"Pardon?" the investigator said, running his hand across his scalp.
Use of the term labyrinth had rattled him.
"Yes. Those without access to a labyrinth, but wishing to practice that spiritual discipline, often trace one with their finger. They might utilize a photo or drawing of an actual design to accomplish this. The veil is very thin here on Lindisfarne, you know."
"I've noticed that," Harold, who had joined his brother, chimed in.
Huh? What are these two talking about? Duncan was about to question Lucy further when Harold struck up a conversation with the lady. His younger brother inquired about the origins of the colored inks used in the Gospels, leading her to the interactive display. The investigator turned back to the glass cases, careful to clasp his hands behind his back.
Duncan examined the entire exhibit. By the time he became aware that the Heritage Centre was crowded, several hours had passed, and he had a headache. By the number of people in the room, he guessed the tide was still out, and visitors had driven onto the island. He walked the area, but there was no sign of his brother. Funneled through a gift shop on his way out, he spotted Harold, his arms full of purchases, chatting with Lucy. The investigator purchased a postcard with a photo of Saint John's carpet and motioned to his brother that he was leaving. Harold joined him outside a moment later.
"Where to next?" Harold asked with enthusiasm.
-8-
Big Mo and the Veil explained
After each downed a piece at a small cafeteria, the brothers watched as dark clouds released a deluge on the village. From the window at their table, they spied tourists unfastening brightly colored umbrellas, struggling against the wind to keep them open, and scrambling into the various shops up and down the street. Quite a few visitors had crossed onto the island at low tide and the town appeared crowded.
Their lunch, consisting of hot turkey sandwiches smothered in gravy, had been mediocre at best, but at least it was quick. Duncan used the break as a chance to stretch his eyes and fill his stomach. His headache soon receded.
"You know, I'll never have a chance with a lass as long as you and Angus are around," Harold said out of the blue.
"Whatever do you mean?"
His brother had been almost silent during their meal, but that wasn't so unusual.
"I fancied that girl at the register, but as soon as she saw you with your lovely green flecks, she forgot all about me," his brother said under his breath, darting his eyes back and forth from Duncan to the cash register at the back of the cafeteria.
"Stop that, Harold. Someone will assume you're having a seizure."
The lass who took their money had commented on the green in Duncan's otherwise brown eyes. He assumed she was just being pleasant and hadn't given it another thought. Now he glimpsed over his shoulder and found the lass looking at him.
Duncan scowled, faced Harold and said, "I'm sure she's been told to butter up the customers. If you'd paid, she might have mentioned the lovely lapis lazuli rings around your pupils."
"I'm serious, Duncan. You never notice the girls who stare at you or make chit chat all of a sudden. Angus just assumes every lass will fall for him and many do. You know, I'd like a girl of my own someday."
"There's plenty of time for that, Harold. Just practice your conversation skills."
His brother shook his head and continued, "You blew it with Caroline. She couldn't have been all bad. I really liked her, but I'm sure you'll find someone else. Angus has Angela and… "
Duncan felt the heat of anger flash across his face.
He interrupted his brother, "Angus does not have… "
"Is there anything else I can get you?" a soft female voice from behind asked.
Duncan felt a touch on his shoulder as the pretty lass from the register interrupted his protest, smiling.
Harold tucked his lips inside his mouth and raised his eyebrows as if to say, I told you so.
As soon as the rain died down, they made a dash for their room at the Puffin. Harold said he needed to check in at work, and Duncan hoped his companion would be happy to spend the afternoon at the inn by himself. As he checked his messages, he overheard part of Harold's conversation. It didn't sound as if his brother were speaking with anyone at the garages.
After Harold hung up, Duncan asked, "What was that all about?"
"Oh, Big Mo needed my predictions for the next couple of weeks."
"Big who?"
"Big Mo. Works out of the back room at the Golden Fleece. Runs numbers, takes bets, that sort of thing," Harold replied nonchalantly.
