Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea

by Nancy Atherton

  “Will and Rob are here, too.”

  He stepped back, and I saw on the far side of the stark white room two small cots, two mounds of blankets, and two identical, tousled heads nestled on two pillows.

  “They’re not hurt,” Damian assured me. “They insisted on spending the night with you.”

  “My brave boys . . .” I murmured.

  “They also insisted that I bring you . . . this.” One hand released mine and disappeared from my field of vision. When it reappeared, it was holding Reginald. “Will and Rob told me that this little fellow would help you to get well. I’ll leave him on the bedside table, shall I?”

  I smiled lazily while Damian set my pink flannel bunny aside and returned to his original position. It was considerate of him to stand, I thought. It kept me from having to strain my neck to look at him.

  Another memory intruded. “Andrew?”

  “Dr. Tighe is with him,” Damian informed me.

  “He took a nasty blow to the head, but Dr. Tighe is confident that he’ll make a full recovery.”

  “Thank heavens.” I drifted for a moment, then frowned in concentration. “Why am I here?”

  Damian’s grave expression softened. He reached out to smooth the hair back from my forehead. “You were shot, Lori.You were shot just below your left collarbone. We’ll have matching scars.”

  “Just what I’ve always wanted,” I said, with a drugged giggle.

  He clasped my hand again. “I knew you’d be pleased.”

  “My face?” I was dimly aware that something wasn’t quite right there.

  “Nicks and cuts,” Damian explained. “From fragments of flying rock. They’ll heal nicely.”

  “No scars?” I said, vaguely disappointed.

  “Sorry.” He shrugged apologetically. “You’ll have to settle for the one. Rest now. Your husband is on his way. He’ll be here as soon as the wind subsides. We’ll talk more later.”

  “No,” I protested, fighting to stay awake. “Abaddon, on the cliffs—what happened?”

  “He was struck by lightning,” Damian replied. “Or perhaps it was the wrath of God. He’s dead in any case. You’ll never have to worry about him again.” A quiet sigh escaped him as he stroked my hand. “It’s supposed to be the other way round, you know. I should be lying where you are, and you should be standing here.”

  “I’ll get it right next time,” I promised, and let the inexorable tides of drowsiness sweep me away.

  I slipped in and out of sleep for the next twelve hours. Visiting hours at Dr. Tighe’s surgery were apparently quite flexible, because every time I woke up, a different face was hovering over me—Sir Percy, Peter, Cassie, Kate, Elliot, and Pastor Ferguson each put in an appearance. Dr. Tighe, who looked too young to be a practicing physician, showed up at regular intervals to take my pulse and blood pressure, fiddle with my bandages, and hang fresh IV bags.

  Rob and Will were always there, sitting cross-legged at the foot of my hospital bed or playing quietly near their cots with their seal pups and their knights. Damian was their constant companion, and Reginald, of course, stayed within arm’s reach. If one or more of them ever left my room, I was unaware of it.

  By the time Bill arrived on the island—five hours later, by helicopter—I was strong enough to sit up in bed. Since words couldn’t convey the range or the intensity of our emotions, the first moments he and I spent together, with the boys, were devoted to purely tactile communication. The hugs, kisses, and caresses continued long after Will and Rob, confident in their father’s ability to look after me, allowed Damian to take them back to the castle.

  After they were gone, Bill settled himself on the foot of my bed, with his shoes off, a pillow tucked between him and the footrail, and his legs stretched parallel to mine. His gaze shifted restlessly from my face to my bandaged shoulder, as if he were debating with himself whether or not I was well enough to hear what he had to say.

  “Bill,” I said, guessing his thoughts, “if you don’t tell me, I’ll die of curiosity, so you may as well get it over with.”

  “Patience never was your strong suit.” He smiled, but his eyes were shadowed with melancholy. “It’s an ugly tale, Lori.”

  “I didn’t expect light comedy,” I said gently. “Go ahead. I promise not to swoon.”

  “Okay . . .” He held up a warning finger. “But if I see the faintest flush of fever, I reserve the right to continue the story at a later date.”

  “Agreed,” I said promptly, and rested my head against my pillows, to demonstrate my willingness to remain calm.

