Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea

by Nancy Atherton

  “He will be,” I vowed, and closed the journal.

  I quickly changed into a blouse of crimson silk and an elegant, long black skirt and joined Damian, who’d donned his trusty blue blazer. Together we made our way to the library, where we met up with Sir Percy and his assistants.

  It was easy to see why Kate and Elliot preferred Dundrillin’s library to the pub in Stoneywell. The oak-paneled room was a softly lit, restful retreat filled with leather-bound books, hung with fine oil portraits of Sir Percy’s ancestors, and warmed by a handsome fireplace of Portland stone. Reading tables and racks of magazines occupied the center of the room, and traditional, masculine leather furniture—a sofa and four armchairs—clustered companionably around the hearth, with polished walnut occasional tables placed conveniently nearby, to receive a discarded book or a Waterford tumbler. An assortment of silver candelabras was also in evidence—insurance, no doubt, against the next power outage.

  Kate and Elliot had already claimed the chairs nearest the hearth, so I sat in the corner of the sofa, facing the fire. Damian, who preferred to keep an eye on the door, took the chair next to Kate’s, and Sir Percy took charge of the liquor cabinet, busily dispensing gin-and-tonics that contained far more gin than tonic. He poured a glass of sherry for himself and sat with it at the other end of the sofa. I waited until everyone was seated to announce Bill’s spectacular news.

  “Bravo!” boomed Sir Percy, and raised his glass to toast my brilliant husband, the brilliant chief superintendent, and the general brilliance of Scotland Yard. “Knew they’d nab the villain. Couldn’t be happier for you, my dear.”

  Kate and Elliot added their congratulations, and Sir Percy proceeded to entertain us with wildly comic speculations about Abaddon’s true identity (“The prime minister’s been looking rather shifty-eyed lately. . . .”). Damian alone took no part in the general merriment. Although he smiled dutifully at Sir Percy’s antics, he maintained an air of sobriety that told the rest of us quite plainly that our giddiness was premature. We paid no attention to him.

  “I don’t envy Peter and Cassie their walk to Dundrillin,” Elliot ventured, after Sir Percy had settled down. “It’s a miserably damp, foggy evening.”

  “It’ll get worse before it gets better,” Sir Percy said. “I’ve had a peep at the radar. A storm’s brewing to the west. It’ll be here before dawn.” A sunny smile lit his face. “I love a good storm. Thunder, lightning, rollicking surf—you’ll feel the headland quake like a cowardly puppy, Lori.” He sipped his sherry, then added, as an aside to me, “Wouldn’t advise stepping out on your balcony in the thick of it, though.You might find yourself airborne.”

  I was about to tell him that I fully intended to enjoy the storm from the safety and comfort of my bed when Damian’s cell phone rang. I held out my hand, hoping against hope for news of Abaddon’s capture, but Damian didn’t pass the phone to me. He kept it pressed to his ear, and I could tell by his taut expression that he didn’t like what he was hearing.

  “You’ve confirmed his identification?” he asked. “And the hire agreement? What about the boat? Have you searched it? Good. It’s unfortunate, of course, but there’s not much we can do about it. Keep me informed.” He ended the call and returned the cell phone to the inside breast pocket of his blazer.

  “Well?” said Sir Percy.

  “That was Cal Maconinch, the harbormaster,” Damian announced. “It’s bad news for Peter and Cassie, I’m afraid. A journalist from the Morning Mirror—a chap called Jack Nunen—has dropped anchor in Stoneywell Harbor, in a powerboat he hired on the mainland. The good news is that his ID checks out—Jack Nunen is who he claims to be—and he came alone. Cal searched the boat from stem to stern and found nothing to indicate that our stalker hitched a ride to Erinskil.”

  The good news should have cheered me, but I was too sorry for Peter and Cassie to think of myself.

