Damian sat beside me and suggested that I take hold of one of the nylon loops dangling from the boat’s sides. Mick started the outboard motor and backed away from the shore before turning the dinghy toward Cieran’s Chapel.
“Thanks for coming to get us, Mr. Ferguson!” I bellowed, half turning to face the pilot. I had to shout to be heard above the motor’s roar.
“We won’t be able to stay long!” Mick shouted back. “Weather’s moving in.”
I didn’t see a cloud in the sky, but I wasn’t about to question Mick’s expertise, and the information didn’t seem to bother Damian one bit.
“We won’t need much time,” he said complacently.
Once we left the shelter of the cove and entered open water, conversation became impossible. Mick seemed determined to get us out to the islet as fast as he could, so the boat leapt through the choppy water, hitting wave crests with bone-jarring smacks that sent streams of salt water splashing over us. It was like riding a bucking bronco through a car wash, and although a certain fun-loving portion of my brain was squealing “Whee!” the rest of it was entertaining profoundly covetous thoughts about Mick’s rain pants.
We slowed to a crawl as we approached the Chapel, and I wondered how on earth we would get ashore. The islet rose some forty feet straight up from the sea, a sheer-sided monolith festooned with bird droppings and slimy seaweed. But Mick was on home surf, and he knew his way around. He steered the boat to the islet’s north side, where a cleft in the rock held a series of broad shelves that stepped down to the water’s edge.
Mick guided the boat onto the lowest shelf and made a line fast to an iron ring that hung from a bolt driven into the solid rock. Damian paused to give the ring a tug before turning to supervise my death-defying hop from the boat onto the next shelf up. As I scrambled to the top of the cleft, using my hands and knees as well as my feet, I decided that if Abaddon had chosen Cieran’s Chapel as a camp-ground, he was an even bigger nutcase than I’d supposed.
When I emerged from the cleft onto more or less level ground, I saw that the Chapel was neither as exposed nor as barren as I’d expected it to be. The sheer stone walls formed a notched and irregular windbreak around the edge of the islet, and the uneven ground was covered with a tough, springy mat of low-growing plants that were spangled here and there with minute blossoms.
Mick waited in an elbow of rock, hunched against the freshening breeze, but Damian walked with me while I slowly crisscrossed the islet, scanning the ground for traces of a campsite. I saw none—no scorch marks, no ashes, no footprints, and no sign of crushed foliage where a tent might have been pitched. Damian squatted down now and then to study the local flora, but he didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to. I could hear him thinking, “I told you so.”
I finished my search at the edge of a bowl-shaped depression on the east side of the islet. There, at the bottom of the bowl, lay a stone slab the size of a large door. An inscription had been carved into the slab, in Celtic lettering:James Robert, tenth Earl of Strathcairn 1854-1937 The heart benevolent and kind The most resembles God
“It’s from Burns,” I said to Damian. “The quotation, I mean. It’s from a poem by Robert Burns.”
“It describes the old laird well,” Mick said, coming up behind me. “James Robert was a good man.”
I remembered why the tenth earl had asked to be buried on Cieran’s Chapel and smiled sadly. “I’m sure he was.”
“Is that why you came out here?” Mick asked, watching me carefully. “Did you want to pay your respects to the old laird?”
“Lori’s interested in folklore,” Damian answered smoothly. “After Sir Percy told her the legend of Brother Cieran, she couldn’t wait to visit the Chapel.”
“You should have known better,” Mick muttered.
“I beg your pardon?” I said.
“You’re a mother,” he said forcefully, and shot a reproachful glance at me from beneath his bushy brows. “You’re responsible for two young lives.You shouldn’t be taking such risks.”
I didn’t know what had angered the old man, but I tried to mollify him.
“Damian wouldn’t have called you if he didn’t think you could get us out here safely,” I said. “And I don’t mind getting wet.”
“I’m not talking about getting wet,” Mick growled. “Brother Cieran went mad, you know. He marooned himself and lost his mind. Did Sir Percy mention that?” He thrust a calloused finger toward the stone tablet. “It’s said he died right there, driven mad by grief and thirst and loneliness. That’s why the old laird chose the spot for his tomb.”
