As they were introduced, each man touched a hand to his forehead in a brief salute, murmured a polite “How do you do?” and took a seat. Three chairs had to be carried from other parts of the library to accommodate the new arrivals, but in the end we formed a snug circle before the fire. The elders sat, wee drams in hand, gazing expectantly at Sir Percy, who lounged back in his great leather armchair, looking uncharacteristically reflective.
“Strangest thing,” he mused aloud, gazing at the ceiling. “Boring old sticks-in-the-mud like Cassie’s father are credited with brains because they never smile. I, on the other hand, have gained the reputation of being a fool simply because I enjoy life. I’ve never quite understood the equation.”
“No one here thinks you’re a fool, your lairdship,” Mick assured him.
“Lori and Damian do,” said Sir Percy, eyeing us shrewdly. “They wanted to shield me from an awful truth I was too simple-minded to perceive. I should sack you, Damian, for poking your nose where it doesn’t belong, but it wouldn’t do the least amount of good.You’re the sort of chap who won’t let go of a bone once he’s begun to worry it.” He let his gaze travel over the elders’ attentive faces. “I’m very much afraid, gentlemen, that we shall have to explain ourselves, and throw ourselves on the mercy of the court.”
“Is it absolutely necessary, your lairdship?” asked Pastor Ferguson, his brow knitting.
“My dear pastor,” said Sir Percy, “my friends are convinced that Erinskil is a den of iniquity inhabited by ruthless felons. Surely it is better for them to learn the truth than to cling to such a grievous misapprehension. Consider the difficulties that would arise if they took their spurious accusations to the police.”
“What about the youngsters?” growled Mick.
“They’re harmless,” Damian said quickly. “They don’t know about the money. They may have suspicions, but they have no proof.”
“Will they go looking for it?” Mick pressed.
“With Fleet Street nipping at their heels and Cupid harassing their hearts?” Sir Percy tossed his head derisively. “I sincerely doubt it.”
Pastor Ferguson turned to us. “I would like it to be understood that what is said within these walls stays within these walls.”
“I’ll tell my husband,” I confessed, with a sheepish shrug. I knew I’d tell Aunt Dimity as well, but I had no intention of trying to explain her to the elders. “I can’t help it. I tell Bill everything.”
“We’ll make an exception for Lori’s husband,” Sir Percy pronounced. “I will vouch for Bill Willis, gentlemen, for he is the rarest of hybrids—a lawyer and an honorable man. He won’t betray us.”
The elders exchanged grave glances, then nodded, one by one. Pastor Ferguson, who seemed to be the chief elder, was the last to nod. He turned to Cal Maconinch.
“Cal?” he said. “Will you begin?”
“Only right that I should,” said the harbormaster, “since it began with my father.” He shifted slightly in his chair, as if settling down to tell a story he’d told a hundred times before. “My father was for thirty years the sexton at St. Andrew’s.”
“The church in Stoneywell,” Damian put in, for my benefit.
“Aye,” said Cal. “A sexton has many jobs, but the only one that need concern us is the job of gravedigger. When the tenth earl died, my father rowed out to Cieran’s Chapel to dig the grave. He brought his sturdiest picks with him, because he knew he’d be doing more rock-breaking than digging, and he set to work at the spot James Robert had chosen.When he’d finished clearing away the thin layer of topsoil, he brought his pick down on the bare rock.The next thing he knew,” Cal continued, “he was lying at the bottom of a crater, all bruised and battered and wondering if there’d been an earthquake, because the ground had given way beneath his feet.”
“Had there been an earthquake?” I inquired, enthralled.
“Only the one my father started.” Cal smiled wryly. “He was a big man, and he swung a heavy pick.”
Pastor Ferguson took up the story. “Once the dust had settled, old Mr. Maconinch noticed a gold gleam among the rocks that had come down with him.The gleam came from a chalice, as fine and rich as anything he’d ever seen, and there was more to come—gold plates, reliquaries, jewelry, coins—”
“The sort of thing Damian and I found in the twelfth container,” I put in.
