There, he'd broached the subject of his disastrous dalliance with Caroline Menzies. He held his breath to see how Angela would respond. She took her time.
"It seems you have some good ones too, and true friends in that place. You need to be honest with Donald about your feelings. Do you believe the bad can fade enough for the good to come to the forefront?"
It was a loaded question and he knew it. He wanted to convince Angela he'd moved on and was ready for a new relationship, with her. He wanted to convince himself, as well.
"Yes, with a little more time," he replied.
"Well, take my advice, Duncan, go back out to the labyrinth with some music. It may make all the difference. I'll talk to you soon."
Before he could say anything else, Angela had signed off and he was left alone, in his dark room at the Puffin, wondering if he'd ruined his chances with his former assistant.
-18-
Discipline & Refreshment
Duncan slept in fits and awoke spent. He enjoyed a large breakfast at the Puffin, but even the pot of tea did nothing to relieve his fatigue. Following Angela's advice, he loaded a pipe organ version of the famous hymn, Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise, onto his cellular as well as a recording with a choir. He'd heard the tune, originating from Wales, enough in the kirks he'd attended. He never bothered memorizing the words, but some came back to him. He tried to reach Angela, but she didn't answer her mobile. He hoped she didn't avoid him. He regretted not confirming with her the promised trip to help him find furnishings for his new office.
He entered Norcroft Manner, keeping an eye out for Viking. He did not intend to share the chapel with that cat today. Duncan checked the kitchen, noting the feline's food and water bowls, but the brute was nowhere to be seen. The Scotsman crept down the hall, not wanting to be noticed, should Viking be nearby. He didn't want that animal beating him to the labyrinth. Then, he'd have to find a way to shoo him from the room.
Dark clouds, from time to time carpeting the sky, had shed no rain, but managed to put a damper on any sunbeams trying to reach the manor. The promised storm's full wrath was expected that evening, and the chapel appeared gloomy in the dim light. Duncan propped his phone against the wall next to one of the slim windows and set his music player on repeat. The two versions of the hymn were all the music he had on his cellular. He adjusted the volume so the sound wouldn't bounce off the stone walls.
First, the instrumental version played while the investigator tried to relax and clear his mind of worries. He enjoyed classical music and this rendition proved stirring. In an odd way, his exhaustion added to his growing sense of peace. Immersed in the tune, he was too tired to fuss and worry about the Blue Bell, the case, Harold, or Angela. Then, the choral version played, and he heard the words:
Immortal, invisible, God only wise, in light inaccessible hid from our eyes, most blessèd, most glorious, the Ancient of Days, Almighty, victorious, Thy great Name we praise.
Duncan mumbled along with the choir, trying to remember the words. He found himself singing, "All laud we would render; O help us to see, ’tis only the splendor of light hideth Thee, and so let Thy glory, Almighty, impart, through Christ in His story, Thy Christ to the heart." He'd learned the stanzas as a young boy and they came flooding back now.
He stood and advanced into the labyrinth, taking his time while meditating on the sacred music's lyrics. Duncan focused on each word and what it meant to him. By the time he prayed for wisdom, the Scotsman was in the bird quadrant, the last before entering the center of the design. He asked for divine guidance regarding his relationship with Angela, this case, the Blue Bell, and Harold. When he reached the inner circle, Duncan thought of several sins to confess.
Before making his way out of the design, a shaft of light streamed in from the large round window. It hit his face, almost blinding him. It was ironic considering the words of the hymn. Duncan felt his prayers had been heard and a calmness settled across his mind, setting loose a peace and joy. He stood still, enjoying the warmth of the sun, until another heavy cloud drifted by, blocking the beam.
The investigator exited the labyrinth by its intricate paths, humming the hymn as he did. He was in no hurry now and even walked the mini-mazes of the tassels. A deep peace overtook him and he felt better than he had in over a year. While Duncan sat on the ledge next to the mosaic enjoying his new found peace, he heard scratching on the door to the chapel. He walked to his phone, turned up the volume and began another trip into the maze. By the time he'd traversed all its paths, Viking howled at the door with an almost human voice, pleading to be let in.
