“I asked the ferry captain about the shipping containers,” said Peter. “He told me they’d been designed and built to order by a firm in Glasgow, exclusively for Erinskil. He also mentioned that the crane is always in tip-top condition. He’d never known it to malfunction.”
“The boats inside the breakwater piqued our interest, too,” said Cassie. “There are only two fishing boats registered on Erinskil, and both belong to the Murdoch family.” She gave me a meaningful glance. “Erinskil doesn’t support itself with its fishing fleet.”
“Alasdair Murdoch’s catch of the day doesn’t end up in an Edinburgh restaurant,” Peter added, driving the point home. “It ends up on the islanders’ plates or in Alasdair’s cold-storage locker for future use—by the locals.”
“Lucky locals,” I murmured.
“Stunningly lucky,” said Peter. His eyes roved over the village. “We come at last to Stoneywell. I won’t ask you to examine it through your binoculars, because we’re supposed to be studying birds, not buildings. In fact, it would be a good idea for you to point your binoculars toward the sky occasionally, in case a villager happens to see us up here.”
“In keeping with our cover story,” Damian put in. He picked up a field guide and thumbed through it.
“I wish our expedition could include a stroll through the village.” Faint worry lines furrowed Peter’s smooth brow. “But I think we should continue to maintain a low profile there. We want the islanders to go on believing that we’re harmless bird-watchers. It’s a matter of personal safety as much as anything else.”
“Are you afraid of the paparazzi?” I asked.
“Not particularly,” Peter answered, “but I have a healthy fear of drug dealers. They’re not known for their gentle ways. If they suspect us of prying into their business, they might turn ugly.” He lifted a hand to the sky. “So please raise your binoculars while I point to the flock of kittiwakes that happens to be flying by.”
Apprehension made my hands tremble as I followed the flock.
“Peter,” I said from the corner of my mouth, “maybe you and Cassie should move into the castle with me and the boys. Sir Percy won’t mind, and if you’re right about the islanders, you may already be in danger.You’ve been awfully inquisitive.”
“We’ve also been endearingly naive,” Peter said with a lighthearted laugh. “No one suspects us of anything but youthful curiosity—yet. We don’t intend to push it any further.”
“A wise plan,” Damian said quietly. “But keep Lori’s invitation in mind. If you feel threatened in any way, come to Dundrillin.”
“Thanks,” said Cassie.
“Now, about Stoneywell . . .” Peter bent over his map, as though he were consulting it. “Did you notice anything about the village when you were there yesterday, Lori?”
“I noticed that it was wet,” I replied. “Very, very wet.”
“It wasn’t the best day for sightseeing,” Peter conceded. “If it had been, you might have seen some rather unusual sights. . . .”
If I hadn’t lived in Finch for seven years, Peter’s “unusual” sights might not have struck me as unusual. But the longer he talked, the clearer it became to me that Stoneywell was not an ordinary village.
Finch’s village shop was well stocked by small-town standards, but its gourmet-food department was limited to a few dusty tins of fish paste. Stoneywell’s shop, by contrast, supplied the islanders with basic staples as well as freshly ground coffees, a broad range of cheeses and pâtés, and an interesting selection of foreign and domestic wines. Mr. Muggoch, who with his wife ran the small bakery as well as the pub, produced croissants and brioches along with traditional Scottish breads and pastries.
“Finch doesn’t even have a bakery,” I grumbled.
“No, it doesn’t,” said Peter. “Nor does it have a resident doctor with a fully equipped, modern surgery. But Stoneywell does. Dr. Gordon Tighe was born and raised in Stoneywell. He opened his practice here as soon as he’d qualified.”
“The other islands we’ve visited have nothing like Stoneywell’s surgery,” said Cassie. “Dr. Tighe can take care of almost any medical emergency. Only the most desperate cases have to be evacuated to the mainland.”
Peter passed the map to me and picked up a field guide. “Then there’s the school. . . .”
