I nodded. Sir Percy was a widower with four grown sons, all of whom held key positions in the flourishing Pelham business empire.
“How long has Dundrillin been in the family?” I asked.
“Hmmm, let me see. . . . ” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully, as though casting his mind back over the centuries. “Dundrillin’s been in my family for at least . . . three years.” He laughed at my confusion. “Bought it when I got out of the oil business, dear girl. That’s where the name comes from, you see. Dundrillin Castle. Get it? Dundrillin? Done drilling?”
“I get it,” I said, with an obliging chuckle. “Why did you get out of oil?”
He shrugged. “It wasn’t fun anymore. “Too many cutthroats with too little finesse—just bully-boy tactics and greed. I’m as game as the next man, but I don’t relish gunplay during business hours. That’s how I met Hunter and Ross, in fact. Ah, speak of the devils. . . .”
Before I could sputter “Gunplay?” the oak doors swung inward and two men entered the room. The first was tall and beefy, with short red hair and a freckled face. His eyes were pale blue, and he was dressed casually, in khaki trousers, a striped rugby shirt, and track shoes. He looked as though he might be a few years younger than me, in his late twenties or early thirties.
The second man was more interesting to me, in part because of his bearing, but mostly because of the jagged scar that ran along his left temple and back into his hairline. He was older than the red-haired man—in his mid-forties, at a guess—not quite as tall, and trim rather than beefy, but he radiated an air of command.
He was dressed in dark blue blazer, brown twill trousers, polished brown leather shoes, and a light blue button-down shirt that fit his tapering torso like a glove. His dark hair was clipped short and flecked with gray, and his face was as lean and weathered as a mountaineer’s. He had a straight nose, a strong jaw, and a pair of piercing blue-gray eyes that shone almost silver in the sunlight. He seemed to have no trouble making the transition from darkness to light. His intense gaze moved from one end of the parlor to the other before coming to rest on me.
“Ms. Shepherd?” he said. He had a lovely, deep voice, and his accent was that of an educated, middle-class Englishman. “I’m Damian Hunter, and this is my colleague, Andrew Ross.”
“Hullo, Ms. Shepherd,” said the red-haired young man. He spoke with an unmistakable Scottish lilt. “I’ll be looking after your sons during your stay on Erinskil.”
The twins swiveled around on the window ledge to peer at Andrew Ross. He smiled and gave them a friendly wave, but they didn’t return it.They stared at him appraisingly, as though they were reserving judgment until further evidence of his good intentions surfaced.
“Hullo, lads,” Andrew said. “You look just like your snaps.”
“Who showed you our snaps?” Rob demanded.
“Sir Percy,” Andrew replied. “He’s keen on photographs.”
“We’re keen on drawing,” Will informed him loftily.
“So I’ve heard,” said Andrew. “Sir Percy’s stocked the nursery with paints and colored pencils and stacks of paper. I could take you up there now, if you like.”
Will pointed at Andrew. “Is he going to be our nanny, Mummy?”
“Is he a man-nanny?” Rob added doubtfully.
“My name’s Andrew,” Andrew growled, glowering, “and that’s what you’re to call me. If either of you mentions the horrible word ‘man-nanny’ again, I’ll dangle you by your heels from the castle walls!”
Andrew Ross couldn’t have thought of a better way to win the twins over. Nothing tickled them more than outrageous threats. They stared at him wide-eyed until he grinned again, then chortled with glee, scrambled down from the window seat, and ran to him, giggling wickedly. I think they were half hoping he’d follow through on his threat.
When Andrew went on to inform the boys that Sir Percy had packed the nursery with surprises, they couldn’t wait to leave. I, on the other hand, wasn’t about to entrust my babies to anyone without asking a few questions first.
“Have you worked with children before?” I inquired.
“I’ve had a fair amount of practical experience with the male sort,” Andrew replied cheerfully. “I’m the oldest of nine boys.”
“Good heavens,” I said faintly.
Sir Percy stepped forward. “Andrew’s also had specialized training that fits him for the job. Damian and I will tell you all about it after Rob and Will leave.”
