“I expect they will be, if the paparazzi ever leave them alone,” I said.
Paparazzi are like midges, my dear. They swarm from one warm body to the next, seeking fresh blood.When the story goes stale, which it inevitably will, they’ll move on to their next victim. Now, what’s all this about a conspiracy?
I curled my legs beneath me and shifted the journal to my lap. I was eager to review Cassie’s outrageous explanation for the islanders’ prosperity and to find out what Dimity thought of my sensible theory.
She didn’t think much of it.
A group inheritance could happen, I suppose, and clever investments might endow a community on an ongoing basis, but I’m afraid that the rest of your argument is weak. It doesn’t explain why the islanders have gone to such lengths to discourage visitors.
I felt a prickle of frustration. My hypothesis seemed sound to me. Why did it strike everyone else as preposterous?
“I’ve told you, Dimity,” I said patiently. “The islanders don’t want to share what they have. They don’t want crowds of newcomers to move in and spoil their beautiful island.”
You’re laboring under a misapprehension, my dear.The islanders could build a covered bridge to the mainland and they still wouldn’t attract crowds of permanent, full-time residents. Erinskil may seem like paradise at the moment, but its winters are brutal.The days are short, the nights are long, and the gales are nothing less than ferocious. It takes a special breed to endure such trying conditions for months on end. I’m sorry, Lori, but I can’t imagine rows of condominiums springing up on Erinskil, despite its fine school and modern medical facilities. One winter would be enough to send the vast majority of newcomers packing.
“But you can’t agree with Cassie,” I protested. “She’s being cynical and jaded, and you’re neither.”
One needn’t be cynical or jaded to accept Cassie’s explanation as the more likely of the two. One may simply be logical. I’ll grant that such a community-wide conspiracy would be difficult to maintain in a place like Finch, but we’re not dealing with Finch. As Peter pointed out, smuggling is a traditional pastime in the islands. It’s reasonable to assume that the islanders, unlike your neighbors, are good at keeping secrets.
“How admirable of them,” I muttered, but Dimity took no notice.
Furthermore, a drug-smuggling operation, using Cieran’s Chapel as a transfer point, would account for the mysterious lights you, Peter, and Cassie witnessed, as well as for the islanders’ zealous efforts to keep strangers away. Finally, I can think of no other commodity that would bring in enough supplementary income to pay for the luxuries you’ve described.
“But it’s so . . . unpleasant,” I murmured dejectedly.
If only we could build a wall to keep unpleasant things at bay. . . . We’d have to keep rebuilding it, of course, because unpleasant things have a way of chipping through brick and mortar. I agree with you, Lori, of course I do, though I would put it a good deal more strongly.The drug trade is immoral, corrupt, murderous, and altogether evil, and I hope most sincerely that Cassie is mistaken.What does Damian think of her allegations?
“Search me,” I said with a shrug. “He didn’t sneer at them, but he didn’t stand up and salute them either. He didn’t say much of anything about it.”
A pity. I’d be very interested to know his thoughts on the matter. Damian is a man of the world, after all—a man of the underworld, one might say, considering his profession. I’d value his opinion. Perhaps you could ask him tomorrow.
“I’ll ask,” I said, “but I can’t guarantee that he’ll answer. Damian’s as tight-lipped as an unshucked oyster, Dimity. I’ll be lucky if he—” I gasped and looked up from the journal. The lights in the suite had gone out all at once, as if someone had flipped a master switch. “Dimity? I think we’ve had another power failure. Do you mind if I leave you for the moment?”
Not at all. Run along and find Damian. He’ll know what’s going on.
I closed the journal and placed it on the ottoman. The bedroom wasn’t as dark as the dining room had been the last time the power had failed, but it was almost as spooky. The firelight created a host of queer, quivering shadows, and the moonlight streaming through the arched windows gave a cold, blue edge to the darkness. I rose from the armchair and made my way into the sitting room, pausing there to take the poker from its stand.
The foyer door opened a crack, and I raised the poker. Damian put his head into the sitting room, saw me, and stepped inside.
“No need to panic,” he said. “It’s a castlewide outage. Mrs. Gammidge is taking care of the problem as we speak.”
“Good,” I said, releasing a pent breath. “That’s good.”