The investigator lowered himself onto the bed, his mind racing. His brother proved a poor judge of character, first defending Caroline Menzies and now revealing an association with someone running a racket. He knew his brother had a gift for statistics and had worked out a successful means of predicting football results. Harold picked up extra cash betting on the games each season. But Duncan had no idea his brother was tangled up with a character named Big Mo. His family frequented the Golden Fleece as well, and he never guessed a bookie operated at the pub.
"What have you gotten yourself into, Harold? Seriously, providing predictions for someone named Big Mo!" Duncan exclaimed, exasperated and worried.
"Well, his real name is Moses, Moses MacDonald, but he felt using his Christian name a bit sacrilegious based on his line of work. Didn't want a lightning bolt or that sort of thing. So he shortened his name to Mo."
Huh? The investigator shook his head and ran his fingers through his thick black hair, tugging on a tuft with a small knot.
"I'm glad to see you've found yourself a theologian to pal around with! Why on earth would you get mixed up with someone like that? You make plenty of money on your own wagers, and I know Angus pays you a decent salary. What if Mum finds out?"
"I don't think Mum is the type to lay a bet with Big Mo! If you don't tell her, she'll never know. Besides, I've gained more from Mo and his associates than money."
Duncan didn't want to hear what else Harold had picked up from Big Mo, but he had to gain an understanding of what his brother was doing.
"You aren't involved in any other unsavory dealings, are you, Harold?"
"What I do for Big Mo and his boys isn't grotty, and no, I'm not involved in any other business ventures. They're good to me, Duncan, and I've learned a lot from them. I just let Mo know what my picks are, and he places his own bets, changes his odds, et cetera, based on my advice."
Great. Now it's Big Mo and his boys. My brother associates with jakey people and is in a gang.
"What happens if your predictions are wrong, Harold? What would Big Mo and his boys do to you if he lost money from your advice?"
"I'm hardly ever wrong," Harold said in a matter-of-fact tone, opening one of his new books from the Heritage Centre and perusing its table of contents. "Besides, I know where the bodies are buried," he added, laughing.
"That's not funny, Harold. That's the kind of thing that can get a person killed!"
"I jest, Duncan. I always manage my risk, you know, scatter my bets across the odds. That's how I come out on top. I do the same for Big Mo. Dinnae fash yersel."
The Scotsman looked over his brother. Harold appeared much younger than his actual age. Tall and gangly with red hair, freckles, and an innocent face, he could pass for a schoolboy. There was no point in continuing this conversation now. He'd discuss Big Mo with Angus later and decide at that point what must be done.
"Harold, would you mind doing your own thing this afternoon while I meet with my client?"
"Not at all, Duncan. I want to get a start on my reading," he proclaimed, reaching to the desk where he'd deposited his cache of materials and tapping the book on the top of the pile. He continued, "With the rain, I think I'll just stay put and read in the room. Will you be back for tea?"
"I'm not sure. But, I'll give you a ring before then. Enjoy your books," Duncan said as he gathered his things and ran for the Vauxhall.
The rain had picked up again, but the sun threatened to appear at any moment. He tried to clear his head of Big Mo and his boys as he drove to Norcroft Manor. Nothing could be done about his brother's situation now. His mum wouldn't step foot in the Golden Fleece if she knew that a gangster had set up shop in the private room in the back. In fact, several years ago, they'd celebrated his father's birthday in that very room with friends and family. Ach!
"Come in and hurry," a petite woman, silver hair pulled into a tight bun at the back of her head, proclaimed with a shudder.
It wasn't raining, but a cutting wind still blew and with the temperature hovering around twelve degrees, the housekeeper took a chill.
He ducked into the foyer and said, "Hallo, I'm Duncan Dewar and I'm here to see Reginald Norcroft."
He assumed this was Anna, the housekeeper and maker of delicious stews and sandwiches. She couldn't be more different than Dottie Peckham.
"May I take your coat?"
Anna grinned and released a small giggle as she reached on tip toes to pull Duncan's jacket from his shoulders before he could reply.