“Okay,” I said, getting the message. I gave the boys a hug and a kiss apiece, reminded them to be on their best behavior, and promised to inspect their rooms as soon as I’d finished speaking with Sir Percy.
They each took hold of one of Andrew’s large, freckled hands and marched off with him into the dark corridor, bombarding him with questions about the surprises that lay in store for them in the nursery.
When they’d gone, Sir Percy led Damian Hunter and me to the nearest cluster of armchairs. Sir Percy and I sank comfortably into ours, but Damian sat rigidly on the edge of his. He was also careful, I noticed, to select the chair that gave him the broadest view of the room.
“Right,” said Sir Percy, after we’d taken our seats. “Time to get down to brass tacks. I’ve hired Hunter and Ross to act as your bodyguards while you’re at Dundrillin, Lori. Andrew has been assigned to guard the twins, and Damian will keep an eye on you.”
“Bodyguards?” I said doubtfully. “Percy, we’re in a castle on an island forty miles from the Scottish mainland. Why do we need bodyguards?”
“You may not need them,” Sir Percy said, “but as a wise man once said, it’s better to have and not need than to need and not have.”
“Seems like overkill to me,” I muttered.
“Ms. Shepherd,” Damian said quietly, “has your life ever been threatened before?”
“No,” I said, “but—”
“Have you ever come face-to-face with a madman intent on murdering you?” he broke in.
I eyed him uncertainly. “Well . . . no, but—”
“I have,” he said simply.
My eyes flickered to the scar on his temple, but I was nettled by his interruptions and retorted irritably, “Be that as it may, I still think it’s a bit much. I mean, how’s our madman going to find us? My husband isn’t going to tell him, and I doubt that Percy advertised our flight plan.”
“You must not underestimate your adversary.” Damian’s blue-gray eyes never wavered from my face as he continued. “You’ve seen only one of the e-mail messages sent to your husband. I’ve seen them all, and I’ve seen how well Abaddon covers his tracks. Abaddon may be insane, but he’s intelligent and he’s in no hurry. He’ll bide his time, make his plans. If he gets the chance, he’ll come at you when you least expect it—in the night, perhaps, or while you’re strolling on the beach. He may torture you first, or he may simply cut your throat. It’s impossible to predict, because I suspect he’s obeying voices no one else can hear. If I’m frightening you, I’m glad. I want you to be frightened enough to realize that you need my protection.You must be willing to do exactly as I say, when I say it, without hesitation. I can do my job only if I have your full cooperation. Do I have it?”
For a moment I could do nothing but stare at the man in stunned silence. He’d spoken calmly, without raising his voice, but his words conjured nightmarish images that paralyzed me. The hairs on the back of my neck rose, and I had to search to find my voice.
“I . . . I won’t let you scare my sons,” I stammered. “If Andrew’s up there telling them horror stories—”
“He’s not,” said Damian. “We do know what we’re doing, Ms. Shepherd. Andrew’s job is to bind Will and Rob to him with affection rather than fear. He’s doing his utmost at the moment to become their favorite uncle.” He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. “What about you? Will you let me do my job?”
“Yes.” I took a shaky breath. “Yes, of course I will. I’m sorry if I sounded skeptical. It’s just
. . .” I fumbled for the right words and finished lamely, “It’s all new to me.”
“That’s all right.” His mouth turned up briefly in a humorless smile. “It’s old to me.”
“A few ground rules, I think,” Sir Percy suggested, crossing his legs.
Damian sat back in his chair. “Andrew and I will accompany you and the twins at all times. I’ll explain the sleeping arrangements when we get to your suite. You may go where you wish on the island, as long as I’m with you.You are, of course, to send no mail, and you are to make no outgoing calls. I assume you’ve brought a mobile telephone with you.”
I nodded.
“Turn it off. Put it away. If you think you might be tempted to use it, give it to me. Satellite signals can be traced. When necessary, your husband will ring you on my mobile. I’ve already contacted him, by the way, to let him know of your safe arrival.”
“Thanks,” I said, but I didn’t mean it. I’d wanted to speak to Bill myself.
“Any questions?” Damian asked.
“Are you . . . armed?” I sat up as an even more alarming thought presented itself to me. “Is Andrew?”
“No,” said Damian.