Pastor Ferguson nodded. “Old Mr. Maconinch realized at once that he had, purely by chance, discovered a treasure trove.”
“Whose treasure was it?” I asked.
Neil MacAllen cleared his throat. “Since all of the objects date back to the eighth century or earlier, and since most are religious in nature, we believe that they belonged to the monks of Erinskil.”
The elders had obviously had plenty of time to analyze the find. Each contributed a segment to the fantastic story that followed.
“During the course of the monastery’s existence,” Pastor Ferguson theorized, “Erinskil’s monks must have acquired a hoard of valuable objects.”
“Wealthy patrons may have sought to buy indulgences with gold,” said George Muggoch, “or a monk from a well-to-do family may have donated priceless personal possessions upon taking holy orders.”
“Either way,” said Alasdair Murdoch, “the monks ended up with a problem to solve: How would they keep their precious treasures safe when Vikings came to call?”
“Cieran’s Chapel was the logical solution,” Neil MacAllen offered. “They chose the islet as their hiding place and with pick and shovel created a cache they hoped would fool the Viking raiders. At the first sign of an invasion, a monk would load the church’s treasures into a boat and row it out to the islet for safekeeping. The rest would seek shelter in the caves below the monastery.”
“How long have you known about the caves beneath the monastery?” Damian asked. “The entrance was pretty cleverly hidden.”
George Muggoch shrugged. “Our families have lived on Erinskil from time out of mind. It’s impossible to say who discovered what, when. It’s just something we’ve always known.”
“And always kept to ourselves,” Mick added, with a hint of resentment.
“Tragically,” said Pastor Ferguson, returning to the main drift of the story, “the monks’ plan back-fired. When the Vikings found nothing to plunder in the church, they vented their fury and frustration on the poor brethren.”
“It may be a romantic notion,” George Muggoch inserted, “but we believe it was Brother Cieran’s job to hide the treasure. After the last raid, when Brother Cieran realized that he was the sole survivor, he went back to his post and stood guard over the hoard until he died.”
“He was a bit mad,” Alasdair Murdoch observed, tilting his head sympathetically.
“He was barking mad,” Mick Ferguson said gruffly. “Not that anyone blames him, mind you. He’d had a bit of a shock.”
Since the understatement was spoken in all sincerity, I fought down a desire to smile and carefully avoided making eye contact with Sir Percy.
“We believe that Brother Cieran laid out the bodies in the cavern,” Pastor Ferguson went on. “One man could hardly be expected to carry so many mangled corpses up the stone staircase and go on to dig forty graves or more. He did what he could to show his respect for his brothers in Christ, then went back to the islet to do his duty.”
The elders paused to sip their drinks in silence, as if according Brother Cieran the same respect he’d shown his fellow monks, then brought the story forward to the day old Mr. Maconinch had discovered the hoard.
“In order to understand what my father did next,” said Cal, “you have to understand the state Erinskil was in at the time.”
“Erinskil was dying,” said Pastor Ferguson bluntly. “James Robert—the tenth earl—had been the most recent in a long line of lairds who’d been good men but bad managers. Death duties and personal debt had reduced his income to the point where he couldn’t afford to spend more than a pittance on Erinskil’s up
keep. By the time he died, we were in such desperate straits that many of us were discussing emigration.”
Alasdair Murdoch pursed his lips. “Everyone agreed that Erinskil would fare no better under James Robert’s son—he could barely pay his own bills, let alone invest in the island’s maintenance. Old Mr. Maconinch decided, therefore, that it would be daylight madness to turn the hoard over to the new laird, to whom it rightfully belonged.”
“He would have sold the treasure to pay his taxes,” Cal declared, “and our families would have been forced to leave the island forever. My father couldn’t let it happen.”
“He couldn’t leave the treasure where it was,” said Neil MacAllen, “because the old laird’s burial service was coming up, and he couldn’t dig another hole for it on the Chapel because everyone would wonder what had been buried there. So he moved the hoard from Cieran’s Chapel to the monks’ cave and said nothing about it until after the tenth earl had been laid to rest.”
