd be late. Margaret washed his face with a bright, clean cloth. He must have been quite dirty, because she never stopped swiping the wet rag all over his head and neck.
* * * * * *
Several young men came to Skye's aid as she tumbled into the hall. Harold, bent with hands on knees, tried to catch his breath as Reggie attempted introductions. They'd interrupted a meeting between the homeowner and the newly arrived scholars from Newcastle University.
"These are the young people I mentioned who were out on the hunt for our missing friend. Harold, Skye, what's happened?" Reggie asked, looking from one to the other.
Harold straightened and said, between gasps for air, in a just audible voice, "I think we may have found something."
He paused to suck more oxygen into his lungs.
By now, the group of professors, graduate assistants, and archaeologists had formed a semi-circle around Harold. Margaret, James, Sophie, Donald, Angus and Anna, hearing a commotion, rushed in from the kitchen where they'd been sharing tea. Everyone waited with baited breath for his next words.
"The dog found a crack in some rocks, freshly revealed by the receding storm waters. When Skye told him to find Duncan, he worked his way into what must have been a tunnel. I think it's part of a sea cave you can look into from a crag in the rocks, but inaccessible. We listened until we could no longer hear his barks. Something in that underground space attracted him," Harold said, between inhaling gulps of air.
"Which direction did the animal travel?" James Dewar asked.
Skye and Harold hadn't thought of this. They glanced at each other, trying to recall where the animal's yaps seemed to lead.
"Definitely inland away from the sea," Harold answered, after some thought.
The group watched as Skye turned in a circle, attempting to orientate her body in the direction she stood when at the small bay. She paused, then shifted another quarter rotation, and lifted her arm straight out. Skye pointed northwest with her extended forefinger.
"I think he headed this way," the lass surmised.
"We need to get a crew down there to chip away at the rocks, widen the gap, so we can get in there," Harold said.
"Quite right. I'll call the constable straight away," Reggie responded, hurrying from the hall towards the kitchen.
The entire party followed their host, cramming into the kitchen, where Reginald dialed the number from Constable Fenwick's business card. While they waited in silence, the wind set up a howl unlike any they'd heard before. The professors gave worried glances to their assistants while Reggie lifted his eyebrows at the archaeologists, receiver in hand. It would be bad luck if another storm blew in, hampering their efforts, just as they'd had a bit of encouragement.
"Yes, Constable Fenwick, this is Reginald Norcroft. We think we've had a break in the case. We need some heavy equipment to move boulders at Hidden Bay. Yes, a friend of the family brought a hunting dog to the island with bits of Duncan's clothing."
Reginald paused and winked at the group.
He continued, "The animal tracked his scent to a hole between some rocks there and disappeared behind them, under the ground. Yes, yes, it seems so. Thank you very much, Constable."
Reggie hung up the phone, a look of triumph on his face.
"I dinnae know ye as one to stretch the truth, Laird, but I'm glad ye did fir once," Donald said, moving to his friend and giving him a hearty pat on the back. "Good fir ye."
"The constable is on his way here and… " Reggie paused, interrupted by the yowling wind. "That's odd," he added.
"What's odd?" Angus asked.
Reggie rubbed his chin and glanced at Anna. The housekeeper tilted her head, listening to the gale.
"Have you ever heard the wind sound like that on this island, Anna?" Reggie asked.
"No," Anna replied, her face twisting into an expression of fear. "I don't think it is the wind, Sir," she added, making the sign of the cross before placing her hand over her heart.
They all strained to hear the prolonged howls which seemed to emanate from the underworld and echo through the manor's very foundations. Minutes passed as the ghostly voice continued its screams. Harold made his way to the window, expecting to see leaves and other debris twirling through the air outside. Instead, all appeared calm. He turned and shook his head at the others.
"It's the beast!" Donald yelled.
"That's right. He's part wolf. It sounds like a wolf howling," Skye exclaimed with excitement. "Mr. Lincoln is under us right now!"
"Reginald, are you aware of any tunnels running under the manor? Any trap doors leading to forgotten cellars or dungeons?" James Dewar asked.
"No, none," Reggie replied, in shock at the recent events.
Everyone in the kitchen began to move off in different directions, trying to pinpoint the location of the wails. They progressed, almost on tiptoes, attempting to move without making a sound. Concentrating on the eerie yowls, they radiated out from the kitchen, each person thinking the sounds came from a different direction.