  “Bloody Morning Mirror,” Sir Percy fumed. “If they’ve sniffed out the trail, the rest of the pack won’t be far behind. Mark my words, the wolves will be circling en masse by tomorrow night.”

  “Didn’t Mr. Nunen object when Mr. Maconinch searched his boat?” Kate inquired. “I would have expected him to kick up a fuss.”

  “He probably would have, had he been aware of the search,” Damian acknowledged. “Cal elected not to trouble him. He boarded the boat after Mr. Nunen had gone to the pub to book a room.”

  “Excellent!” Sir Percy roared. “The Mirror’s maggots have no respect for anyone else’s privacy. Why should we respect theirs?”

  “You’re Erinskil’s laird, Percy,” I said. “Can’t you ban reporters?”

  “I can, but I won’t. It would only add fuel to the fire.” Sir Percy spelled an imaginary headline in the air as he spoke: “‘Feudal Laird Shields Lurking Lovers.’” He dropped his hand. “I assure you, Lori, interference from me would only make matters worse for our young celebrities. They should have come to Dundrillin when I asked them to. Mrs. Gammidge is an expert in pest control.”

  “We can warn them, at least,” I said desperately. “You’ve got Peter’s phone number, Damian. Call him. Tell him the jig is up.”

  “I expect he knows it already,” Sir Percy murmured.

  “Even so . . .” I looked beseechingly at Damian.

  He took out his cell phone and dialed, but there was no answer.

  “Peter must have turned off his mobile,” he said, returning the phone to his pocket. “We could send someone down to the pub with a message, Sir Percy.”

  “Don’t be daft, Damian. They’ll be here in less than an hour. We’ll break the news to them when they arrive.” Sir Percy heaved himself to his feet, returned to the liquor cabinet, and busied himself with topping up our drinks. “If they change their minds about moving into the castle, Kate and Elliot can fetch their things from the pub.”

  The clock on the mantelpiece ticked ponderously as we sat brooding over our drinks. Sir Percy expressed his feelings by stabbing the fire viciously with the poker, but Elliot was the first to speak.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask, Sir Percy,” he said. “Have you had a word with the postmistress about the missing mail?”

  “A misunderstanding,” said Sir Percy, “just as I predicted. Mrs. Gammidge asked Elspeth MacAllen to dispose of junk mail addressed to me through the Stoneywell post office. Elspeth decided that letters from something called the Seal Conservation Trust had to be junk mail and disposed of them.” He tossed more turf onto the fire. “It won’t happen again. Elspeth will deliver all of my mail to Dundrillin from now on. You and Kate will decide what to discard.”

  “A safer system for all concerned, sir,” said Elliot. “I was also wondering—”

  We never found out what Elliot was wondering, because at that moment Mrs. Gammidge appeared in the doorway, with a bedraggled and breathless Cassie on her heels.

  “Miss Thorpe-Lynton to see you, sir,” she said to Sir Percy. “She seems quite agitated.”

  I hastily set my glass aside and ran to Cassie. She wore no hat or gloves, and her anorak was wide-open. Her hair was disheveled, her jeans and crewneck sweater were wet, and she was shivering.

  “Your jacket, Damian,” I said. “She’s freezing.”

  “Blankets, Mrs. Gammidge, if you please!” roared Sir Percy as he headed for the liquor cabinet.

  I stripped off Cassie’s anorak, and Damian wrapped his blazer around her. Kate and Elliot shoved a chair closer to the fire, Cassie sank into it, and Sir Percy thrust a glass into her shaking hands.

  “Brandy,” he said. “Get it down you.”

  Cassie gulped a mouthful, sputtered, and tried to speak, but before she could get a word out, Mrs. Gammidge returned to cocoon her in an armful of woolen blankets.

  “Shall I ring Dr. Tighe, sir?” the housekeeper asked.

  “No!” cried Cassie, finding her voice. “I don’t need a doctor.”

