The investigator proceeded around the design at a slow pace, taking in its details. He felt sure the bloodshot eyes of the angel followed him as he went. The bird and griffin had interests elsewhere and the blooms only cared for the sun, but that angel gazed at him like a security guard from Marks and Spencer glares at a known shoplifter. Duncan ran his fingers through his thick, dark mane, and scratched his scalp. He wouldn't allow a collection of tiny tiles placed together eons ago by artistic monks to ward him off.
He entered next to the flowers at the base of the cross. The labyrinth funneled him left and into the small square that he thought of as a carpet tassel. The path of peach mixed with gold and cream, which began in the box's left corner, continued around the perimeter of this small quadrilateral until almost meeting itself. He then followed the lines into the middle of the appendage and back out to one of four Greek keys composing the bottom quadrant of the maze. He trailed the pathway through two of these designs before finding himself in the other lower tassel. Duncan stopped and glanced at each of the four squares in the corners of the labyrinth. They all contained the same pattern; a path around the perimeter and a dip in and out of the middle.
He progressed from the miniature maze back to the remaining Greek keys. Their sharp angles and lines stood in contrast to the round middle of the labyrinth and the curved upper spirals. Reggie's comments about sacred geometry flashed across his mind. Duncan wondered what hidden meanings might be planted in the paths he now walked. Another layer of the onion to investigate.
He trailed the network of lines from the base of the cross into the outer ring of the design's axis. He walked a quarter of the circle with its stark black and white tiles before this passage gave way to the left arm, where the Scotsman began chasing along what he thought of as Nazca lines. The blue, gold, pink and white marble mosaics formed a track that weaved back and forth, arriving at the top of the quadrant. This path was akin to turnstiles at an amusement park, with rounded corners.
He met the hostile angel half way through. Duncan gave the seraph a sidelong glance and continued on. He stopped when the trail met the center circle at the middle of the labyrinth. The Scotsman looked back at the pattern behind, then across at the other horizontal section. They reminded him of giant wings, perhaps that of a bird.
While he stood at the rim of the center, the light in the chapel dimmed. He glanced out the windows to see low, gray clouds filling the sky, the outer vestiges of the arriving storm front. The investigator proceeded around another quarter of the sphere and into the tan, brown and gold spiral, topped with a griffin in profile. As the detective walked this upper section, he noticed that the curved path consisted of two halves of a coil. Like a mirror image, each side of the spiral mimicked the other. Duncan skipped over the tassels and pursued the lines into and out of one side of the circle and forward to the next segment, before progressing around one quarter of the center of the labyrinth and out towards the last sector.
Back in Nazca lines, Duncan rounded the corners of soft green and gold turnstiles, looking at its bird as he went. This is the real rabbit warren, and perhaps the mythical fowl-like creature looked for his prey among this web of tiles. The Scotsman trundled through this sector without much thought until he turned the last corner and met Viking sitting in the center of the maze. He wondered how the cat got there. He hadn't seen him just moments before. The ability of Reggie's feline to appear at will unnerved him.
He shook his head, trying to ignore the cat, and entered the last quarter of the circular path around the middle sphere. It led to an inner circle, a channel to his destination. The break in the mosaic appeared opposite the lone opening to the labyrinth, right above the Greek key patterns where Duncan had first entered.
The investigator stopped, rotated, and took in the design from its core. A headache throbbed away at his temples. Viking rubbed against his leg. Duncan felt no different after traversing the labyrinth than he did before. What a letdown.
"Ouch!" Duncan yelled.
Tiny sharp blades penetrated his calf and shin while he shook his leg to rid himself of the beast. Viking clung to Duncan with his claws, glancing up at the Scotsman. He bent to throttle the cat and pull him loose, but the animal released his hold on the investigator and sauntered across the lines and out of the maze towards the chapel door.
"Good riddance!" he called after the cat, rubbing his leg.
