“You probably did seem exotic,” I said. “Percy told us that they don’t get many visitors here.”
“Well, they won’t see Kate and me again,” said Elliot. “We’ll have our evening drinks in front of the fire in the library from now on. We don’t mind being stared at by Sir Percy’s portrait collection.”
He dropped us off at the castle’s main entrance, and we hurried up to the suite to shower and change. I showered, at any rate. Damian must have worked contortionist miracles in his powder room, because he was clean as a whistle and neatly dressed when we went down to join Sir Percy in the dining room.
We took our places at the table, and Mrs. Gammidge entered, carrying a tureen. As she removed the lid, the tantalizing aroma of crab bisque wafted through the air. My stomach growled its approval—our seafaring adventure had sharpened my appetite to a fine point.
Sir Percy opened the mealtime conversation in his own unique way by offering to replace the skull from the cove with one he’d received as a gift while visiting Borneo—“I don’t want Will and Rob to go home empty-handed!”—but I politely refused.
“The Borneo skull was a gift, Percy,” I said. “You’re not supposed to give away gifts.”
“True enough,” he agreed philosophically. “It’s the skull of an old chieftain, you see. Loaded with magic. I’d probably bring a curse down on my head if I gave it away. Still, it’s a pity the twins can’t keep the one they found. Boys like that sort of thing.” He turned to Damian. “Must you send it off to Glasgow?”
“It may aid the police in solving a crime,” Damian reminded him.
“Not likely,” said Sir Percy. “Not unless they’re still working on a case that’s several hundred years old.”
“What are you talking about, Percy?” I asked.
“The skull’s ancient,” he informed us. “You can tell by its color. I’m surprised you didn’t spot it, Damian.”
“I haven’t had a chance to examine the skull closely,” Damian pointed out.
“We have,” said Sir Percy. “God alone knows where it came from, but the poor blighter whose brains it once protected suffered a rather nasty end. Cranium cracked like a soft-boiled egg. It’s a wonder it held together all this time.”
“Sir Percy.” Mrs. Gammidge eyed her employer reprovingly. “There are more suitable subjects for discussion at table. I’m certain you can find one.”
“What? Oh, yes, sorry. Forgot myself.” Sir Percy supped his soup in silence for a moment before beginning again. “Andrew told me of your impromptu visit to Cieran’s Chapel. Did you enjoy the trip, Lori?”
“It was too wet to be enjoyable,” I replied. “But it was interesting.The barmaid at the pub thinks I’ve brought a curse down on
my
head by going out there.”
“The islanders are a superstitious lot,” Sir Percy acknowledged. “Erinskil’s not so different from Borneo when you get right down to it.”
“Did you know that a curse was associated with the Chapel, sir?” asked Damian. “It wasn’t mentioned in the dossier.”
“If I’d included every queer story I’ve heard about Cieran’s Chapel since I arrived on Erinskil, the dossier would have weighed more than I do,” said Sir Percy. “But now that you mention it, I’ll tell you a curious thing. A guest of mine—a chap who runs a major corporation—went out there once. Broke his leg two days later.” He shrugged. “Make of it what you will.”
“I’ll watch my step,” I promised.
“A bit too late for that.” Sir Percy waggled his soup spoon at me. “I heard about your run-in with the young oaf at the pub. Spilled tea all over you, didn’t he?”
“I’ll take spilled tea over a broken leg any old day,” I said, laughing. “And he’s not an oaf—he’s my next-door neighbor.”
“He’s . . . what?” asked Sir Percy, nonplussed.
“My neighbor,” I replied. “His name is Peter Harris, and he grew up next door to me. His parents are my closest friends in England.”
“Did they send him to keep an eye on you?” asked Sir Percy.
“How could they?” I said. “They don’t know where I am. Peter’s been away from home for the past year, studying seals on an island not too far from here. I don’t know what brought him to Erinskil, but I plan to find out. Damian and I are going to join him for a spot of bird-watching tomorrow morning.” I looked up at Mrs. Gammidge as she removed my empty soup bowl. “Would it be possible to have an early supper on a tray in my room tonight, Mrs. Gammidge? Damian and I are meeting Peter at seven, so I’d like to get to bed at a reasonable hour.”