  “Not at present, thank you, Mrs. Gammidge,” said Sir Percy. “I’ll ring if I
need you.”

  “Very good, sir,” said Mrs. Gammidge, and withdrew.

  I sat on the arm of Cassie’s chair. “What’s happened? Is it the reporter? Has he come after you already?”

  “Reporter?” Cassie said blankly, then shook her head. “No, it’s nothing to do with him. Mrs. Muggoch told him that her rooms were full up. He’s spending the night on his boat.”

  “Bravo, Mrs. Muggoch,” Sir Percy boomed. “She knows a rat when she sees one. It’ll be a rough night, too. Ha!” He raised his glass, grinning gleefully. “Serves him right!”

  “What is it, then?” I said to Cassie. “What’s wrong?”

  “It’s Peter.” The young woman’s voice broke. “He hasn’t come back. Anything could have happened to him.”

  My stomach clenched with fear as the reason for Cassie’s distress struck home. Had Peter asked one question too many? I wondered. Had the islanders decided to rid themselves of their meddlesome guest? I looked anxiously at Damian, who shook his head minutely, knelt before the frantic girl, and clasped her free hand in both of his.When he spoke, his deep voice was as kindly as a priest’s.

  “Where did Peter go, Cassie?”

  “To the monastery,” she answered shakily, and twisted her head to look up at me. “He wanted to hear the monks you told us about, Lori, the ones who’d been killed by the Vikings.”

  “When did he leave?” Damian asked, drawing her attention back to him.

  “Around four o’clock,” she replied. “He wanted me to come with him, but I didn’t fancy a hike in the fog, so I stayed at the pub. He said he wouldn’t be long, but he’s been gone for nearly four hours.”

  Damian chafed her hand. “What route did Peter take to the monastery?”

  “The coastal path. It’s the only route we’ve ever taken.” Cassie’s pretty face crumpled, and tears rolled down her cheeks. “If only I’d gone with him . . .”

  “Then we’d be searching for both of you.” Damian pulled a white handkerchief from his trouser pocket and handed it to her.

  Cassie mopped her cheeks and blew her nose. At Sir Percy’s urging, she took another gulp of brandy and tried to collect herself.

  “I’ve rung him a dozen times,” she said. “No answer. I thought of going to look for him on my own, but—”

  “You did the right thing by coming to us,” Damian interrupted. “We’ll find Peter. In the meantime I want you to go back to the pub.”

  “I want to look for Peter,” she protested.

  “I know you do,” said Damian soothingly, “but someone has to stay at the pub, in case Peter turns up there. Otherwise we could find ourselves running in circles all night. Kate and Elliot will go with you. You can wait with them in your room.” He pressed her hand. “Please, Cassie, for Peter’s sake . . .”

  “All right,” she said, with great reluctance. “I’ll go.” She wiped her eyes, returned her glass to Sir Percy, and began unwrapping the cocoon.

  “Take the blankets with you,” said Sir Percy. “And take the car, Elliot.”

  Elliot rushed ahead to bring the electric car to the main entrance. Kate put her arm around Cassie’s blanket-draped shoulders and guided her out of the library. When the door had closed behind them, Sir Percy turned to Damian.

  “Young scamp’s sprained an ankle, I’ll wager, or wandered off the path,” he said. “Shall I raise the alarm? Form a search party? I can have twenty local men here in a twinkling.”

  It suddenly dawned on me that Damian was in an impossibly awkward position. Sir Percy assumed that Peter was injured or lost in the fog. He had no reason to suspect foul play. No one had explained to him that his island was inhabited by a species of lowlife that made paparazzi look like cuddly kittens. How would Damian find the words to tell him that a search party made up of islanders would be more likely to lead us away from Peter than toward him? Even if he wished to acquaint Sir Percy with our suspicions, he couldn’t hope to do so without wasting precious time.