“It’s the twins,” I said, with a weak smile. “They get into everything. If the cannons worked, I’d advise the village to build bomb shelters. While we’re on the subject,” I added, turning to Sir Percy, “I’d appreciate it if you’d lock up your electric car. If the twins get behind the wheel—”
“They’ll have a jolly good time,” Sir Percy declared, thumping the arm of his chair.
“You needn’t worry about the car,” Damian said. “Andrew won’t allow the twins to drive it, Ms. Shepherd.”
“Lori,” I said automatically. “Call me Lori. Everyone does. Except Mrs. Gammidge.”
“Mrs. Gammidge is a stickler for formalities,” Sir Percy observed. “I believe she addressed her husband as Mr. Gammidge until the day he died. And they were married for thirty-four years!”
I chuckled raggedly.
“That’s more like it.” Sir Percy patted my knee. “Damian’s paid to be solemn, but I can’t have you looking like grim death the whole time you’re here, Lori. It’s a serious business, no doubt, but you’re in good hands. Hunter and Ross are the best in the business. I should know. They’ve saved my bacon more times than I care to recall.”
I twitched as a knock sounded on the parlor’s double doors, and two people came into the room, a bespectacled young man and a young blond woman. Both were dressed in business attire and carrying PDAs.
“Sorry to disturb you, Sir Percy,” said the woman, “but the call’s come in from Beijing, and we’ve had another offer on the Sydney property.”
“And Stockholm’s waiting for a reply,” added the man.
“Lori,” said Sir Percy, bounding to his feet, “let me introduce you to my personal assistants: Kate Halston and Elliot Southmore. Flew in yesterday to set up my office. You won’t see much of them, I’m afraid.Their boss is a tyrant.” He clapped Damian on the shoulder. “Must dash, old bean. Profit waits for no man.”
“I’ll show Lori to her suite,” said Damian.
“Excellent,” said Sir Percy. “We’ll take the grand tour of Dundrillin after lunch. And now, if you’ll excuse me . . .” My host swept his young assistants through the double doors and out of sight.
I got to my feet, grabbed my carry-on bag, and followed Damian into the murky corridor. We walked in silence until we reached the curved wall at the end of the passage, where a battered wooden door concealed, of all things unexpected, a modern elevator. I laughed out loud when I saw it.
Damian looked at me inquiringly.
“Whoever heard of a castle with an elevator?” I said as we stepped aboard.
“Sir Percy altered the castle a great deal after he purchased it.” Damian pushed the third button in a row of five, and the elevator began its smooth ascent. “It’s difficult to find employees who are qualified to provide the kind of maid service his guests require. It’s impossible to find maids willing to climb hundreds of stairs several times a day.” The elevator stopped, and his tone became instructive. “There are five levels in the northwest tower. Your suite is on the third. It’s known as the Cornflower Suite. The nursery is one floor up, on the fourth level.”
The metal doors slid apart to reveal a white-painted foyer with a terra-cotta-tiled floor and a frosted light fixture in the ceiling. The foyer had no windows, but it did have some unusual furnishings.
A pole lamp and a leather armchair sat to the right of the elevator, and a folding cot had been erected against the wall on my left, beside a small table equipped with a reading lamp and a battery-powered alarm clock. The cot was furnished with blankets and a pillow, and a well-worn canvas duffel bag had been stowed beneath it.
I turned to Damian. “Your bedroom?”
He nodded. “When you’re in your suite, I’ll be here.”
I formulated my next question carefully before asking, “What about . . . um, bathroom facilities?”
“A powder room is connected to the foyer,” he replied, gesturing to a door in the right-hand wall.
I eyed the door doubtfully. “Does it have a shower or a bath?”
“It’s sufficient for my needs,” Damian said shortly. “Shall we move on?”
He opened a door opposite the elevator and ushered me into one of the most extraordinary rooms I’d ever seen.
The Cornflower Suite was, essentially, one large round chamber. A massive fireplace built of smooth river stones stood in the center of the room, rising from the floor to the plastered ceiling. The ceiling’s exposed beams radiated from the chimney to the tower’s exterior walls like spokes in a wheel.
