Death on Lindisfarne

by Fay Sampson

  “Yes, dear. I’m Frances, by the way. Call me Fran. And like Dave says, we’re retired. Used to run a children’s home. We love kiddies.” She turned a warm smile on Melangell.

  Lucy’s heart sank at the same time as she heard the stifled gasp from Rachel beside her. This was all she needed. Rachel had spent much of her troubled childhood in a residential home. It was something she found difficult to talk about. Lucy had no idea what had happened there, but it had clearly not been a happy experience.

  She glanced at the teenager with concern. Rachel was curled up in her chair, like a frightened animal that expects to be hit. Her face was covered by her hanging hair.

  Lucy sighed. The Cavendishes were clearly an innocent, well-meaning couple who loved children. But their very presence and the associations they brought might be enough to undo the healing Lucy was trying to bring to Rachel.

  It was only the first day, and she was already beginning to question the wisdom of bringing this disparate group of people together, with their human problems. But she was committed now.

  She put a hand reassuringly on Rachel’s knee. The girl was shivering.

  Chapter Six

  AIDAN SAW THE DOOR BEHIND LUCY burst open. She turned sharply.

  A large untidy young man in horn-rimmed glasses rushed into the room. He stopped abruptly. Dark hair flopped over his broad face. He was panting.

  “I haven’t found her,” he said to Lucy. “I’ve looked everywhere. I…” His dark eyes went past her. “Rachel! You’re back!” A grin flowered over his perspiring features.

  He looked around at the crowded room, as though he had only just noticed the others. “Sorry, everyone. I’m Peter. I guess I’ve missed the intro. Typical.”

  Lucy smiled at him warmly. “Peter’s another friend of mine,” she told the group. “An archaeology student.” She looked at her watch and seemed to make a decision. “Right, people. I think we’ve got time before supper to make a start. If you’d like to get your jackets and meet me by the front door in ten minutes, I’ll show you where, for me, the story begins. And I can assure Elspeth it’s not sentimental.”

  Melangell jumped down from the sofa arm.

  Frances Cavendish struggled to hoist herself off the cushions. She grumbled, “No one told me this was going to be a walking holiday.”

  Lucy caught the protest on her way out of the room. She turned in apology.

  “I’m sorry! I should have asked. Does anyone here have mobility problems? It’s not far – honestly. I’m not taking you on a route march before supper.”

  David Cavendish helped his wife up. “Don’t listen to her, love,” he said cheerfully to Lucy. “She’ll be fine. We may not be as young as we were, but there’s life in the old bird yet.”

  “Here! You mind who you’re calling old!” his wife retorted.

  As they made their way upstairs to fetch their coats, Melangell turned to Aidan on the landing with a bright light in her eyes. “Did you see? That girl? She had a tear in her ear. There was blood on it. As if someone had pulled her earring off. Bet you it was the one I found.”

  Aidan gave a start. His normally sharply focused eyes had not noticed this.

  “You’ll have to ask her about it.”

  Aidan had half-expected the shrinking Rachel to be missing from the party that gathered outside the front door of St Colman’s House. But she was there, a huddled figure beyond the edge of the group. Instead of the red jacket, she wore a shapeless black coat that reached nearly to her knees.

  Lucy looked flushed. He wondered if there had been an argument. The large ungainly student Peter was standing behind the girl, like a protective sheepdog.

  As he stepped out into the keen breeze of late afternoon, Aidan’s eyes sought Rachel’s face. Had Melangell been right about the blood on her ear, the torn lobe? Could anyone here have used force on the girl, so soon after their arrival? Who? Why?

  Her limp curtain of hair made it impossible to see.

  It occurred to Aidan to wonder whether it had been wise of the young minister to bring such a problem with her when she already had the responsibility of leading this group.

  And where did Peter fit into their story?

  Lucy led them down the now quiet road. The strait ahead was filling. Soon there would be no more traffic across the causeway.