"Kitty thinks he's the Minotaur of Reggie's house and labyrinth," Duncan mumbled to himself.
He took one last turn at the maze, focusing on clearing his mind and thanking God for all the blessings he'd experienced in the past few months. He'd spent hours in the chapel, shut up by himself, and upon completing his final walk noticed the room had grown stuffy. Some fresh air sounded just the ticket.
He opened the door to the hallway, expecting Viking to rush the gates, so to speak. The cat had already given up and left. Duncan grabbed his coat and left the manor through the kitchen, half expecting the angry kitty to pounce on him from some hiding place. However, he reached the Vauxhall unscathed. Sunshine broke through evenly dispersed dark clouds, but the wind still blustered around the property.
Duncan had important choices to make. Should he grab something to eat in the village, go for a run, or have a walk around Norcroft Manor? His stomach was on empty, so he decided to hit the cafeteria, and then perhaps explore some of the island. He felt chipper, as if some weight had left his shoulders. As he turned from the drive onto Crooked Loaning, he spotted Julien returning from lunch and peddling his bicycle like there was no tomorrow, against the wind. It would be no picnic working outside in these conditions.
Once in the café, the Scotsman ordered a cup of soup and a turkey piece, or sandwich, with salad. It was the same lass behind the counter as when he'd come in with Harold at the start of this adventure. How a week or two can change things.
"On the end?" the girl asked.
"I'm sorry?" Duncan replied.
"On the end?" she repeated.
Perplexed, the investigator wondered why the lass would ask if he wanted lettuce on the end of his sandwich.
"All over, please," Duncan stated, moving his hand in a circular motion to signify he wanted salad slathered on top of his turkey.
"But do you want on the end?" the girl asked again, annoyed.
Duncan caught some movement from the corner of his eye and saw three strapping lads sitting at the end of the counter, glaring at him. They appeared as though looking for a fight. He turned to the lass and flashed his most dashing smile.
"Sorry, I'm not sure what that means," he admitted.
One of the big blokes pushed his stool away from the bar.
The cafeteria worker giggled and held up pieces of thin sliced white onion with a pair of tongs. The large local settled back onto his seat, assured the lass hadn't taken offense at the dimwitted interfere. Duncan's pearly whites had served him well.
"Oh, on-ee-on," the Scotsman exclaimed, pronouncing each syllable but without the local accent. He added, "No, thank you."
Duncan chose a seat as far from the counter as he could get in the tiny restaurant. He wasted no time polishing off his scran and left without further incident.
That was a close shave.
Between trees and village buildings, Duncan caught a glimpse of Beblowe Crag, the high point of the island where Lindisfarne Castle sat. Thirty meters above the rest of the island, it shone like gold in a ray of sun. A threadbare tapestry of low clouds moved past towards the mainland, allowing the occasional sunbeam to highlight a feature of the island. Duncan decided on the spot to spend his afternoon at the castle.
Parking his car next to three or four others, the investigator caught a glimpse of himself in the rear view mirror and tried in vain to smooth his windblo
wn locks. Looking like a mad scientist, he stepped from the vehicle, buttoned his coat and glanced around the near deserted area. A few sheep grazed behind a stone fence and beyond that, between the castle and the village, several boats bobbed in a small harbor. A sharp gust slapped the Scotsman across the face, convincing him it was time to move on.
Duncan walked up a dirt lane and onto a trail paved with stones, marked by a National Trust placard. Once past the sign, the path followed a steep incline up the side of Beblowe Crag. Not wanting to take a spill, he chose his steps with care, the walkway slick from the day's intermittent showers. Beyond the wooden guardrail, a cliff fell away to the sea on the right, while the castle seemed to sprout from the rock, like a cedar of Lebanon or some other hardy plant, to his left. He paused halfway up the pathway and looked over the fence. Below, wet rocks and brackish muck met water several hundred meters beyond the coast. He guessed one would sink like a rock in quicksand in that jumble. The North Atlantic would hide the muddle once the tide rose.