“Nothing could be simpler, dear girl,” Sir Percy boomed. “Make a note of it, Mrs. Gammidge. An early supper on a tray for our esteemed guest.”
“If I might make a suggestion, sir,” said the housekeeper. “Ms. Shepherd could dine with her sons this evening. Dinner is served at six o’clock in the nursery.”
“A perfect solution,” I said.
“I’ll ask Cook to send breakfast up to you and Mr. Hunter at half past five tomorrow morning,” Mrs. Gammidge continued. “I’ll also ask her to pack a hamper for you, so you won’t have to hurry back to the castle for lunch.”
“Would you ask Cook to pack something for our friends as well?” I asked. “They’re young, so they’re bound to be hungry.”
“Of course,” she replied, and served the fillet of sole.
Damian withdrew from the conversation halfway through the main course and scarcely spoke a word as we rode the elevator up to the nursery to check in with the twins. He was clearly preoccupied, but when I asked if he was worried about anything in particular, he shook his head.
“Nothing in particular,” he answered distantly. “Something’s not right, but I can’t quite put my finger on it.”
“At the risk of sounding self-centered,” I said, “may I ask if this something has to do with me and the boys?”
“I don’t think so.” His eyes focused sharply on my face. “But I would appreciate it if you’d remain in your suite or in the nursery for the rest of the day. I’ll arrange for tea to be served in the nursery.”
“No problem,” I said, and refrained from quizzing him. I didn’t know what was bothering him, but I was confident that our early-morning rendezvous would allay any misgivings he might have about Peter Harris.
I spent the rest of the afternoon playing with Rob and Will in the nursery. Sir Percy had provided them with so many different games and toys, and Andrew was such a clever ringmaster, that they didn’t mind being cooped up. When I explained to them that Damian and I would be going out the next morning, they informed me that they’d be busy, too, playing knights-in-armor on the battlements with Andrew. As I watched them race their rocking horses, I became more convinced than ever that they’d beg Sir Percy to adopt them when it came time for them to return to their humdrum home.
After tea, dinner, baths, and bedtime stories, I returned to my suite and a phone call from my discouraged husband. Bill had spent another long day going through client files with Chief Superintendent Yarborough and would spend much of the night doing the same thing. Not a single lead had raised its ugly head.
“I feel so stupid, Lori,” he said. “I
know
my clients. I should know who Abaddon is by now, but I can’t for the life of me point to a likely suspect.”
“Don’t beat yourself up,” I told him. “If one of your clients has gone bonkers, then you don’t really know him anymore.”
“True, I suppose,” he said glumly.
“Has Abaddon sent any more e-mail?” I asked.
“Not a single line,” said Bill. “Yarborough’s concerned. He thinks it means that Abaddon’s moved from one phase to the next—from
sending
threats to
acting
upon them.”
I clutched the phone more tightly. “Is everything okay at home?”
“Yes,” Bill assured me. “I’ve touched base with Ivan Anton, Emma Harris, and Annelise. They’re fine, the animals are fine, and the cottage is still standing.”
“Let’s count our blessings, then,” I said, “and keep working to nail this creep. I know you’ll figure it out, Bill.”
“Time isn’t on our side, Lori. If Yarborough’s right about the e-mail, I have to find Abaddon quickly or—” He caught himself, took a steadying breath, and asked, “How was your day?”
He sounded so low that I didn’t have the heart to tell him about the skull, the ghost, the grave, the curse, or the unnamed “something” that was troubling my bodyguard. Instead, I gave him a jolly version of the day’s activities, beginning with the cricket match in the cove and ending with Peter Harris’s surprise appearance at the pub.
“Peter!” Bill exclaimed. “Are you kidding? Why in the world—”
“I don’t know,” I said for what seemed like the hundredth time that day. “He’s traveling incognito, so I didn’t get the chance to ask him why he’s on Erinskil.”
“
Peter Harris
is traveling incognito?” Bill said wonderingly. “
Our
Peter Harris? The dutiful, hardworking young man we know and love?”
“Yep,” I said. “That’s the one. Pretty incredible, huh?”
“Utterly incredible,” said Bill.
“We’ve arranged a clandestine rendezvous for tomorrow,” I said, “and I promise you, I’ll get the whole story out of him.”
“I’m sure it will be very interesting,” Bill understated. “Give him my best.”