  “Our part in the story began nine months ago,” said Bill. “Sir Rodney Spofford asked me to draw up his will. I’d never worked with Sir Rodney before, but he was referred to me by an old client, so I took him on. The will turned out to be absolutely straightforward. Sir Rodney was a widower. Upon his death, therefore, the vast bulk of his estate would go to his only child, Harold Spofford. It took me less than a week to complete the paperwork.”

  I wrinkled my nose in puzzlement. “Why did he come to you? You specialize in messy, complicated wills. Why would he pay you big bucks to do something any run-of-the-mill solicitor could do?”

  “I asked Sir Rodney the same question,” Bill answered. “He told me that my firm had acquired a certain cachet among his circle of friends, but he was lying through his teeth. I know now that he came to me because I was unacquainted with the Spofford family. I had no reason to disbelieve him when he told me that Harold was his only child. I didn’t find out until two days ago that Sir Rodney had another son, an older son: Alfred.”

  “How strange,” I said. “Why did Sir Rodney lie to you about Alfred?”

  “Because twenty years ago,” Bill replied, “at the tender age of fourteen, Alfred Spofford was incarcerated in a private asylum for the criminally insane.”

  My eyebrows shot up. “Why? What had he done?”

  “He had a history of psychotic behavior,” Bill answered evasively. “The family’s nanny had a religious mania which she passed on to little Alfred, but he wasn’t very stable to begin with. He had violent outbursts of temper. Whatever he wanted, he took. From an early age, he saw it as his duty to . . . punish . . . small animals as well as other children, for their sins.”

  I felt a sick sensation in the pit of my stomach but kept my expression neutral. I didn’t want Bill to start worrying about my temperature.

  “Needless to say,” Bill went on, “the Spoffords couldn’t send Alfred to school. They kept him at their country estate, under close supervision, until, finally, he set fire to the summerhouse in which his mother was napping. She burned to death.”

  “He murdered his mother?” I said weakly.

  “Nothing could be proved conclusively,” said Bill, “but Sir Rodney found a telling scrap of biblical verse half burnt among the ashes. He concealed the evidence from the police and clapped Alfred into Brook House—a high-security, private institution. He then proceeded to eliminate Alfred’s name from the family records. Harold, the younger son, became his only son, as well as his heir.”

  “How old was Harold when Alfred disappeared?” I asked.

  “Twelve,” said Bill. “An impressionable age. He never forgot his older brother. When Harold was in his twenties, he began visiting Alfred, on the sly. He encouraged Alfred to take occupational therapy classes. Alfred studied electronics and computer technology and became a model inmate. Years passed without a single psychotic episode. Harold came to believe that his brother had been rehabilitated.”

  “Did he mention Alfred’s progress to his father?” I asked.

  “Sir Rodney refused to acknowledge Alfred’s existence.” Bill shook his head. “As far as he was concerned, Alfred had died in the same fire that had killed Lady Spofford.”

  “So Alfred became Harold’s little secret,” I said.

  “Alfred became Harold’s obsession,” Bill corrected. “He believed that Alfred had been treated disgracefully and strongly disapproved of
the will I’d drawn up.”

  “I’ll bet Alfred wasn’t too happy about the will either,” I commented.

  “He was outraged. He was the eldest son. He was the rightful heir. No one had the right to disinherit him.” Bill put a hand to his breast. “In his twisted vision, I was the instrument that had robbed him of his patrimony. He saw it as his duty to punish me. Alfred became Abaddon.”

  “The king of the bottomless pit,” I murmured. “Did Alfred send the creepy e-mail to you from Brook House?”

  “He didn’t have to,” said Bill. “He escaped from Brook House three months ago, aided and abetted by his younger brother. Sir Rodney hired private detectives to find Alfred, but Harold helped Alfred to outmaneuver them. Harold gave Alfred money, hid him, rented a car for him, bought the laptops Alfred used to send the e-mail threats. He also provided Alfred with a gun taken from Sir Rodney’s collection of firearms.”

  “I wondered where he got the gun,” I muttered. “Where was Sir Rodney while all of this was happening?”

  “He was going about his business,” Bill said matter-of-factly. “He didn’t know that Harold had been in contact with Alfred until he spoke with a nurse at Brook House, after Alfred’s escape. Even then he had no reason to suspect that Alfred was threatening me.”