As he stared southwest to Bamburgh Castle on the mainland, a couple in their twenties, dressed like tourists, paused on the trail near him. They were close enough for the investigator to overhear their conversation. The visitors were clad in raincoats with their feet shod in matching wellies, prepared for the inclement weather. The man pointed back to the sands along the causeway and explained to his companion that lore held a witch's cottage was buried there, the old hag betrayed by the sea. The young woman commented the same would be their fate if they raced the tide later that evening. They laughed and continued away from the castle while Duncan drew in a deep breath and gazed at the peaks in the distance on the mainland.
He exhaled, noting that the brown hills had a dusting of snow at their higher elevations. Duncan raised the collar of his coat and continued up the pathway. He took note of what he guessed was lichen growing on the fortress. The plant was a bright mustard color. Maybe that's why the building appeared gold when hit by sunlight.
Once inside the castle, he read information regarding the crag, its volcanic origins, the 250 year military presence on the island and other interesting facts regarding its history. He all but had the place to himself, and imagined the threatening tempest kept most visitors away.
Duncan proceeded to a dining hall. He found it close, for a castle. Walls built of gray stone blocks met a unique lancet shaped ceiling of the same materials. Light entered through windows set back within the thick rock fortifications. The panes, topped with stained glass encased in intricate stone tracery, were held in place with arabesque carvings. Brass chandeliers hung along the apex of the pointed ceiling, and a modest wooden dining table nestled within the room.
A deep electric blue wall drew Duncan's eyes and his feet towards the room's exit and into a cozy sitting area. Modest in size and shaped as the previous chamber, it held several interesting pieces. Between light fixtures, a beautiful model ship hung from the ceiling's zenith. The investigator admired the boat's details as he wandered through. He noticed a long case clock which included animated paintings of tall ships bobbing on waves, in rhythm to the passing seconds, behind its glass. Duncan floated through various other rooms until he found the stairs to the battlements. Chiseled from stone, with just a rope as railing, the steep steps led to cold, fresh air.
Amazing views met him as he crossed to the walls and peered out over the narrow strip of water separating Holy Island from the mainland. The wind at his back, he had to keep brushing his hair out of his eyes and off his face, but was relieved to find a gap in the showers striking the island on an almost continual basis that day. Not a soul joined him on the roof. Scanning the Northumberland countryside, the Scotsman spied the Cheviot Hills in the distance, capped with a dusting of snow from the storm, and the neighboring Bamburgh Castle.
He strolled along the battlement until he faced south. Glancing over the edge, he saw the overturned hulls of ships that populated the isle. He continued east, until he met what appeared to be a guard tower built into the fortification. The small square addition had been whitewashed, unlike the rest of the castle, and had a red tiled roof. He looked down and saw the small walled castle garden. He spotted that young tourist couple, seated on a bench there, holding hands. Beyond, to the left, lay the village. Straight ahead, in the distance, he could see Norcroft Manor.
Duncan's eyes roamed over Reggie's home. He ignored the dilapidated Victorian addition and focused on the lived-in area of the dwelling. From atop Lindisfarne Castle, the chapel ruins looked like part of the house. The old Elizabethan E shape, altered by fire, looked like a lower case t with the addition of the chapel remnants. He could even see the crest of the old gnarled tree growing within its walls.
As Duncan filled his lungs with cold sea air and exhaled at a snail's pace, something drew his thoughts to the labyrinth, its colors and shape. Gusts of wind battered his hair, coat, and trousers, but he did not feel its effects. He envisioned the maze as if he walked it again, noting the gold mosaics used throughout. The designer placed the glistening tiles amongst each quadrant. In fact, those pieces led one through every section, to the middle of the labyrinth.
What if the gold represents the hidden riches of the monastery?
His heart rate began to quicken. The investigator took another deep breath and tried to stay calm. He hummed the hymn Angela had recommended, and it tempered his excitement. If the gold tiles represented the treasure, maybe the other colors in the labyrinth stood for something, too.
Duncan felt both sides of his brain firing at once, one of the supposed benefits of walking a labyrinth. He sent up a silent prayer asking for guidance and instantly became aware of the scent of the sea in his nostrils. He glanced at the ocean, surrounding the island except at the causeway. He thought of the ships bouncing on the waves in the clock downstairs and a compass rose, used to guide sea voyagers.