“By then,” said Alasdair Murdoch, “word had come down from on high that the island was to be evacuated for the duration of the coming war.When Cal’s father convened a special meeting of the elders, to inform them of his find, they had many things to consider.”
“The elders agreed that the hoard should be used to benefit the islanders rather than the laird,” said George Muggoch, “but that nothing should be done hastily. They’d hide the treasure in the cavern behind the artificial rockfall until the war was over and the islanders returned from the mainland.”
“While in exile they’d learn everything they could about the antiquities trade,” Pastor Ferguson explained. “They’d identify a trustworthy dealer who would be willing to sell individual pieces over an extended period of time to private collectors worldwide. In this way they hoped to avoid drawing undue attention to their find.”
“They planned to sell the hoard off piece by piece,” said Cal Maconinch, “and keep the profits to rebuild Erinskil.”
Since it looked as though the profits would be considerable, the elders had to find a way to explain the island’s prosperity. Their solution was to study businesses while they were on the mainland and choose one that would work well on Erinskil. It didn’t take them long to conclude that a tweed mill would suit the island setting as well as the interests and abilities of the vast majority of islanders. Creative bookkeeping would allow them to disguise profits from the antiquities’ sales as earnings from the mill.
“Finally,” said George Muggoch, “the elders called together every adult on Erinskil. They asked the assembled men and women if they would choose to stay on Erinskil if the island had a good school, a resident doctor, a reliable supply of fresh water, and steady employment. If they were given a chance to rebuild their homes and maintain them properly, would they remain on the island? If they could live a civilized life on Erinskil, would they still prefer to emigrate?”
“Everyone laughed,” said Pastor Ferguson. “I was a wee lad at the time, but I still remember the grim laughter. No one believed that Erinskil’s problems could be solved. It took some time for the elders to convince them that they were in earnest, but once they had, the show of hands was unanimous—if life on Erinskil became less of a struggle, no one would leave.”
“The elders then laid out their plan of action,” Alasdair Murdoch went on. “They explained that it would come to nothing unless everyone on the island participated in it. Each family had to agree to make subtle, gradual changes in their manner of living, rather than extravagant, sudden changes, or the plan wouldn’t work. Capital improvements, they argued, would be made for the welfare of residents, not transients. The elders weren’t interested in creating a tourist mecca. If outsiders wanted to visit Erinskil, they would have to earn the privilege, because a privilege it would be.”
“If the plan failed,” said George Muggoch, “Erinskil would become another nature preserve, with a few scenic ruins thrown in for tourists to photograph. If the plan succeeded, Erinskil would be reborn as a living community with hope for the future.”
“The people voted to succeed,” Pastor Ferguson concluded simply.
“There was no dissension?” Damian asked.
“Why would there be?” I retorted. “I’d like to live here.”
George Muggoch took Damian’s question seriously. “Agreements are easier to reach when you’re dealing with a small, homogeneous population. Most of us can trace our roots on Erinskil back for hundreds of years. We’ve always had to depend on each other. It was natural for us to go on doing so.”
“We wanted to have a say in our own destiny,” Alasdair Murdoch added. “If my children choose to stay on Erinskil, fine. If not, that’s fine, too. But I want it to be their choice. I don’t want some bureaucrat in Edinburgh or London to make their decisions for them.”
“It was too good a deal to pass up,” said Mick with finality. “Our fathers saw a chance for independence, and they grabbed it.”
“They plundered an archaeological site of great historical value.” Damian spoke with a candor that bordered, in my opinion, on the foolhardy. “They sold off their country’s heritage.”
“Our country drove us off our island,” Cal responded bitterly. “Our country filled our fields with shell holes and unexploded bombs.”
“As for heritage . . .” Neil MacAllen gave a short, mirthless laugh. “Our country has more heritage than it knows what to do with. You can find museums full of heritage all over Scotland. We’re not depriving anyone of anything they can’t find somewhere else.”