  “Of course,” I said, nodding. “Sir Rodney couldn’t have known about our situation until the Scotland Yard team showed up to interview him.”

  “It was just as you predicted it would be,” Bill observed, patting my leg. “The team finally knocked on the right door. Their questions roused questions in Sir Rodney’s mind, and he began to see a pattern. Alfred’s escape took place after the new will had been drawn up. Only three people were aware of the will’s contents—me, Sir Rodney, and Harold. Since neither Sir Rodney nor I had spoken with Alfred about the will, the finger of suspicion pointed at Harold.”

  “Did the detectives question Harold?” I asked.

  “Chief Superintendent Yarborough questioned Harold,” Bill replied, with a look of grim satisfaction. “It took less than an hour to get the truth out of him. Well, most of the truth. He didn’t tell Yarborough about the gun.”

  “And that’s when you called me,” I concluded, “to let me know that Abaddon was as good as caught.”

  Bill sighed. “I thought he was.”

  Dr. Tighe interrupted the proceedings at that moment, to make sure that his patient wasn’t being overtaxed. I took the opportunity to ask after Andrew.

  “He’s awake,” Dr. Tighe informed me, “but he’s still quite weak. It’ll be some time before he’s up and about.” He slid the blood-pressure sleeve from my arm and nodded to Bill. “She’ll do. Tough as a nut, your wife.”

  “I know,” said Bill, with feeling. “Believe me, Doctor, I know.”

  Twenty-three

  When Dr.Tighe had gone, Bill insisted on pouring a glass of water for me, fluffing my pillows, and making a clumsy attempt to feel my pulse. He’d just reached the alarming conclusion that my heart was no longer beating when a quiet knock sounded on the door.

  Damian put his head into the room. “I hope you don’t mind. Sir William and Lord Robert sent me to spy on you.” He crossed to my bedside and snapped to attention. “I’m under direct orders from their lordships to discover all I can about you and Andrew and report back without delay.”

  “You shouldn’t let the boys bully you,” I said, smiling, “but I’m glad you came.” I held my hand out to him. “Someone needs to find my pulse before Bill calls for a defibrillator.”

  Damian took hold of my wrist and peered judiciously at the ceiling. “Strong, steady, a bit of a Latin beat . . . Wait, I think it’s Morse code. Possibly Irish step dancing.” He released my wrist. “Medical history in the making.”

  I goggled at him. “You made a joke. You never make jokes.”

  “Blame your sons,” he said. “They’re a terrible influence.They keep making me laugh. It’s extremely inappropriate.”

  “But extremely welcome,” said Bill. “Have a seat.”

  Damian sat in the well-worn visitor’s chair, and Bill stretched out on the bed again, so that we formed a conversational triangle.

  “Rob and Will are making gingerbread men with Cook,” Damian informed us. “And Sir Percy moved the nursery to his youngest son’s private apartment. He didn’t think the boys would sleep well in the tower.”

  “God bless Percy,” I said.

  “You and Bill are to have one of the other private apartments,” Damian went on, “until you’re well enough to travel.”

  “Good,” I said. “I’m not too keen on tower rooms at the moment either.”

  “Thanks for taking the twins back to the castle,” said Bill. “We’ve been discussing things they shouldn’t hear.”

  “Ah,” said Damian, half rising from the chair. “Perhaps I should . . . ?”

  Bill motioned for him to resume his seat. “We’d appreciate it if you’d stay. Lori wants to know everything, and you know more about the closing chapters of the story than I do.”

  “How far have you gotten?” Damian asked.

  “Abaddon’s armed and stalking us,” I said, and turned to Bill. “How did he find out we were on Erinskil?”

  “Yarborough believes he spent a few days in the hills above the cottage, watching us,” said Bill. “That’s when he took the photographs of the twins.” He eyed me hesitantly. “Ivan Anton found evidence of a campsite, Lori.”

  “Where?” I asked.

  “Ivan found a tarp rigged up as a one-person tent,” said Bill, watching me closely. “He found it inside the old hedgerow.”