Viking paused to sharpen his nails on the door jamb in a menacing manner. Ears pinned back close to his tiny skull, the feline stared at Duncan while fiercely raking his claws over the oak.
"Don't threaten me, you malevolent monster!" he said, voice raised as he advanced to the door.
Viking let him get within kicking distance before leaping into the corridor, the air rushing from his feline lungs with a brrrp sound. Duncan pulled the door closed behind the cat, blocking a future sneak attack, then collapsed on the ledge surrounding the labyrinth. His head hurt and he was hungry. Walking the maze had brought no new spiritual enlightenment, only puncture wounds and a probable infection. No telling where those claws have been.
As Duncan became more depressed, a shaft of light illuminated the circle at the center of the labyrinth. The clouds had parted long enough for a ray of sunshine to permeate the gloom of the chapel. He'd started the day with high hopes, been shocked by his brother and blindsided by his friend, not to mention injured by that cat.
His stomach grumbled as he wondered what would come next. Duncan glanced at his watch. He'd missed lunch, and tea time approached. It seemed he'd only spent minutes walking the maze, when in fact he'd been at it hours. Too bad Reggie gave Anna the week off. She'd have provided nourishment and company. Only Julien would be around, working in the garden. That was no comfort.
Later, he'd call Angela with the news that the labyrinth was a disappointment and that he'd gained no new enlightenment regarding the case. He decided to head back to the village and have a bite, maybe a pint as well. In spite of himself, a chippie sounded just right.
-17-
Tipsy at the Chippie
Feeling rather squeezed by his circumstances and not knowing if Penny's chippie offered ale, the investigator parked his car behind the Puffin and walked down Marygate to the Sailor's Inn. After his vision adjusted to the dim lighting, Duncan approached the bar, leaned on the counter and awaited the barkeep. A young man that looked like a relative of Julien's approached.
"What have you?" the bartender asked with the soft voice common to islanders.
"A pint," he replied, taking a seat at the end of the bar.
He didn't keep track of how long he sat in The Sailor or how many pints he drank. At some point, he tired of the atmosphere, of the locals gathering in small groups whispering amongst themselves, and Julien's doppelganger scowling at him from behind the counter. There was a definite unwelcoming side to Holy Island that met you if you strayed from your place in the predetermined scheme of things. An interfere had no business hanging around for weeks on end, stealing a local girl from the island, or meddling in affairs long since forgotten, or at least swept under the carpet. Duncan felt this antagonism now from the islanders in the Sailor's Inn. He paid his ticket and left. While the Scotsman experienced warmth and acceptance from many on Lindisfarne, this spot seemed a center of hostility.
A blast of arctic air met him as he rounded a corner onto Lewin's Lane, almost setting him back a few paces. Duncan leaned forward into the wind and wrapped his coat close around him, proceeding to the chippie. Deserted streets signaled the tide was in and that tourists, birders, and day trippers had fled for the mainland or taken shelter in their lodgings.
The wind caught the door and slammed it behind him. Marilyn glanced up with a disapproving look that melted into a smile when she saw who her lone customer was. Duncan smiled back in spite of himself. He was on a mission.
He staggered towards the counter where Penny waited with her demure smile. He guessed Marilyn let her out of the freezer more often, no
w that she was practically a married woman. Penny opened her mouth to say hello as her auntie gave her a gentle push out of the way. Tipping her head back in one quick movement, Marilyn signaled for her niece to retreat to the kitchen.
"Hello, Duncan. Are you well?" Marilyn asked.
How does she know my name?
"Mince," he replied, feeling the leonine lady had the advantage on him already.
He looked up at the menu board above the kitchen pass-through, but someone had toyed with the list, blurring the available items and day's special. Marilyn folded her arms across her bosom and waited.
"I'll have the mackerel with a poke," he said at last.
"Out of mackerel today, Duncan. Haddock's good. Are you sure you feel all right?"