Damian came forward and gently removed the poker from my grasp. “I approve of the sentiment, Lori, but it would be better if you left the heavy work to me. I’m sorry you were frightened.”
I ducked my head ruefully, remembering my pitiful reaction to the previous power failure. “You must think I’m a big baby.”
“Babies don’t usually defend themselves with pokers,” Damian pointed out.
“Nor do I,” I admitted. “I just picked it up because it’s the sort of thing people do in movies. I don’t think I could actually hit anyone with it.”
“You can’t know what you’re capable of, until you’re put to the test.” Damian regarded me gravely. “I hope you never have to find out.”
“Me, too.” I glanced back into the bedroom and caught sight of the nearly full moon’s reflection in the gilt-framed mirror—it looked like a pale, misshapen face peering out of a dark shroud. I gulped and sidled a step closer to my bodyguard. “What happens to the alarm system when the electricity quits?”
“A backup generator takes over,” he replied. “It would be foolish to be without one in a place where the power supply is so unreliable.” He returned the poker to its stand. “Why aren’t you asleep, Lori? I thought you were exhausted.”
“Too much to think about,” I said, and decided on the spot to make use of the opportunity afforded me by the power failure. Damian was wide-awake, and he seemed to be in a sympathetic mood—why wait until morning to discuss Cassie’s theory with him? I motioned for him to take a seat before the fire. “Would you be willing to hang out with me for a while? I’ve got so much on my mind. It would help if I could talk it over with someone.”
“As you wish.” He closed the foyer door and sat on the edge of the armchair I’d indicated, his back ramrod straight, his face wooden, his eyes focused on the fire. The sympathetic moment had evidently passed.
I sat in the armchair facing his across the hearth and studied his profile. I was at a loss to explain his abrupt mood swing until an amusing suspicion began to take shape in a wicked corner of my mind. I’d invited him to stay with me, in the dead of night, in a firelit room, with my husband far, far away and a king-size bed close at hand. . . .
“Relax, Damian,” I said. “I’m not planning to seduce you.”
He jumped as if I’d stung him.
“I . . . I never thought you were,” he stammered.
“I expect it’s the sort of thing that happens to you all the time,” I observed conversationally. “You’re not bad-looking, and you’re nicely put together, and you’ve got an intriguing scar on your temple.You’re a strong, silent, manly man—women must throw themselves at you.”
“Could we please change the subject?” he asked tersely.
“I don’t blame them,” I continued, as if he hadn’t spoken, “but I want to assure you that I’m not throwing myself anywhere near you. Even if I were playing the field, which I’m not, you wouldn’t be in the running. The strong, silent type has never appealed to me. In my experience, still waters run stagnant. Not that you’re
completely
stagnant, but—”
“Lori!” he exclaimed, turning at last to face me. “You really are the most
infuriating
woman. If you don’t change the subject this instant, I’ll—”
“I was just trying to get you to look at me,” I interrupted, with an air of injured innocence. “I didn’t want to spend the night talking to your left nostril. But admit it, you were a little worried about my intentions, weren’t you?”
Damian sat stock-still, staring at me, until a slow, slightly exasperated smile crept across his face.
“Yes,” he said, “I was a little worried about your intentions.” He eased back into his chair with a sigh. “It’s an occupational hazard. Fear makes some people needy. All too often they expect me to provide them with a variety of comforts not included in the contract.”
“You could add a subclause,” I suggested.
“No I couldn’t,” he responded sternly. “Emotional entanglements endanger me as well as my clients. In order to do my job properly, I have to maintain a certain level of detachment. Apart from that, it would be unscrupulous to take advantage of a client’s temporary dependence on me.”
“You’re a man of principle,” I said, bestowing upon him one of my highest accolades.
“I’m a businessman,” he countered, deftly deflecting the compliment. “Sleeping with frightened clients is not only distasteful and dangerous, it’s bad for business. It opens the door to endless recriminations as well as potential legal difficulties. When the danger’s passed, when my clients have recovered themselves, they are invariably grateful to me for refusing their invitations and readily recommend me to others.”
“Have it your way,” I said, folding my arms, “but I still think you’re a decent guy.”