Could the labyrinth represent a wind rose or other guidance device, providing directions to the hidden wealth of the monks?
With its current orientation, the Greek key section faced east. Other than gold, its colors were peach and cream. The soft green Nazca line section faced north towards Scotland. The tan and brown circular section pointed west. That meant the blue, white and pink section indicated south.
Duncan spun and faced the mainland to the west. Those mountains in the distance were brown, white capped, and could be interpreted as round, just like the pattern in the west facing section of the labyrinth. The colors, shapes and direction matched.
He thought of his run at dawn to the eastern side of the island and how the intense pink of the rising sun had reflected off clouds, turning the ocean the same color and how later the effect faded, as the sun rose, to peach. The Greek key quadrant also fit his theory.
Duncan's heart now pounded within his chest, as he looked south, to the ocean and that part of the island where Harold said sugary sand dunes littered a hidden cove. Blue for the ocean, white for the dunes, and pink for the color of the water at sunrise. He felt as though someone guided his thoughts -- perhaps the Other.
Does it all make sense?
If one looked from Norcroft Manor in the direction of Scotland, one would spy green fields stretching across the flat island to the old priory. The same green appeared in the Nazca line quadrant of the cross, pointing north.
He made an effort to slow his breathing and his heart rate. He was on to something. He followed his line of reasoning back to the labyrinth. If its directions were accurate and it did in fact represent a guide, all the gold led to the center circle, where it disappeared among black and white tiles.
Where is the center of the island?
Duncan gazed out on the fields, hedgerows, stone fencing, sheep, and North Sea beyond. He'd have to order a geological survey. The island was an odd shape and there was no telling where its true center was.
Shape. The word echoed in his head. He stared at Reggie's house. It now resembled a t with a horizontal base across the bottom of the letter. But
, what if its shape were different a thousand or more years ago? If the ruined chapel, built upon an older structure, were included in the floor plan, and the Elizabethan front right wing ignored… the investigator felt the blood drain from his face and he gripped the stone wall for support. Norcroft Manor may once have been in the shape of a cross and its four turrets the tassles of the maze. The house itself was as much a treasure map as the labyrinth.
Duncan took one last look at Reggie's home and dashed from the battlements. He jogged through the castle, ignoring the scornful glances from the educators on duty, and ran down the path to his car, taking no notice of the slick trail. Rain drops began hitting his face like insects on a motorcyclist without a windscreen. He didn’t care. The Scotsman knew what lay at the center of Reggie's rabbit warren and where the treasure was hidden.
He fired up the Vauxhall and raced towards the village. Leaden clouds, driven over the island by the incoming storm, made the day seem later than the actual time. When Duncan pulled the car to a sudden halt in front of the manor, pea gravel flew in all directions. He darted from the auto to the kitchen door and ran straight for the chapel. Its door remained open just as he'd left it that morning. He grabbed Henry's pickax from where it leaned on a wall and tried to remember how to find the old well.
The other clues all came together, flooding his brain during the drive from the castle. David Norcroft somehow became intrigued by the storm of 1803, documented by Cornelius Walford, which ruined the manor's well. The missing family accounts must have noted the costs for capping off the spoiled water source and who did the work. That information led Reggie's grandfather to discover the location of the hidden gold and got him killed.
Even the hymns recommended by Angela held clues. Duncan repeated the lyrics, In light inaccessible, hid from our eyes: a perfect description of the well. He now felt his Savior's hand, present throughout this case.
Viking's meow startled the Scotsman. The cat sat in the doorway, eyeing his new nemesis. He meandered away, gliding down a dark corridor. The investigator spotted two green orbs in the shadows as the animal turned and shot him a look over his tail. Duncan followed. The feline led him straight to the small octagonal room and stopped in front of a dead mouse. Viking pawed the creature in a nonchalant manner, flipping it over to ensure the investigator took note.
Mystery: The Laird's Labyrinth: A Duncan Dewar Mystery of Murder & Suspense (Duncan Dewar Mysteries Book 4) Page 15