"I'm steaming," Duncan replied, a mist of spittle spewing from his mouth.
The words were out of his mouth before he realized what he said. Admitting he was drunk was not what he'd planned.
"I see. The haddock is five pounds. Give me your wallet and take a seat," Marilyn commanded.
The investigator did as told, but had some trouble pulling the plastic chair from the table. It was so lightweight, it kept sliding across the room and tumbling over, getting caught on the legs of other chairs or smashing into neighboring tables. After several attempts, Duncan gave up and plunked himself at a different table where a chair was already properly positioned to receive his bum.
Marilyn came by with his wallet and meal. She brought him a glass of water and ordered him to drink. By now, Penny had reinstated herself at the counter and watched with interest. The aunt and chippie owner sat down with the Scottish detective.
"Were you craving fish or did you want to say something to Penny, Duncan?" Marilyn asked.
Duncan took a bite of his haddock. The crunchy coating gave way to tender white flaky fish with a wonderful taste of the sea. He swallowed a gulp of water and popped a chip in his mouth. Marilyn waited patiently, her face the picture of sympathy.
"Both."
"Well, why don't you finish up that water and your meal. Then, we'll talk."
Marilyn disappeared, only to return a moment later with another glass of water. She watched Duncan eat and drink without saying a word. Near the end of his meal, she fetched him a cup of black coffee and decreed he drink it down with a sharp nod of her head.
He obeyed without question since her commands, thus far, had resulted in his constitution improving. He no longer felt sick to his stomach, and someone had corrected the writing on the menu board. Still, he wasn't sure where to begin. When he first entered the chippie, he was prepared to make statements aimed at stifling Harold's relationship with Penny. Now he doubted that wisdom.
"Did you want to discuss something with us, Duncan?" she asked, batting her fake eyelashes.
He guessed the sturdy Marilyn knew exactly what he was about. He straightened his back.
"It seems the young folks' romance is gaining momentum and perhaps they are becoming too serious too fast," he stated in his most sanctimonious tone.
Marilyn burst into peals of laughter and pounded the table. Between guffaws she managed to say that Duncan didn't make a very good mother hen and that he needed to reinvigorate his repertoire of parental warnings, or some such drivel. It was a bit humiliating but luckily no other customers had drifted in the restaurant to witness the scene.
"That's enough, Auntie," Penny said from behind Marilyn.
The girl placed a hand on her aunt's shoulder, still bouncing up and down with each laugh.
She added, "You can leave me with Mr. Dewar now, I think the dinner rush is about to begin."
Marilyn stifled her howls of laughter, wiped a tear from the corner of her eye, and nodded at the lass. Then pushed herself up from her chair and waddled to the counter. He felt foolish being addressed by his surname, but he imagined he'd brought it on himself. Duncan noticed once at her post, Marilyn still kept a sharp eye on their table.
"My auntie means well, Mr. Dewar," Penny volunteered.
"Please call me Duncan. I'm afraid I came in a bit steaming from an afternoon at the Sailor. I hope I haven't offended anyone or been too much of a bampot."
"Not at all, Duncan. I want you to know how much I appreciate Harold taking me under his wing while he's here."
Huh?
"I'm not sure what you mean, Penny. I thought it was most likely the other way around."
"Oh, not at all, Duncan. You see, I'm going back to university in the winter and he's given me valuable advice about my studies and career. I'm only here on Holy Island to help my aunt out. I plan to return to work in the chippie next summer as well. Then, I'll have one more year and my degree will be finished."
The investigator felt his jaw drop again, but he composed himself with all haste, asking, "What are you studying, Penny?"
"I'm at the no return point. I have to choose between kinesiology or physical therapy. I haven't been able to decide which route to go. But Harold has been so helpful, pointing out things I hadn't thought of myself."
Penny grew more impressive by the minute. She tactfully let Duncan know she wasn't out to elope, had career plans and an I.Q. to match. Relief swept over the Scotsman.