“And I think we’ve talked about me long enough.” Damian cleared his throat peremptorily. “What’s keeping you awake, Lori?”
“Peter and Cassie,” I replied, and leaned toward him on the overstuffed arm of my chair. “What do you make of their crazy story? Do you think Erinskil’s a haven for drug kingpins?”
“I think . . .” Damian turned his gaze to the fire. “I think something’s not right.”
“But you can’t put your finger on it,” I said in a sudden burst of recollection. “That’s what you told me after we had lunch with Percy, when I asked if anything was bothering you. You said something’s not right, but you couldn’t put your finger on what was wrong. But that was
yesterday.
” My eyebrows shot up. “Are you telling me you knew that the islanders were up to no good before we ever spoke with Peter and Cassie?”
“I knew that the islanders were up to something as soon as we landed on Cieran’s Chapel.” Damian’s head swiveled as the lights came back on. “Well done, Mrs. Gammidge.”
I waved off the distraction. “Never mind Mrs. Gammidge. What did you see on Cieran’s Chapel?”
“Several things.” He paused, as if to gather his thoughts. “Mick Ferguson and Mrs. Muggoch have gone out of their way to convince us that the Chapel’s off-limits. It’s cursed, haunted, tainted, and so forth. They would have us believe that few people ever go there.”
“And those who do are rewarded with bad luck,” I said, recalling Percy’s story about the friend with the broken leg.
“If so few people visit the islet,” Damian went on, “why would anyone go the trouble of driving a ringbolt into the rock? The ring’s only purpose is to anchor boats. If boats rarely land there, why bother?” He pursed his lips. “The condition of the ringbolt is suggestive as well.”
I remembered Damian reaching out to tug on the iron ring before turning with Mick Ferguson to help me hop from Mick’s dinghy onto the islet’s slippery stone shelf.
“Suggestive of what?” I asked.
“The ring’s exposed constantly to seawater,” he said. “It’s either submerged by high tides or deluged with spray when the tides are low. Since it’s made of iron, it should be heavily corroded, but it isn’t. I can think of only one explanation: The ringbolt must be replaced at regular intervals and kept well oiled between replacements. Why take such good care of it if it’s so rarely used?”
Damian’s powers of observation were transcendently superior to mine. I’d been too busy keeping my balance to notice whether or not the iron ring was rusted, and it hadn’t for a moment occurred to me to wonder what it was doing there in the first place.
“Then there’s the matter of the old laird’s grave.” Damian rested his elbows on the arms of his chair and tented his fingers. “As you will recall, it lies at the bottom of a large, bowl-shaped depression. The depression isn’t natural—it doesn’t fit in with the rest of the Chapel’s topography. I believe it was created when the old laird’s grave was dug.”
I visualized the oblong stone slab with its Celtic lettering and realized that Damian was right. The islet’s surface was rough and uneven, but it held only one bowl-shaped hollow.
“The soil is quite shallow on the Chapel,” Damian continued. “In order to dig the laird’s grave, the islanders would have had to cut through solid rock—a time-consuming, laborious task. Why, then, did they dig such a large grave? Unless the laird was laid to rest in an enormous sarcophagus—which seems unlikely, given the size and simplicity of the grave marker—the hole could have been much smaller. Why didn’t the gravediggers spare themselves the extra work?”
The list of rhetorical questions I couldn’t answer was growing by leaps and bounds, but I didn’t mind. I was looking forward to the thrilling conclusion, when Damian would sweep aside the veil of mystery and reveal all.
“The old laird died in 1937,” he said. “It seems safe to assume that he was buried soon after the grave had been prepared for him on Cieran’s Chapel. In other words, the laird’s grave was closed and the marker put into place many years ago.” Damian’s silvery eyes glinted in the firelight as he turned his head to face me. “But I’m willing to swear that the ground around the grave has been disturbed much more recently. As recently, perhaps, as two days ago, when you, Peter, and Cassie, saw the strange lights on Cieran’s Chapel.”
I tried to look intelligent, even though I was totally at sea. Damian had clearly given me a monumental clue, but I had no idea what to do with it. My best guess was so far-fetched that I could scarcely bring myself to voice it, but he sat there expecting a response, so I tamped down my misgivings and offered one.