  “Inside the old hedgerow?” I repeated, as my stomach curdled in horror. “In the hollow where Will and Rob play?” I inhaled slowly and willed myself to stay calm. “My God . . . He must have been there when Percy’s helicopter landed.”

  “We think he was,” said Bill. “We think he overheard Percy talking about Gretna Green and going north of the border, and he deduced that Percy would take you to Scotland.”

  “Unfortunately,” Damian put in, “Sir Percy’s purchase of Erinskil Island was widely reported in the press. Alfred Spofford—or Abaddon, if you prefer—would have had no trouble locating Dundrillin Castle on the Internet.”

  “So he followed us north,” I said. “But how did he get onto the island?”

  “He bought a ticket on the ferry,” said Bill, “but since the ferry didn’t leave until the following morning, he spent the afternoon in the pub.”

  “Where he ran into Jack Nunen,” Damian interjected.

  “Jack . . . ?” I searched my memory until the name clicked. “The reporter from the Morning Mirror? The guy who was chasing after Peter and Cassie?”

  “That’s right,” Damian confirmed. “Mr. Nunen was in the pub, attempting to ferret out information on Peter and Cassie. According to witnesses, Abaddon engaged Mr. Nunen in a low-voiced conversation. They left the pub together. Shortly thereafter Mr. Nunen hired a powerboat. It was seen leaving the harbor at six o’clock, but Mr. Nunen wasn’t on it.”

  I tensed, remembering the gun. “Where was he?”

  “Abaddon knocked him out, tied him up, stole his wallet, and dumped him in a little-used shed in the marina,” Damian replied. “Mr. Nunen wasn’t found until early this morning. He’s in hospital on the mainland, with severe concussion.”

  I released a small sigh of relief but couldn’t keep myself from asking, “Why didn’t Abaddon shoot him?”

  “You may as well ask why he didn’t shoot Andrew,” said Damian. “I think he was saving the bullets for . . .” His words trailed off, and he glanced uneasily at Bill.

  “He was saving the bullets for me and the boys,” I finished. I licked my lips, which had suddenly gone dry. “I understand. He wouldn’t want to waste valuable ammunition on less-important targets.”

  Bill rubbed my leg. “Should we take a break?”

  “Am I swooning?” I inquired politely.

  “No, but
you look awfully pale,” Bill observed.

  “You’d look pale, too, if you’d lost eight gallons of blood,” I said brusquely, and raised my chin. “Please, go on.”

  My husband gave my bodyguard the age-old look of one helpless man to another. “I told her I’d stop if she showed signs of flagging.”

  “There’s no stopping now,” said Damian. “I’ve seen that determined glint in her eye before.”

  “So have I.” Bill surveyed my lifted chin appraisingly. “We could ask Dr. Tighe to sedate her.”

  “Just you try,” I growled, and decided to move the story along myself. “Abaddon arrived in Stoneywell Harbor, in Jack Nunen’s boat, around seven o’clock the night Peter went missing. How did he get past Cal Maconinch, Damian? Didn’t you ask Mr. Maconinch to check his ID?”

  “Abaddon stole Jack Nunen’s press pass and his driver’s license,” said Damian. “Both men were thin, clean-shaven, fair-skinned, and dark-haired, and Abaddon wore Mr. Nunen’s wire-rimmed glasses. The resemblance was close enough to fool Cal.” Damian sat back in his chair and stretched his legs in front of him. “Abaddon’s visit to the pub in Stoneywell wasn’t as cut-and-dried as Peter made it sound. He stayed there for quite some time before returning to his boat—long enough to confirm your presence on the island and to learn the location of your rooms. He also found out that the castle is equipped with an alarm system. Mrs. Muggoch, of course, told him about the Slaughter Stone.”

  Bill’s lips tightened. “The stone’s association with human sacrifice must have appealed to him.”

  “‘I will strike your children dead,’” I murmured, “‘and give your wife a like measure of torment and mourning.’”

  “We don’t know when he left the harbor,” Damian went on, “but several circumstances made it absurdly easy for him to enter the castle.” He held up one hand and ticked the points off on his fingers. “Cal left his post to join the elders in Dundrillin, so no one was keeping an eye on the boat. The storm obscured the cameras monitoring the side entrance. The power failure made it easier for him to override the alarm system.”