"I'm very fond of your brother, Duncan," Penny added with all sincerity, avoiding his eyes by glancing down at the table.
"He is of you as well, Penny."
He wanted to add, I hope you'll be very happy, I'll be a groomsman at the wedding, I'd be honored if you named a child after me, et cetera, but instead just said good-bye to the lass and her aunt. How did Harold catch such a winner?
Duncan pressed his way through the gusts whirling down Marygate, seeking sanctuary from the temperature and squalls in his room at the Puffin. He checked the time to see if Angela was home yet. Most likely, she was still on the Tube. Exhaustion overtook him, and he dozed on the bed with the luxury of knowing that he wouldn't have to share that small space with Harold for a few days.
The Moonlight Sonata interrupted his nap. It was the ringtone he'd assigned to Angela. Not yet one hundred percent lucid, Duncan shuffled out of bed, stumbling over his suitcase on the way to the desk, only to discover he'd left his cellular on the mattress.
"Hallo, Angela?" he answered his mobile. "Is everything all right?"
"Yes, why would you ask?"
Duncan smiled as the voice of his darling lass resonated from the phone.
"It's rare that you ring me up," he replied, thrilled she had reached out to him.
"I couldn't wait to hear what happened when you walked the labyrinth. You did get to walk it, didn't you?"
"Oh, that," Duncan said, not bothering to hide the disappointment in his voice. He continued, "Let me tell you about my day…"
He recounted the day from what he assumed was Harold's first kiss to his foolish behavior at the chippie, filling in the details of the island romance and Donald's proposition, along with his letdown at the manor. He managed to pepper his tale with enough humor to keep Angela laughing.
"I think you were too distracted by your brother and friend and concentrating too much on the Nazca lines to experience the labyrinth properly," she remarked.
"Why would you say that, Angela?"
"Because you got your usual headache. That always happens when you think too much about a case or your fault tree analysis. I bet you were scratching your scalp too."
She knew him better than he realized. Duncan's thoughts began to wander to Angela's thick, lovely hair and shapely figure when her voice snapped him back to the present.
"Duncan, did you hear me?"
"Uh, no, sorry, can you repeat that?"
"I think you were putting too much pressure on yourself. You thought you'd have this incredible experience and solve the case this afternoon. That's why you drank too much in that pub -- expectations, disappointment and feeling sorry for yourself."
"No need to be so rough, Angela. I feel bad enough, thank you."
"Well, did you at least take my suggesti
ons?" she asked.
"Uh, what suggestions?"
"Playing music, repenting, that sort of thing," she said.
"I see you're bringing the blunderbuss out now. Is this you or your vicar speaking?"
Angela laughed.
"Listen, try something you know, like Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise. That's a favorite in Scotland, I hear. Download a version with pipe organ and play it softly while you walk the labyrinth. Confess your sins. I know you've racked up quite a few today alone!"
She laughed again. It was music to Duncan's ears.
"Any other suggestions? I'm writing this all down," he jested.
"Yes, stay out of your brother's love life and avoid that cat, if you can." She paused before continuing in a softer tone, "What did you think of Donald's offer?"
"Apart from being honored, I'm not sure. I’m not equipped to run an inn and I worry that he may have other expectations for me."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. I hope he's not getting his hopes up that something more than friendship brews between Skye and me. Don't get me wrong, I'm very fond of her, but like a brother."
"I see."
"What do you think of his offer, Angela?"
"I think you should look at the numbers. Ask him point blank what his expectations are. See if it makes any sense as an investment and service to the community of Taye. Your heritage is in that area."
Duncan hadn't thought of his clan ancestry since he'd gone to Spain. At one time the question of whether he was a MacNab or a Menzies was on everyone's mind. He didn't know if it mattered anymore.
"You know I have some painful memories associated with Taye," Duncan said without emotion.
Mystery: The Laird's Labyrinth: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder & Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 4) Page 14