Finch’s two-room village school had been shut down in the 1950s, but according to Peter, Stoneywell’s was still alive and kicking. It had a staff of one full-time teacher, aided, it seemed, by the entire adult population of Erinskil.
“They give talks on sheep rearing, dye making, fishing, baking, brewing, medicine—whatever profession or trade they know best,” Peter informed us. “The children go to a boarding school on the mainland when they’ve finished here, and most of them go on to university. A staggeringly high percentage return to Erinskil after earning their degrees.”
“I don’t blame them for coming back,” I said, shaking my head. “The outside world must seem pretty shabby compared to Erinskil. Is there a church?”
“Church of Scotland,” Peter answered. “There’s nothing remarkable about it, except that the pastor is yet another Erinskil native. Reverend Lachlan Ferguson is Mick Ferguson’s brother.”
“What about law and order?” I asked. “Are there policemen on Erinskil?”
“Not one,” said Peter. “But since there doesn’t seem to be any crime—apart from the rather notable one of drug trafficking—there’s no pressing need for a police force.” He reared back as a flock of birds swung into view around the headland. “Look! Fulmars!”
I raised my binoculars and focused on a fulmar. It was indistinguishable from every other seagull I’d ever seen.
“Last but not least,” Peter continued, as if the passing flock of fulmars hadn’t interrupted his narrative, “we come to Erinskil’s tweed mill. The wool comes from the island’s own sheep. Most of the spinning is done by various islanders in their homes. A few have looms at home, too, but most of the weaving is done on the looms in the mill.”
“I hope you’re not going to disillusion me by saying that the looms are computerized,” I said, lowering the binoculars. “Sir Percy told us that the islanders use traditional tools and techniques to make the tweed.”
“They do,” said Peter. “They use hand looms and natural dyes and spinning wheels, which is why the tweed is so valuable and why it couldn’t possibly support the kinds of lives these people lead.” He raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “I don’t care if they’ve learned how to spin wool into gold, Lori. They’d have to produce miles of the stuff each year to pay for their hobbies and their houses, not to mention the school, the surgery, the windmill farm, and the custom-built shipping containers. It isn’t physically possible to manufacture that much tweed using traditional tools and techniques. We think they’re using the tweed mill to launder the drug money.”
“Don’t you see, Lori?” asked Cassie. “There’s no tourist trade, no fishing fleet, no research center, like our observatory, and the tweed mill can’t produce an adequate amount of tweed—there’s nothing tangible to explain the island’s prosperity. How, then, do the residents supplement their incomes?”
My mind was reeling with the information the two young friends had collected since they’d come to Erinskil. They had, it seemed, subjected the island’s residents to the same intense scrutiny they were accustomed to using on migrating seals. I couldn’t, of course, dispute any of their observations.
The island’s houses were in pristine condition—Sir Percy himself had told me that he hadn’t had to repair so much as a dripping tap since he’d become laird—and the amenities were plentiful. There did seem to be a concerted effort by the islanders to repel rather than attract tourists. Every investment they’d made—in the windmill farm, the reservoir, the shipping containers, the modern surgery—had been made with their own comfort and well-being in mind, not the comfort and well-being of visitors. Why?
Because, according to
Peter and Cassie, visitors might turn into unwanted witnesses. Even if they didn’t see mysterious lights on Cieran’s Chapel, they’d see the wines in the shop and the brioches in the bakery. If they were curious and intelligent, they might ask the same questions Peter and Cassie were asking—and draw the same conclusion.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t bring myself to agree with the conclusion. The drug trade was a filthy business. I hated to think that the islanders’ rich, fulfilling lives were financed by filth, so I searched for an alternate explanation.
“Maybe they all inherited money,” I proposed, “and maybe they invested it wisely, as a group. And maybe they don’t want tourists to come to the island because some of the tourists would want to stay. Housing prices would skyrocket, the place would become overcrowded, and their way of life would be ruined.”
Peter stared at me openmouthed for a long moment, then leaned over and flung an arm around me, chuckling. “You see why I love her, Cassie? She refuses to think ill of anyone.”