I looked down at the stony ground surrounding the old laird’s grave and felt pity well up in me. Of course Brother Cieran had gone mad, I thought. He’d glanced up from his prayers one sunny day to see black smoke billowing from the island. He must have known what it meant, yet he’d scrambled into his small boat, rowed hard to shore, and climbed the steep path to the monastery, where he’d found a smoldering ruin and, one by one, the bodies of his friends. How long had it taken him to dig their graves? How long had he stood staring out to sea before making the decision to return to the islet, release the boat, and condemn himself to death? Of course it had driven him mad.
Mick’s voice broke into my reveries.
“It’s said that Brother Cieran never left the Chapel,” he murmured hoarsely. “It’s said that his ghost wanders here still, suffering the torments of the damned.There’re those who wouldn’t come out here for love or money.”
Mick spoke with such conviction that I wondered if Aunt Dimity had been mistaken when she’d told me that Brother Cieran had left the islet long ago.
“Have you seen his ghost?” I asked.
“That’s none of your business,” Mick said gruffly, leaving me with the clear impression that he had and that it hadn’t been an experience he cherished. He cast a glance skyward, then stumped off toward the cleft, saying, “It’s time we were going. I’ll have to take you to the harbor, Mr. Hunter. Sea’s too rough to drop you at the cove.”
“That’ll be fine, Mick,” said Damian. “We can walk up to the castle from the village.”
While the two men were talking, I noticed a band of high, white clouds sailing across the blue sky. When I looked toward the northern horizon, I saw a line of much darker clouds that seemed to be moving rapidly in our direction. Damian, too, took note of the oncoming storm. Alarmed, we hastened back to the dinghy, with Mick urging us on, and braced ourselves as he gunned the motor and went full bore around the headland to Stoneywell’s tiny harbor.
We almost made it. We were thirty yards from the L-shaped jetty when the heavens opened. Mick steered the boat through curtains of driving rain onto the slipway, and Damian and I helped him pull it clear of the high-water mark.
“Can I buy you a drink, Mick?” Damian offered, shouting this time to be heard above the pounding rain.
“Thanks, no,” said Mick. “I’d best be off home. Wife’ll be worried about me. She doesn’t like me going out to the Chapel.” He gave me a surly glance, turned on his heel, and strode up the cobbled street.
“Thanks again, Mr. Ferguson,” I called to his retreating back, but he didn’t respond.
I pushed my sodden curls back from my forehead and sighed. The only good thing about the rain was that it was washing some of the salt out of my jeans. The thought of slogging up the long, muddy track to the castle did not fill me with glee.
Damian had no trouble interpreting my mood.
“I’ll ring for a car,” he said. “We can wait for it in the pub.”
He took me by the elbow and steered me over the slick cobbles past several rain-blurred buildings and into the dimly lit and wonderfully warm pub. It was a fairly spacious one-room establishment, with a low ceiling, whitewashed walls, and a floor of wide planks. The bar was to our left, the open hearth to our right, and assorted tables and chairs had been placed between them. We hung our streaming jackets on hooks just inside the door and claimed the ta
ble closest to the fire.
Two men sat at the bar, nursing whiskeys, and two others shared a table near the back wall. They all stopped talking and turned to stare at us as we took our seats, then turned back to their drinks and their low-voiced conversations. A moment later a motherly, middle-aged barmaid came bustling up to us, wiping her plump hands on a white apron.
“Mrs. Muggoch,” said Damian, “may I introduce Ms. Lori Shepherd?”
“Call me Lori,” I said, smiling up at the barmaid.
She smiled back. “You’ll be staying with Sir Percy, you and those adorable wee lads of yours. Will and Rob they’re called, is that right?”
“That’s right,” I said. I doubted that there was a soul on Erinskil who didn’t know my sons’ names, heights, weights, and date of birth.