"You’re a tall one, and a handsome chap too," she declared with a wink before allowing her blue eyes to bounce up and down over the Scotsman.
Anna folded his coat over her left arm and squeezed the investigator's hand.
"Strong, too," she continued in her sweet singsong accent.
The tiny housekeeper moved like lightning and didn't give Duncan time to feel uncomfortable.
"Follow me, Sir," she added, sashaying ahead of him into the grand hall as her long pleated, English calico skirt swished.
"Ah, young Duncan has arrived," Reggie proclaimed from a chair by the fire, looking every bit the English gentleman.
Donald sat across from the laird, grinning from ear to ear. The housekeeper continued her march through the hall. Near the dining table, a black cat sprung from under a chair, attacking the housekeeper's hemline. Anna ignored the feline who followed her as she disappeared through a doorway at the opposite end of the room.
"Positively Baltic out there, isn't it, Laddie?" the innkeeper said, his lips still parted and turned up at the corners. "I see ye've met Anna."
"Uhm, uhm," Duncan cleared his throat before continuing, "yes, she took my coat."
Both men burst into laughter and Donald said, between guffaws, "And yer composure!"
"She means no harm, Duncan. She can be a bit too familiar at times, but she's just on the lookout for a match for one of her granddaughters who have left the island. Her family has been with the Norcrofts for years, so we're on close terms," Reginald added.
The investigator took a seat and decided to change the topic. He wanted to make some small talk and ease into his findings later.
"Yes, it's frigid outside, but at least the storm gave over. I spent the morning at the Heritage Centre. Oh, by the way, my brother Harold joined me unexpectedly at the inn. We both saw the Lindisfarne Gospels exhibit."
"Ye don't mean ye are cooped up together at the Puffin?" Donald asked.
"We're making do. There are no other rooms currently available. He's there now, enjoying the books he bought this morning."
"How long is he staying? We could have both of you here at the house," Reggie offered, shifting his gaze to the innkeeper for approval.
The owner of the Blue Bell nodded his agreement.
"Oh, that's kind of you. Let's wait a day or two and see what plays out. There's no telling with Harold. He could leave tomorrow or decide to stay on for the winter," Duncan joked and all three laughed.
"I'd be most pleased to meet him and host the both of you. I'll ask again in a day or so. In the meantime, why don't you two have dinner with us tonight?" Reginald suggested.
"Thank you. We'd love to come."
"What did you think of what you saw of the Gospels, Duncan?" Donald asked, lifting an eyebrow high on his forehead.
"Brilliant! It's hard to fathom the devotion that went into them. The carpet for Saint John's Gospel fascinated me the most. Its colors are similar to your mosaic, Reggie. I got scolded by the educator for tracing its patterns on the display case. I wasn't even aware I was doing it!"
"Really?" Reginald said, shooting Donald a look.
"Yes. Then the educator, her name was Lucy, said something about the veil being thin here. Do either of you know what that means?"
"Aye," Donald replied, both men nodding at Duncan.
The older men exchanged knowing glances, and Reginald was the first to speak.
"There are several places, here in England, where the veil between the physical and the spiritual world is thin. Many people can feel it when they step foot on Holy Island. Some non-believers are even converted to Christianity on the spot. In the old days, they referred to it as Sensing the Other."
"I'm not sure I follow. I have to admit, I don't think I feel anything particularly different here," Duncan said, looking around the room.
Again, there was a pause and both of the older gentlemen exchanged glances before Donald spoke.
"Well, Laddie, ye may not be that spiritual of a person. Dinnae fash yersel and dinnae be takin offense. Ye're young yet and could still change. Attending the kirk dinnae make ye spiritual minded of itsel. I dinnae feel it when I first came to Lindisfarne either."
Huh? Duncan's head was starting to pound again.
"Why would this spot be any more spiritual or further open to the spiritual realm than another?" Duncan asked, straining to keep from sounding incredulous.