“He’s lying,” I said darkly, squirming out of Peter’s hold. “I think ill of lots of people. I just don’t believe in conspiracies.They ask too much of human nature. I mean, think about it. Everyone on the island would have to agree to participate in a major criminal activity and then keep mum about it for decades, because none of the stuff you’ve pointed out happened overnight.” I folded my arms and regarded Peter stubbornly. “You know as well as I do, Peter, that no one in Finch can keep a secret for more than ten seconds. I don’t believe the islanders could keep one for ten years or more.”
“All right, Lori,” Peter said, smiling indulgently, “have it your way. The islanders aren’t buying comfort with tainted cash. They’re the innocent beneficiaries of a massive inheritance and wise financial planning.”
Cassie leaned her chin on her hand and sighed. “You make me feel quite jaded, Lori. Since we can’t prove anything one way or the other, I choose to believe your story. It’s much nicer than ours.”
“I’d rather you believe it because of its impeccable logic,” I said, “but I won’t ask for the moon. What do you think, Damian?”
“I think,” he said, looking at his watch, “that we should return to the castle soon. It’s nearly teatime in the nursery.”
I checked my own watch and yelped. I hadn’t realized how late it was. “Sorry, guys, but Damian’s right. I should be getting back. Will and Rob will want to tell me about their day.”
Cassie and Peter went to work clearing the cave mouth, Cassie collecting the maps and the field guides, Peter folding the groundsheet and tucking it into his pack. They worked well together, smoothly and efficiently, like dance partners who understood each other’s rhythms and could predict each other’s moves.They’d told their long, complicated story the same way—cooperatively rather than competitively. They were so clearly on the same wavelength, and so filled with admiration for each other, that I couldn’t help thinking that the despicable, truth-twisting tabloids had gotten at least one thing right. Something closely resembling love was in the air.
Peter lifted his day pack from the ground and and looked at me uncertainly.
“It’s been nearly a year since I’ve seen Will and Rob,” he said. “I don’t suppose we could cadge an invitation to the castle, could we?” He frowned anxiously. “Or would it be too great a risk? The twins are sure to recognize me, and someone from the castle might spread the news to the rest of Erinskil.”
“I wouldn’t worry too much about the rest of Erinskil,” said Damian. “I doubt that the islanders will alert the media when they discover your true identities. If you’re right about them, they’ll be even less willing than you to face a rabble of reporters. They’ll guard your privacy, if only to protect their own.”
“What about Sir Percy?” Cassie asked.
“Your secret will be safe with him,” I assured her. “He despises the gutter press, as do all right-thinking people. Come to the castle tonight, around six. You can spend time with Rob and Will and stay for dinner. But please, keep your suspicions to yourselves, will you? Sir Percy loves this place. He’ll think you’re either crazy or rude if you tell him he’s laird of a drug cartel.”
“We won’t say a word,” Peter promised.
“In that case,” I said, “Sir Percy will be delighted to meet you.”
“Good,” said Cassie with a decisive nod, “because I want to meet Sir Percy.”
“Why?” I asked.
Cassie closed her pack and stood. “My father owns a rather large estate, with a number of tenant farmers.They do nothing but grumble and whine—replace this, repair that, and do it now. It’s understandable—there’s almost always a streak of resentment between tenant and landlord—but I have yet to hear anyone on Erinskil say a word against their new laird. Sir Percy must be a remarkable man.”
“He’s one of a kind,” I said. “We’ll see you tonight, then?”
“Oh, yes,” said Peter, his face brightening. He reached out to lay a hand on my day pack. “If this is Cook’s idea of a picnic, I can’t wait to see how she defines dinner.”
Fourteen
Damian called Mrs. Gammidge as we made our way back to the castle, to let her know that two guests would be joining us for dinner. When I took the cell phone and informed her that our guests would be young and hungry, she replied loftily that Cook, who was accustomed to presiding over banquets, could safely be relied upon to provide adequate nourishment for two young people, however hearty their appetites.