“Ach, Sir Percy’s wonderful with children,” said Mrs. Muggoch. “Well, he’s never really grown up himself, has he? I don’t mean to criticize,” she added hastily. “You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone on the island who’d criticize Sir Percy. He’s a good man. We all think so.”
“I think so, too,” I said. “And I couldn’t agree with you more. Sir Percy will never grow old—or up. I wouldn’t change him for the world.”
“Nor would we,” said Mrs. Muggoch.
“Are your guests keeping you busy, Mrs. Muggoch?” Damian turned to me and explained, “A young couple—a pair of bird-watchers—arrived on the last ferry.They’re staying here at the pub.”
“Ach, they’re nice kids, and considerate, too.” She bent low and murmured mischievously, “Took the room with separate beds. Who’s to know if they stay in them all night long, but it’s thoughtful of them to spare my tender feelings, don’t you think?” She straightened and looked us over from head to toe. “How on earth did you get so wet?”
“Mick Ferguson took us out to Cieran’s Chapel,” said Damian.
Mrs. Muggoch gave a startled gasp. “Did he? You wouldn’t catch me out there. It’s terrible bad luck to set foot on the Chapel.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Brother Cieran killed himself,” said Mrs. Muggoch. “It may have happened a long time ago, but suicide’s a mortal sin, and Brother Cieran left the stain of it on those rocks. Ask anyone on Erinskil. They’ll tell you that bad things happen to people who go out there. I could tell you tales that would keep you awake nights, and they’re all of them true. If I were you, I’d be careful for the next little while.” She shook her head. “It’s cursed, that place.”
Mick Ferguson’s strange outburst suddenly made sense to me. He’d considered my trip to Cieran’s Chapel risky, not because of the wind and waves but because of the curse that hung over the islet.
“The tenth earl didn’t think Cieran’s Chapel was cursed,” I pointed out to Mrs. Muggoch.
“Ach, no, but James Robert was a saint, and there’re special rules for saints,” she said. Her smile returned. “Now, what can I get for you?”
Damian ordered a large pot of tea and a plate of Mrs. Muggoch’s homemade shortbread. She bustled off to the kitchen, and he pulled out his cell phone.
“Wait,” I said, and nodded toward the rain-dashed windows. “I’d like to warm up a bit before we step outside again.”
“Mrs. Gammidge will expect us in the dining room at one o’clock,” he said. “I’ll ask her to send a car in”—he consulted his watch—“half an hour. We’ll be back in time to shower and change before lunch.”
I nodded happily, and Damian made the call.
When the tea and the shortbread arrived, we sipped and nibbled in silence, staring fixedly into the fire. I didn’t know what was on Damian’s mind, but I knew what was on mine: Our trip to Cieran’s Chapel had been a colossal waste of time. I’d searched the stupid rock from end to end, but I still couldn’t explain the mysterious golden glow. To make matters worse, Damian had been wonderful from start to finish. He’d organized the pointless expedition at the drop of a hat, even though he hadn’t believed a word I’d said about the light. He’d allowed himself to be drenched, chilled, and buffeted without complaint, and when my search had proven fruitless, he’d gallantly refrained from crowing. I had to give credit where credit was due.
“Damian,” I said, leaning forward, “you were right. About the light, I mean. I must have imagined it.”
“Do you think so?” Damian raised an eyebrow enigmatically but said nothing more.
The fire guttered as the front door opened, admitting a gust of wind and a bedraggled young couple dressed in the traditional garb of bird-watchers: well-worn day packs, bobble caps, bulky anoraks, sturdy walking shoes, and wool trousers tucked into woolly knee socks.
The young woman had cameras and binoculars slung on straps around her neck, and the young man held in one hand a clear plastic bag filled with field guides, notebooks, and maps. Both were tall, slender, dark-haired, and good-looking, though the young man’s good looks were diminished slightly by a pair of severe-looking black-rimmed glasses that were far too large for his fine-featured face.