  Past the car park, she turned off onto the sands. Melangell tugged Aidan’s sleeve.

  “It was here, wasn’t it? Where we came across the Pilgrims’ Way? Where I found the earring.”

  Aidan looked out along the line of poles that marked the route they had taken from the mainland. The water now lapped around all but the nearest ones. Out in the middle, the current would run deep and strong. There was that little refuge on stilts. It hadn’t been foolish of him to take Melangell across that way, had it?

  Lucy walked down on to the beach and seated herself on a grass-tussocked bank of sand.

  “It’s best if you face the water.”

  Elspeth Haccombe made more of a fuss of arranging her tweed skirt than was necessary, wanting to assert her presence rather than let Lucy take centre stage.

  Then there was silence. An absence of voices that gradually filled with the whisper of the waves and the sigh of the wind in the grass.

  Out of that stillness, Lucy’s voice came with more authority than Aidan had expected.

  “I want to take you back to the year 590. The future of Northumbria hangs in the balance. Celtic Britain has been Christian for centuries. Don’t believe those who tell you Augustine brought Christianity to us in 597. They’re only talking about the heathen Anglo-Saxons in the south-east corner of England. Here in the north, the Anglian invaders are only just getting a foothold. Do you see there, down the coast, those ramparts on the cliff?”

  The square silhouette was just visible in the early evening light.

  “Bamburgh. It was a stronghold long before the Normans built that castle. By 590 the Angles had seized it. But all across the north there were the old Christian kingdoms of Britain. And the greatest of their kings was Urien of Rheged. From his capital in Carlisle he ruled from Galloway to Shropshire. He summoned the other Celtic kings to his banner to drive the invaders out: Rhydderch of the Clyde, Fiachna of Ulster, Morcant, whose land here the Angles had taken, and many more.

  “The Irish king Fiachna captured Bamburgh from the usurpers. They harried the heathen and drove them back to this last redoubt, here on the island of Lindisfarne, which the Celtic Britons called Metcaud. They were on the brink of beating the invaders completely and driving them from our shores. Urien and his host were massed on those sands opposite us. They blockaded the Angles on this island for three days and three nights.

  “They almost did it. They were in sight of total victory. But something terrible stopped them. Over there, just across the water, someone assassinated their leader, King Urien of Rheged.

  “Rumour has it that it was Morcant, who had been king here before the Angles took his land. He was bitter that Urien had given Bamburgh to Fiachna of Ulster, and not back to him.

  “However it was, the blood of the greatest British king of the sixth century was spilled in the sand. And with it went the hope of a Christian victory. The lesser kings quarrelled and broke up. The heathen Angles took back their conquests. Lindisfarne was never called by its Celtic name of Metcaud again.

  “The bard Taliesin sang the praises of Urien in the oldest surviving poem in Europe:

  “A head I bear by my side,

  The head of Urien, the mild leader of his army,

  And on his white bosom the sable raven is perched.”

  Her voice died into the weeping of the waves.

  In spite of himself, Aidan shivered. He had not known this story.

  After a while, Frances Cavendish stirred. “Very nice, I’m sure.” Her tone meant something else.

  “And what exactly was the point of that?” Elspeth said more loudly. “Though I grant you it certainly wasn’t sentimental.
Unless you mean to show us the capacity of the Celts to snatch defeat out of the jaws of victory.”

  Lucy laughed. “Something like that. I rather hoped you might contribute your own thoughts about what it might mean. And yes, that’s a start.”

  There was belligerence in James’s voice. “You sound anti-English. Aren’t you English yourself?”

  “A mixture, like all of us, I suppose. I have ancestors on Tyneside. I like to think that some of my genes go back before the Anglo-Saxons to the Celtic Britons of the north, the people who fought the Northumbrian Angles.”

  “Well, I’m proud to be English. I don’t like the way you rubbished Augustine of Canterbury. Because of him, the English spread the word of God across the world.”

  “Don’t worry, James. All in good time. I can assure you there are plenty of Anglo-Saxon saints to come.”