The huge fireplace divided the room into two distinct spaces: a sitting room and a bedroom. We’d entered the sitting room, which was as light and airy as the entrance hall had been oppressive. The floor was covered with a thick, cornflower-blue carpet, the walls were papered with a pretty blue-on-white floral print, and the furniture was white French Provincial. A writing table sat beneath a pair of narrow windows set deep in the tower’s external wall, and a heavy-duty glass door opened onto a half-moon balcony. The glass door and the decor’s pale shades gave brightness to a room that would otherwise have been as dark as a dungeon.
The blue carpet and flowery wallpaper continued in the bedroom, which was furnished in the same style as the sitting room. A drift of muslin hung in a half canopy over a king-size bed dressed with blue-and-white sprigged bedclothes and banked with lacy pillows, and a comfy armchair with a cushioned hassock sat before the fire. A full-length, gilt-framed mirror hung on the wall near the entrance to the bathroom, reflecting the light from windows that overlooked the sea.
My clothes had been put away in the bedroom’s wardrobe and chests of drawers, and my suitcases had been stashed on top of the wardrobe, presumably by Mrs. Gammidge’s minions. I hung my jacket in the wardrobe and placed my carry-on bag on the bed before I continued exploring.
The curved wall that would have stood at the bed’s head had been squared off to form a compact but well-equipped modern bathroom with a deep tub and a separate, glass-walled shower stall. A small mahogany bureau had been retrofitted with a basin and taps to serve as the sink, and the toilet was in its own half-walled space beside it. My toiletries had been stowed in the bureau.
I emerged from the bathroom to find my bodyguard waiting for me in the bedroom.
“It’s lovely . . .” I began, but my maternal autopilot had clicked into gear. “But what if there’s a fire? We won’t be able to use the elevator, will we?”
“Sir Percy left the tower’s original staircase in place.” Damian laid his hand on the ornate gold frame of the full-length mirror. “The mirror’s hinged, like a door. Pull it away from the wall and you’ll see the staircase.You’ll find the same arrangement in the nursery.The staircase leads to a ground-floor exit. If you open the door, you’ll set off alarms throughout the castle, so ple
ase use it only when necessary.”
I ran a hand along the mirror’s frame. “Does the alarm go off if someone tries to open the door from the staircase?”
“Of course,” said Damian. “The entire castle’s wired.”
“Why?” I said, taken aback. “Doesn’t Percy trust the islanders?”
“He trusts them as much as he trusts anyone,” said Damian. “Sir Percy believes, as I do, that human nature is frail and that it’s far easier to prevent a crime than to solve one.”
I surveyed the bedroom, then looked back at Damian, smiling sheepishly. “I feel kind of guilty, enjoying so much comfort while you’re camped out on a cot.”
“You needn’t,” he said. “I’ve had to make do with far less. I’ll leave you to freshen up, shall I?” He nodded briefly and retreated to the sitting room.
When he was out of sight, I took Aunt Dimity’s journal from my carry-on bag, went into the bathroom, and closed the door.
“Dimity?” I said in an undertone. “You’re not going to believe where we are.”
The Tower of London? The fine, old-fashioned copperplate looped and curled sedately across the journal’s blank page. I’ve heard that it has a fairly competent security system.
“Close but no cigar,” I said. “Sir Percy Pelham’s flown us to a castle on an island forty miles off the west coast of Scotland. Pretty cool, huh?”
Bone-chilling, when the north wind blows. Still, Sir Percy has outdone himself. It’s helpful to have friends with handy hideaways. Are you whispering because there’s a chance you might be overheard?
“My bodyguard’s in the next room,” I whispered.
Bodyguard? Another of Sir Percy’s clever ideas, I presume. He really is a most useful man.
“Security is our watchword,” I said, echoing Mrs. Gammidge. “I can’t talk now, because I have to see the nursery, go down to lunch, and tour the castle, but I’ll bring you up to date this evening.”
A castle tour? What fun! I look forward to hearing every detail.
I closed the journal and, after some deliberation, deposited it in the drawer in my bedside table. Then I pulled Reginald from the carry-on bag, smoothed his somewhat rumpled pink flannel ears, and placed him atop the lacy pillows.
Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea Page 5