They called hello to Mrs. Muggoch, left their packs, caps, and anoraks at the door, and made a bee-line for the fire. The young man was two steps away from me when I blinked in amazement. I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes and felt my own widen, but before I could speak, he stumbled, lost his grip on the clear plastic bag, and sent an avalanche of field guides tumbling onto our table. My teacup toppled into my lap and the saucer went skittering off into space, but before it hit the hearthstone there was a blur of movement and Damian was standing in front of me, his arm outstretched, his palm planted firmly on the young man’s chest.
“Back off,” he said quietly.
“Gosh, yes, of course,” the young man said, backpedaling a step or two. “I’m so sorry. It’s these frightful boots. They’re splendid in the wild, but they trip me up the moment I return to civilization.” He peered through his rain-blurred lenses at me. “I really am most awfully sorry.”
“You might try cleaning your specs, Harry,” muttered the young woman, who was clearly mortified.
Mrs. Muggoch hurried over with a towel, and while I blotted the spilled tea from my jeans, the embarrassed young woman asked Damian if she might retrieve the items Harry had dumped on the table. Damian studied her briefly, then stepped aside and allowed her to gather up the notebooks.
Harry, in the meantime, had dried his glasses and put them on again. He peered at me anxiously.
“I haven’t scalded you, have I?” he asked. “I really am the most appalling klutz. Shall I fetch the doctor?”
“No, don’t,” I told him. “The tea wasn’t hot. I’m fine.”
“I’ll pay for the saucer, of course,” he said, turning to Mrs. Muggoch.
“There’s no need for that, Harry,” she said, patting his shoulder. “Accidents will happen.” She picked up the bits of broken china and returned with them to the bar.
“You’re all being far too kind.” Harry glowered at his treacherous boots, then looked at me, his face brightening. “You’re not interested in birds by any chance, are you? If you are, Cassie and I could show you some really smashing nesting sites. Please say you’ll come. It’s the only way I can think to make things up to you. Oh, excuse me. . . .” He thrust a hand toward me. “Harry Peters—that’s me, the clumsy oaf—and this is my friend, Cassie Lynton.”
“Lori Shepherd,” I said. Damian was scowling mightily at me, but I ignored him, shook Harry’s hand, and gave Cassie a friendly nod. “I’ve just arrived on Erinskil, and I’d love to see the nesting sites. Where and when shall we meet?”
Young Harry looked as though I’d given him absolution. “On the coastal path, below the old monastery? Cassie and I will be there at seven tomorrow morning. It’s best to get out early, you know.”
I winced inwardly at the thought of rising with the dawn but promised Harry that Damian and I would be there at the appointed hour.
“Grand,” said Harry, beaming.
Damian intervened. “I
f you’ll excuse us, we really should be going.”
“What about our ride?” I asked.
“The rain’s let up,” he said. “We can walk back to the castle.”
“Gosh,” said Harry, his eyes widening. “Are you staying at the castle? How marvelous.”
“If we don’t leave now, Lori, we’ll be late for lunch,” said Damian, tapping his watch.
I said good-bye to Harry and Cassie, donned my rain jacket, and stepped out into the drizzle, with Damian breathing fire down my neck. He was radiating displeasure, but he waited until we’d reached the muddy track above the village to vent his spleen.
“For God’s sake, Lori,” he expostulated, “I expect you felt sorry for the young idiot, but it was irresponsible of you to accept his invitation. I don’t know anything about him.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I do.”
Damian stopped short. “I beg your pardon?”
I swung around to face him. “I know for a fact that Harry Peters doesn’t wear glasses, he’s not a bird-watcher, and he’s never made a clumsy move in his life. Harry Peters’s real name is Peter Harris. And he grew up next door to me.”
Ten
Damian’s brow creased angrily.
“Calm down, Damian,” I said, imitating the soothing croon he’d used on me.
“I’ll calm down,” he snapped, “when you’ve told me exactly what the boy next door is doing on Erinskil.”
“I don’t have a clue,” I admitted. “I’ve never been more surprised to see anyone in my life. I honestly don’t know why Peter’s here, and I have absolutely no idea why he’s using an assumed name, but I think he dumped the tea in my lap to keep me from blowing his cover.”
Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea Page 9