"No one knows for certain. However, those places where the veil is thought thin are areas Christianity first took hold and where prayers have been offered up, continuously for centuries. The early church centralized its ministry in these spots and monks, priests, and other servants of God focused on worship and meditation," Reginald offered, adding, "we're talking about spiritual disciplines practiced for over a thousand years here on Lindisfarne. They've had their effect. Holy Island is known as the Cradle of Christianity for the United Kingdom."
The investigator pondered the information Reggie shared, staring at the fire. Familiar with the power of prayer, he'd witnessed its effects over the years. When he thought about it, he knew prayer had a way of changing things, either the situation or the people involved. His parents prayed together on a regular basis and never made important decisions without doing so. He'd overheard them praying about returning to Scotland from the States when he was a boy. He was miserable in America and had prayed himself, many times, to be able to go home. Then, he witnessed circumstances arise that made his parents depart the US. He believed those conditions were an answer to his boyhood prayers and his parents' requests for guidance.
A loud pop from the fireplace brought Duncan back to the present. Donald was dozing in his chair, but Reginald watched the Scotsman intently, petting the black cat now on his lap.
"There's something I need to tell you, Reggie. I ran my fault tree analysis program last night and you should know the results."
"Fault tree?" Donald said, shaking himself from his nap.
The innkeeper shifted in his chair and leaned forward, excited.
"Have ye solved the case already, Lad?"
"No, I'm afraid not."
Duncan paused and looked from Reggie to Donald and back again.
He continued, "I ran the program with the facts I gleaned from those old newspaper articles about your grandfather and his disappearance, as well as information you shared with me, Reggie."
He paused again to draw in a deep breath.
"Well?" the innkeeper asked, impatient.
Duncan glanced at Reginald, who nodded for him to continue.
"I'm sorry to say this, but I don't believe your grandfather's death was an accident. There's no way he would drive his beloved Baby Austin across that causeway as the tide approached. He'd spent years on the island and was familiar enough with what would happen if one tried. Also, he could have just telephoned anyone he was desperate to reach on the mainland.
"
"What do you think happened, then?" Reggie asked.
"I think someone killed him and made it look like the tide swept him away."
Reginald never knew his grandfather, but his face still reflected pain and horror at this news. The investigator hated to deliver this intelligence, but his program didn't lie. The chances of David Norcroft rushing across the causeway and getting washed away with the tide were less than five percent, per his analysis. Duncan didn't believe he staged his own death, either, and had run a cursory fault tree for those circumstances. No, someone did away with David, and the Scotsman believed it was related to the labyrinth and the missing page from the family ledger.
Anna interrupted an uncomfortable silence, carrying a tray of tea things. The older woman dressed the table with care using a lace trimmed table square, serviettes, silver tea pot, cups, saucers, and other dainties.
She approached the men and announced, "Tea is served."
Reginald looked at Duncan.
"Quite right. Let's all have a spot of tea and forget about this dreadful news for a few moments," he said, rising as Viking leapt from his lap.
Man and cat trailed after Anna towards the table. Donald and Duncan followed, the innkeeper giving the investigator a scowl.
"Will you join us, Anna?" Reggie asked his housekeeper.
"Yes, I believe I will," she responded.
The group gathered where the housekeeper had placed the linens, at one end of the long table. Reginald sat at the head with Donald at his left and Anna to his right. Duncan took the only remaining place, next to Anna. The innkeeper led a lively conversation about the weather and the fall bird-watching season, to start in earnest in about a week. He was trying to distract his friend and lighten the mood.
Strong, hot and black, the tea soothed the party. Anna's tiny cucumber sandwiches and pastry puffs filled with crab tasted delicious. Scones with clotted cream and black currant curd finished the tea and sated all appetites.
Anna poured everyone a second cup as Reggie remarked, "We're having special guests tonight for dinner. Not only is Duncan joining us, but his brother is also visiting the island and both will come for dinner."
Mystery: The Laird's Labyrinth: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder & Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 4) Page 7