  The discussion became more general.

  Aidan looked across at Rachel. She was sitting a little apart from the rest, with her knees hunched before her. Her head was lifted now to stare across the strait at the once bloodstained beach opposite. The wind lifted her hair. Just for a moment, Aidan saw what Melangell had: the slit in her earlobe, as though someone or something had torn the ring through her flesh.

  Was it the earring Melangell had found? Who, then, had been that larger figure in his photograph?

  He looked around him, at the brown leather bomber jacket James was wearing; Elspeth Haccombe’s brown tweed coat. Even Peter, who had been searching for her, wore a shapeless khaki anorak.

  “Well,” said Lucy, getting to her feet. “I guess Mrs Batley’s supper must be on its way.”

  As they trooped back to the road, Melangell stayed looking out over the grey water.

  “Is it really true? Where we walked down to the crossing this afternoon – that’s where he was murdered?”

  Aidan laughed to reassure her. “That was a bit more bloodthirsty than I expected for a start. But you don’t have to worry. That was more than a thousand years ago. I’m not expecting a murder on the sands while we’re here.”

  Chapter Seven

  “I DON’T LIKE LEAVING YOU ALONE.” Lucy stood at the door of the garden bedroom, tense with indecision. “At least come and get something to eat.”

  “I’m not hungry.” Rachel’s voice was muffled.

  “I’ll get Mrs Batley to keep something for you and I’ll bring it back with me.”

  “You’ve got things to do. Never mind about me.”

  “I do mind about you. I mind a great deal.” Lucy longed to go back and put her arms round the girl again. None of the comfort, the coaxing, the prayers she had offered seemed to be doing any good. Rachel still sat curled in a tight ball on her bed, hugging her unhappiness to her.

  Holy Island, which Lucy had hoped would cast its healing spell over her, seemed to have had the opposite effect. Rachel had been quite animated in the car, joking with Peter and singing songs as Lucy drove them north. But now it seemed as though a door to her soul had slammed shut. Nothing Lucy did or said could get past it.

  Had something happened to upset her? James? Had the golden-haired pastor taken Rachel off this afternoon? Lucy’s nails dug into her palms as she clenched her fists. It was one thing for James to openly challenge her leadership of this course. But if he had done anything to undermine Rachel’s fragile rehabilitation…

  She took a deep breath, trying to still her anger. She looked back into the twilit room. As so often, Rachel’s long brown hair hung forward, obscuring her sallow face. Lucy’s heart ached with pity for her.

  She shaped a silent prayer.

  She stood for several moments, letting this picture of the girl imprint itself on her mind. Then she straightened her shoulders and headed for the dining room.

  Back in the house, Aidan and Melangell were getting ready for their first supper with the group. Dusk was thickening. Aidan went to close the curtains of his bedroom.

  There was a movement in the garden below. He saw Lucy come out of one of the chalet bedrooms. She turned her head to speak to someone inside. Was it Rachel?

  Yet hadn’t he met Rachel earlier, bounding up the stairs to these single bedrooms? Who else was on the top floor?

  He watched Lucy make her way into the house. Then a larger figure came out of another door into the shadows of the verandah. Aidan flipped through his memories of the afternoon. Wasn’t that the room Valerie Grayson had stood outside? It could only be Elspeth Haccombe. She disappeared into the room Lucy had just left.

  Aidan felt his eyebrows rise. It had not occurred to him to think of Elspeth as a motherly person who would go out of her way to comfort a troubled teenager. It was definitely not her style. Perhaps there was a softer side to her she kept well hidden. Maybe that was what attracted the gentler Valerie to her. He might be too ready to spring to conclusions about people.

  “Daddy!” said Melangell’s reproving voice from the door. “Aren’t you ever coming? I’m starving.”

  He turned, rearranging his face into a smile. “I don’t believe it. After all that cake?”