Damian and I stopped in the Cornflower Suite long enough to wash the dust from our brows and change into clean clothes, then headed up to the nursery, where tea was already in progress. Andrew called down to the kitchen for extra cups and cakes, and Will and Rob entertained us while we waited.
Sir William and Lord Robert had spent an active day on the battlements with their valiant esquire, Andrew the Red, fending off everything from pirates to sea monsters. I was particularly impressed by their duel with the well-armed giant squid, but my stomach twisted painfully when they recounted their greatest triumph: capturing the Bad Man. Until that moment I hadn’t realized that Abaddon had invaded my sons’ imaginations.
“Lord Robert and I caught him,” Will said, “and Andrew the Red put him in the dungeon.”
“In chains,” Rob added firmly.
Before I could react, Damian’s cell phone rang. It was Bill, so I took the telephone into the foyer, to keep little ears from overhearing words that might darken their fantasies further.
Bill’s morale was at an all-time low. While he continued searching his client files for anyone who might fit Abaddon’s profile, Chief Superintendent Yarborough’s team of detectives had begun interviewing current as well as former clients. Bill believed that the interviews were necessary but suspected that they wouldn’t be especially good for business.
“Can you imagine the impression it will make?” he asked. “How would you react if a policeman knocked on your door and asked to speak with the family psychopath?”
“I’d introduce myself,” I said brightly, but my husband was in no mood for jokes.
“Ha,” he said bleakly.
“I’m sure the detectives will be consummate professionals,” I said, throwing all attempts at humor overboard, “and I know that everyone will understand and be eager to do whatever they can to help.You’ve spent years building solid relationships with your clients, Bill. They think you’re wonderful.”
“One of them doesn’t,” Bill muttered gloomily.
At which point I carried Damian’s cell phone back into the nursery and turned it over to the twins, in hopes that a father-sons chat would lift Bill’s spirits. Thankfully, Will and Rob became so involved in describing their complex battle with the squid that they forgot to mention the Bad Man.
The battery should have been dead by the time the boys gave the phone back to me, but the medicine had worked. When I returned to the foyer to continue our conversation, Bill sounded more cheerf
ul than he had in days.
“You haven’t told me about Peter yet,” he said. “Did you find out why he’s on Erinskil?”
I gave him the highlights of Peter’s story, carefully editing out the colorful history of the Slaughter Stone and Cassie’s preposterous allegations regarding illegal drugs. Tales involving smugglers and human sacrifice, I decided, would only put a damper on Bill’s newly happy mood.
“Poor old Peter,” Bill said, when I’d finished. “Hunted like a rat for being decent. He and his friend chose a good place to go to ground, at any rate. Erinskil sounds fantastic.”
“It’s amazingly beautiful,” I said. “We’ll come back here for a family vacation when . . . when Chief Superintendent Yarborough’s detectives finally knock on the right door.”
“When Abaddon’s caught and put away.” A note of gloom reentered Bill’s voice, but he shook it off. “Yes.We will go to Erinskil as a family, and we’ll hike the coastal path and tour the tweed mill and fight squids together on Percy’s battlements. I can’t wait. I really can’t wait.” He promised to call again the next day and then went back to the seemingly hopeless chore of finding the hidden psychopath in his roster of staid and eminently civilized clients.
Mrs. Gammidge called a short time later to announce the arrival of our guests. Damian asked her to send them up and went with me to meet them at the elevator. Although their wardrobes were probably even more limited than Damian’s, Peter and Cassie had done what they could to spruce themselves up. They’d exchanged their bird-watchers’ costumes for freshly laundered jeans and crewneck sweaters and swapped their grubby hiking boots for fairly clean sneakers. Peter’s dark hair was neatly combed, and Cassie had bundled hers into a sophisticated chignon.
They also came bearing gifts: a pair of adorable stuffed animals—seal pups—for the twins.
“We sell them to raise funds for the trust,” Peter explained. “Cassie and I always have a few in our packs.”
Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea Page 13