After a fond good-night, I returned the phone to Damian, who was sitting in his armchair watching the flickering images of Dundrillin on his laptop.
“Have you put your finger on what’s wrong?” I asked.
“Not yet,” he replied. “But I will.”
“If you need a sounding board,” I told him, “I’m available.”
Damian looked up from the computer screen, and a faint but genuine smile touched his lips. “Thank you,” he said. “I’ll bear that in mind.”
I left him in the foyer with his laptop, crossed the sitting room, and stepped onto the balcony. The afternoon’s storm had blown itself out, the moon was rising, and stars were brightening in the twilit sky, but I had eyes only for the saw-toothed silhouette of Cieran’s Chapel. I stared at it until my eyes watered, but no light appeared. Finally I gave up, went back inside, and got ready for bed. Then I reached for the blue journal. It was time to bring Aunt Dimity up to date.
I curled myself into an armchair in the bedroom, with Reginald nestled in the crook of my arm, opened the journal, and said, “Dimity? Are you sure Brother Cieran has left the Chapel?”
Her reply came swiftly, curling across the page without hesitation.
Quite sure.Why do you ask?
I began at the beginning and went on describing the day’s events until I reached my conversation with the barmaid at the pub.
“Mrs. Muggoch agrees with Mick Ferguson,” I said. “They’re both convinced that Brother Cieran’s still haunting the Chapel. Mrs. Muggoch told me outright that the islet is cursed, tainted by the mortal sin of Brother Cieran’s suicide.”
How intriguing. Do Mick Ferguson and Mrs. Muggoch speak for the rest of the islanders? Do they all believe that Cieran’s Chapel is cursed?
“Mrs. Muggoch thinks they do,” I said. “According to her, everyone believes that bad things happen to people who go there. Mick Ferguson said his wife didn’t like him going out there, and Percy told us that one of his guests broke a leg two days after visiting the Chapel.”
Sir Percy added to the legend, did he?
I gazed down at Aunt Dimity’s words in puzzlement. “Do you think an evil spirit has taken over the Chapel, Dimity?”
I do not.There are no spirits, evil or otherwise, inhabiting the Chapel. If there were, I’d know it. The islanders and Sir Percy are either suffering from a mass hallucination or they’re telling fibs.
“Why would they lie to me?” I asked.
I have little doubt that our dear Sir Percy is exercising his well-known sense of humor. As for the others, it may be that they’re trying to frighten you.
“Frighten me?” I said. “Why?”
It’s a common ploy, one that’s been used throughout history. If you want to keep people from visiting a place, you scare them off.You tell them the place is haunted or cursed or unlucky. If you wish to take the scheme a step further, you use visual or auditory tricks to authenticate your claim. It’s been done more times than I care to count.
“The light I saw,” I said slowly. “Do you think an islander was out there waving a lantern just to spook me?”
It’s possible. If everyone on the island knew of your arrival, you can be sure that some, at least, know that your balcony overlooks the Chapel.
“But I didn’t find any footprints on the Chapel,” I protested.
Footprints wouldn’t be easy to find in the springy vegetation you described.
I shook my head. “I don’t know, Dimity. It sounds far-fetched to me. Why would the islanders want to scare people away from the Chapel? There’s nothing out there except the old laird’s grave. Unless . . .” I paused as a new line of reasoning began to take shape in my mind.
Unless?
Dimity prompted.
“The island’s not set up for tourists,” I said, thinking aloud. “There’s no proper landing facility for the interisland ferry, and there’s no hotel, just Mrs. Muggoch’s two guest rooms.” I sat forward as my thoughts crystallized. “Maybe the islanders
don’t like tourists.
Sir Percy said that they were keen on self-sufficiency. Maybe they don’t want day-trippers littering their fields or hogging their favorite tables at the pub.”
The so-called curse could be part of a general antitourism campaign. Is that what you’re suggesting?
“Sure,” I said. “Why not? I’ve seen what the summer crowds leave behind in Finch. The twins and I spend weeks picking trash out of the hedgerows. I think the people of Erinskil have come up with an extremely clever way to protect their island from the ravages of tourism. I only wish someone in Finch had thought of it a long time ago. I suppose it’s too late to put a curse on Sally Pyne’s tearoom.”
I doubt that Sally Pyne would thank you for it.