"Wait!" Reggie shrieked, startling the party.
Sophie screamed. Margaret jumped. All came running back to the kitchen. Intense eyes bored holes in their host, the Dewars most of all, now filled with a renewed hope that Duncan still might be found.
"There's the well," Reginald said in a low tone, gazing at James Dewar. He added, "Follow me."
The troop followed after their host single file in order to fit through the narrow passages Reggie referred to as the rabbit's warren. They filtered into the well room, one by one, filing around the capped column in the middle, producing a claustrophobic atmosphere akin to an overcrowded elevator. Reginald squeezed between the group and the wellhead, circling the capstone and examining it with his eyes and fingers.
"We'll need something to pry this off," the ornithologist stated.
Harold, who was nearest the door, darted from the room and returned in a moment with the pickax from the old chapel. Angus took the tool from his brother and proceeded to pry the marble from its base, creating open space to the shaft below. Mr. Lincoln's howls filled the tiny room, bouncing off the walls. Angus shoved the stone near two graduate assistants who eased the heavy item to the ground, and leaned into the well, shouting his brother's name.
The dog ceased his calls. A foul odor rose from the opening and filled the area, as Mr. Lincoln began to whine.
"Someone get some ropes and a lantern," Angus commanded.
Reginald and Donald negotiated their way through the assembly and disappeared. An archaeologist claimed he should be the one lowered into the hole. Angus drew himself to his full height and stared at the man, his brow furrowed. Harold worked his way over to his brother and gave his shoulder a squeeze.
"Easy there," he whispered.
A ruckus in the corridor drew the crowd's interest. Donald, Reggie, Constable Fenwick and the well-built sergeant popped into the room, one at a time. The older men carried a wide flat line over their shoulders that resembled a fire hose more than a rope. Reginald spoke fast, trying to explain the situation to the policemen. With the addition of two more people, it became difficult to breathe as fresh air was in short supply in the confined area and people were now jammed up against each other. Above the jostling, everyone heard the dog's whimpers.
"Tie some knots in that rope," the archaeologist commanded. He turned to Angus and explained, "I've done this before, in South America. Don't worry, I know what I'm doing." Then to Reginald, he said, "I need to know its depth."
Two of the university men raised their hands and nodded at Reggie, who passed what turned out to be an old parachute strap to them. The graduate assistants busied themselves tying large knots ab
out a meter apart along the length of the flat, army-green nylon strap. Reginald consulted with the archaeologist regarding his estimate of the well's depth.
"Throw it in. You, Big Boy, grab the end along with the large one and don't let go!" the archaeologist directed his comments at the sergeant and Angus while he ran his belt through the lantern's handle, pointing its beam of light downward. Then, he descended out of sight down the black shaft.
Everyone held their breath.
After a moment, he called up, "The dog doesn't bite, does he?"
The group stifled nervous giggles, deeming laughter inappropriate at a time like this.
"It's too late to worry about that now," Donald shouted down the well.
James managed to put his arm around Margaret while Anna held Reginald's hand, tears of hope forming in the old woman's eyes.
"I see the dog," the man shouted.
The crowd drew in a collective breath, creating a gasp which echoed from one wall to the next in the octagonal chamber. Angus noted that the rope now had slack. Minutes went by with no word from below. The sergeant shook his head, imperceptible to all but Angus, who stood close by the policeman. Duncan's brother's heart sank as more agonizing minutes elapsed. Angus couldn't bear to look at his parents, Sophie, or Harold.
"He's alive."
The archaeologist's words sounded flat, warning all that the situation was dire.
"Tell the constable we're going to need a medical evacuation at the ready and a contraption to lift him out of here," he called from below.
* * * * * *
The thump-thump-thump of helicopter blades piercing through the heavy fog told him all he needed to know. All those cars at the manor and now the arrival of Rescue Services signaled bad news. He had to get off the island and disappear before that interfere babbled to the police. Yet, he couldn't risk being seen on Chare Ends or the causeway. Islanders always had their eyes and ears open and someone might report him to law enforcement. He was still free of suspicion, and he must keep it that way until he put distance between himself and Holy Island. He chose the pilgrim's walk as his escape route. In this fog, no one would attempt a crossing, and he'd remain undetected.
Mystery: The Laird's Labyrinth: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder & Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 4) Page 18
