“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.
“You don’t think someone was out there . . . digging up the old laird, do you?” I asked.
“Oh, no,” he replied. “I think they dug him up years ago.”
My jaw dropped. “I was kidding, Damian.”
“I’m not,” he said, and shifted his gaze back to the fire. “I suspect that the islanders exhumed the old laird’s remains some time ago and reinterred them on Erinskil. The tomb could then be expanded and used for the temporary storage of contraband. I suspect that couriers come and go fairly frequently—hence the installation and meticulous maintenance of the ringbolt. When visitors are on the island, the couriers move by night.” His eyes found mine again. “Your light wasn’t made by Brother Cieran’s ghost, Lori, but by someone picking up or delivering illegal goods stored in the old laird’s grave.”
“Drugs?” I whispered.
“Possibly.” Damian cocked his head to one side. “A consignment of cocaine, for example, would fit easily in the expanded tomb, where it would be stored until called for. Mick’s dinghy could be used to bring the shipment from the Chapel to Alasdair Murdoch’s fishing boats, and Mr. Murdoch would take it to the mainland for distribution. I suspect that the islanders use the tweed mill to launder the dirty money.” He nodded. “Drug transport is a lucrative business, Lori. It would pay for many of the things Peter and Cassie pointed out to us today.”
“Your theory is worse than theirs!” I cried, sitting upright. “And I refuse to believe it. Mick wasn’t faking his affection for the old laird, nor was Mrs. Muggoch.The islanders loved him.They’d never desecrate his grave. They wouldn’t betray him for the sake of a few creature comforts. It’s . . . it’s sacrilegious. ”
“I won’t argue the point, Lori,” said Damian. “You asked my opinion, and I’ve given it.”
“But what are you going to do about it?” I demanded. “If you honestly believe what you’ve just told me, Damian, shouldn’t you do something? Shouldn’t you tell Percy?”
“Tell him what?” Damian retorted. “My opinion is just that—an opinion. It’s based on suspicions and suppositions, nothing more. I’ve no real evidence of wrongdoing, and I don’t intend to seek it out. I’m not a policeman, Lori. I’m a bodyguard.” He got to his feet. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get back to work.”
I wrapped my arms around myself and stared unhappily into the fire. As Damian passed my chair, he paused briefly to put a hand on my shoulder.
“You’re not a policeman, either, Lori,” he said. “You came here to protect yourself and your sons. Remember that. Don’t let yourself be distracted.”
The hand was removed, and a moment later I heard the foyer door open and close. I slowly uncoiled myself from my chair, went to the bedroom, and picked up Aunt Dimity’s journal.
“I spoke with Damian,” I said, standing with the journal open in my hands. “He thinks the islanders dug up the old laird’s body and replaced it with shipments of cocaine. The world’s gone mad, Dimity.”
I’m afraid you won’t restore it to sanity tonight, my dear.Try to get some sleep.Who knows? A new fact may come to light tomorrow that will sustain your faith in human nature and prove the doubters wrong.
I smiled wanly, bade Aunt Dimity good night, and went to bed, where my agitated thoughts gave way to agitated dreams involving gangs of sinister fishermen who looked like Mick Ferguson and sounded like Mrs. Muggoch.
Sixteen
The next day’s schedule of events could have been torn from the calendar of a child-friendly resort—if the resort offered live-in bodyguards as an optional extra. Damian and I rose early, breakfasted with Andrew and the twins in the nursery, and descended with them to Sir Percy’s sheltered cove armed with the usual cricket gear as well as a bucketful of knights-in-armor to man the sand castles. When the sky began to cloud over, we retired to Dundrillin for a splash in the heated swimming pool, from which Damian abstained. Andrew took his midday meal in the nursery with Will and Rob, and Damian and I had ours in the dining room with Sir Percy.
A misty drizzle settled in after lunch, so we spent the afternoon in the nursery. The twins and I created unsung masterpieces with finger paints and modeling clay until teatime, then whiled away the hours before dinner building a complicated complex of sea caves for their seal pups, using blankets, tables, model cars, knights in armor, plastic dinosaurs, and a variety of other items seldom observed in the wild by the Seal Conservation Trust but which my sons deemed essential to a baby seal’s happiness. After dinner came bath time, story time, bedtime, the elevator ride to the Cornflower Suite, and then, as we stepped out of the elevator, a joyfully breathless telephone call from Bill.
“Yarborough’s men have come up with a lead,” he crowed. “I can’t stay on the phone—too much to do—but Yarborough’s convinced that we’re on the right track. With any luck we’ll capture our man within the next day or two.”
“But who is he?” I demanded. “Who is Abaddon?”
�
��It’s too complicated to explain right now,” said Bill. “I’ll give you the whole story when I see you, and I’ll see you very soon. Thank heavens Yarborough did those interviews, Lori. I’m sorry, love. I’ve got to go. Kiss the boys for me. I’ll see you soon!”
Bill rang off. I stood in the foyer, staring at the cell phone, dazed and a bit weak-kneed with relief, until Damian took the phone from me and offered a quiet word of caution.
“I’m aware of recent developments,” he said. “They sound promising, but—”
“Stop right there,” I said, warding him off with an outstretched palm. “I’m not letting you rain on my parade. Bill’s not like me, Damian. He doesn’t exaggerate for dramatic effect. If he says something is so, it’s so.”
“But he hasn’t said—”
“I’m not listening,” I broke in. “It’s half past six. Please call Percy and tell him that I will join him and Kate and Elliot in the library for cocktails before dinner.” I clapped my hands and danced into the sitting room, closing the door behind me. When I reached the bedroom, I grabbed the blue journal and flung it open, saying, “Dimity! Great news!”
You’ve had word from Bill, I take it?
“The best of best words,” I said. “Abaddon’s as good as caught!”
I don’t wish to seem pessimistic, my dear, but I must point out that “as good as caught” isn’t nearly good enough.
I frowned. “You’re as depressing as Damian.The detectives have a lead, Dimity. They’re hot on Abaddon’s trail. Bill’s sure they’ll catch him soon.”
Until they have him in custody, Lori, I would urge you to remain vigilant.
“Of course I’ll remain vigilant,” I retorted, “but I’m going to be happy, too, no matter how much cold water you and Damian throw on me. I’ll talk to you later, all right? I have so much to tell you!”
I hope you’ll be able to tell me by then that Abaddon is well and truly caught.
Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea Page 15