  The meal was finishing. Lucy found herself growing uncomfortably nervous. She had imagined herself sharing her enthusiasm for the stories of the Northumbrian saints with a circle of eager listeners. The reality was proving more difficult. Elspeth was clearly sceptical. James didn’t want to be here. He showed every sign of trying to wrest the leadership out of her hands. If he had his way, he would take the course down a more evangelistic road than she had planned. She doubted that the Cavendishes were really interested in seventh-century history.

  Had she made a mistake in beginning with that bloodthirsty story of Urien’s murder on the sands? She could have started with something more attractive, like St Cuthbert’s playing with otters on the beach.

  But she did not want a Christianity wrapped in cotton wool. It was the messy reality of life as it had been lived that attracted her. Conflicts within the Christian community and without. There had been plenty of those in Northumbria.

  She stood, with what she hoped was an encouraging smile.

  “Coffee in the lounge. Then you have a free evening. I’ve put out a collection of reading material about the Celtic and Anglo-Saxon Church in the north and Lindisfarne in particular. Feel free to borrow stuff, as long as I get it back before we go. Tomorrow morning, I’ve got permission for us to hold our own service in the ruins of the abbey when it opens at nine-thirty. The causeway’s closed until noon, so there shouldn’t be too many visitors about. I’d be happy to see any of you who would like to join me for that. We’ll start our next session for everyone there at ten, to go on with the story I started this evening.”

  “You haven’t said anything about prayers tonight,” James’s voice challenged her. “If that’s too much for you, I’ll lead them.”

  Lucy felt the blood mounting in her cheeks. She tried to keep her voice level and friendly.

  “Thank you, James. That’s a kind offer. As it happens, I have an order of evening prayer from the Northumbrian Community I was going to use. Mrs Batley’s given us the room across the hall for a chapel. Perhaps you’d like to read the lesson?”

  She felt his pale blue eyes on her, cold, assessing. Was this going to be the pattern for the week? This struggle for control of the group?

  As the others slipped away for a comfort break, all Lucy really wanted to do was to step outside into the cool of the night and spend a few minutes in prayer. Another pull of conscience told her she ought to look in on Rachel, to take her the supper Mrs Batley had promised to put aside.

  She walked into the kitchen. There were two covered plates on a tray.

  “Is this for Rachel?”

  “A piece of pie and some apples and custard. I hope she’s all right.”

  “Thanks. Yes. She’s had a bad time recently. She needs time to herself.”

  Lucy hoped that was all it was.

  She carried the tray along the verandah and tapped at the door. No answer from inside.
Manoeuvring her burden precariously, she tried the handle. The door was unlocked. It was only then it struck her that there was no light on inside. She felt for her own bed and set the tray down there, then turned for the light switch. There was a tension in her throat. She could not have said what she feared to see.

  The spacious bedroom was empty. The covers on Rachel’s bed were rumpled, where she had been curled up when Lucy left her. Fighting down her growing alarm, she moved to the bathroom. The door was closed. She knocked gently.

  “Rachel? Are you in there? It’s me. Lucy.”

  It took a moment to summon the willpower to open the door. She was praying she would not find Rachel in the bath, with blood from her wrists turning from shocking red to pink as it emptied away into the water.

  Her first reaction was enormous relief that there was no one there. Then renewed alarm. It was dark outside now. She had no idea where Rachel might be.

  For a moment, she leaned against the doorpost, feeling dizzy. Then the practical training for the life she had led before she became a minister asserted itself. Rachel had gone missing this afternoon. She had come back on her own. At the first meeting she had looked more upset than when she had arrived, certainly. But her emotions had been in a fragile state ever since Lucy had known her. It was part of the reason for bringing her to Holy Island. It was too soon yet to panic, wasn’t it?

  She stepped outside into the cool of the garden.

  “Rachel?”

  The girl might be sitting on one of the seats on the lawn, unseen. But there were lights along the covered verandah that led to the house. There was no sign of a hunched figure on any of the benches. No one replied.