“The way we see it,” said Mick Ferguson, “the old laird was too fretted by debt to help us while he lived, but he gave us the means to help ourselves when he died. We think he would’ve been proud of what we’ve done with his gift.”
I recalled the inscription on the old laird’s tomb. “‘The heart benevolent and kind,’” I quoted,
“‘The most resembles God.’”
“Aye,” the men chorused.
They raised their glasses, as if they wished to make a silent toast to their unwitting benefactor, but their wish for silence was foiled. Several glasses were still on their way up when an earsplitting crack of thunder rattled the bottles in the liquor cabinet, and a torrent of rain buffeted the draped windows.
A moment later the lights went out.
“Ah,” said Sir Percy. “My storm has arrived.” He heaved himself up from his chair and bustled from one candelabra to the next, striking matches and lighting candles. “It’s going to be a stinker, I’m afraid. Gentlemen, you are, of course, welcome to stay the night—what remains of it, at any rate—or to use my fleet of cars to wend your way home.”
“I’d rather no one leave just yet,” Damian objected. “There are a few details I’d like to clear up.”
“Still worrying the bone, eh? Good man.” Sir Percy tossed the spent matches into the fire, returned to his chair, and smiled good-naturedly as a blast of thunder shook the windows. “Speak, Damian. We are at your service.”
Damian turned to Pastor Ferguson. “Why is there so much cash in the cavern? Why haven’t you moved it through the tweed mill’s account books?”
“We were saving up for a special purchase,” answered Pastor Ferguson. “We wanted to buy Erinskil. We were extremely disappointed when Sir Percy snatched the island out from under us, but our pockets will never be as deep as his.”
“And he’s not such a bad laird,” Mick allowed, “as lairds go.”
Mick’s comment provoked a ripple of appreciative chuckles, in which Sir Percy joined wholeheartedly. Damian waited for the laughter to die before continuing his interrogation.
“Did you really intend to use the caverns as a bomb shelter?” he asked.
Alasdair Murdoch cast a pitying look in Sir Percy’s direction and raised his voice slightly, to be heard over the driving rain.
“The laird was being inventive,” he said generously. “The original stone tablet was damaged by the Royal Navy, but we would have replaced it in
any case. We needed easy access to the hoard, and the original tablet was simply too heavy. Cal’s father could move it because he was a giant of a man, but most of us aren’t. And we weren’t worried about thieves. No one comes and goes on Erinskil without our knowledge.”
Damian nodded, but he hadn’t finished yet. “If you’re using the cavern as a storeroom, there seems little need for frequent trips to Cieran’s Chapel. Why, then, do you maintain the ringbolt in such pristine condition? Why was the soil around the old laird’s grave disturbed?”
“We still go out to the Chapel to check on the grave,” Alasdair Murdoch explained. “It’s sunken a bit over time. We don’t want visitors wondering why the hole is so big, so we open the tomb from time to time, to replace the braces and keep it from caving in.”
“We were doing just that,” said Cal Maconinch, “when Sir Percy arrived in his helicopter five days ago with his unexpected guests. We had to close the grave in a hurry, in case one of you took it into your head to visit the Chapel.”
“Which we discourage,” Neil MacAllen interjected, “by putting out the story about Brother Cieran’s ghost and backing it up with mysterious lights.”
“That’s me,” Alasdair Murdoch confessed, grinning.
“You’re Brother Cieran’s ghost?” I said, my eyes widening.
“Only when Sir Percy has guests,” said Mr. Murdoch modestly.
George Muggoch joined in. “If they come to the pub, my wife talks a blue streak about the ghost, the curse, and the haunted monastery. If that doesn’t rattle them, she puts in a bit about the Slaughter Stone and human sacrifices as well. She gave our friendly journalist an earful tonight, I can tell you, drove him right back onto his boat. There’s no one like my wife for spinning a yarn.”
Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea Page 20