  “I’d rather not complicate matters, sir,” Damian said smoothly. “Visibility is poor tonight. I don’t want a search for one man to turn into a search for twenty. I’ll look for Peter on my own.”

  “Oh, no you won’t,” I said. “I’m coming with you.”

  “I don’t think you are,” said Damian, frowning.

  “Think again,” I stated firmly.

  Damian squared his shoulders. “Lori, you are not—”

  “I’d save my breath if I were you, old boy,” Sir Percy interjected. “I’ve known Lori longer than you have.”

  I squared my own shoulders and calmly explained the situation to Damian. “Peter’s parents aren’t just my neighbors. They’re my best friends. They’d dodge bullets to help my sons, and if you think I’m going to sit around wringing my hands while their son is in trouble, you’re incredibly mistaken.”

  “Don’t waste time arguing with her,” advised Sir Percy. “She’s as stubborn as a stoat.”

  I lifted my chin defiantly. “You’ll have to chain me up and lock me in the dungeon to keep me here.”

  “Don’t tempt me,” Damian growled. His jaw hardened ominously, but he evidently knew when he was beaten, because after a moment’s bristling hesitation, he relented. “You’ll have to change into something dark-colored and warm.”

  “Give me five minutes,” I said, and dashed past him into the corridor.

  He caught up with me at the elevator, and we both rode it to the suite, where I swapped my elegant evening clothes for a pair of tweed trousers, a heavy, dark brown wool sweater, wool socks, and hiking boots. I grabbed a stocking cap and my rain jacket from the wardrobe, ran through the sitting room, flung the foyer door wide, and stopped short.

  I’d caught Damian in the midst of pulling his black crewneck sweater over his head. He must have heard the door open, because he hurriedly yanked the sweater down to conceal his naked torso, but it was too late. I’d already seen the scars—puckering the skin above his collarbone, below his ribs, on his chest, curving like a snake over his shoulder.

  I’d also seen the gun. The deadly looking automatic was tucked into a holster on his belt.

  “You told me you were unarmed,” I said, trying not to think about the scars.

  “I was, when you asked.” He turned away from me, put on his rain jacket and a black watch cap, and squatted to rummage through his duffel bag. When he stood, he was holding two black-handled, hooded flashlights on black lanyards, but he didn’t offer one to me. Instead he spoke quietly, urgently, as if he still thought he could persuade me to change my mind. “Peter may have twisted an ankle or broken a leg. He may simply have lost track of time. It’s not hard to imagine him perched on a boulder on one of the hills, watching the fog move in over Erinskil. But we don’t believe he’s been delayed for any of those reasons, do we, Lori?”

  I shook my head.

  “We believe he’s in trouble,” Damian went on. “We believe he’s been waylaid by people who will stop at nothing to protect their business ventures. We’re not going on a picnic, Lori. This is a serious affair.You’re taking a great risk by coming with me. I wish you wouldn’t.You can stay here with Andrew. No one will think less of you.”

  “I will.” I took one of the flashlights from him and slung the black lanyard around my neck. “Besides, you’re my bodyguard. You’re not allowed to leave me behind.”

  His lips twitched into a grudging smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes, then vanished. He gripped his own flashlight tightly, punched the elevator button, and we were on our way.

  Seventeen

  We stepped out of the tower’s side entrance into a world changed beyond recognition. The headland’s breathtaking views had been transformed. Shifting banks of fog blanketed the island’s central valley and mantled the ocean in a heavy shroud, deadening the surf’s thunder. The cliff path and the hills bordering it stood above the mist, like an island chain rising from a sea of cotton wool.

  “Don’t use your torch,” Damian instruct
ed. “I’d rather we didn’t advertise our movements.”

  I agreed with him about the flashlights—we didn’t need them to find our way. The full moon bathed the sunken track in silver light, and the path’s waist-high banks would not allow us to totter over a cliff or wander off into the hills by accident.

  There was hardly a breath of wind stirring, and the evening air was heavy and damp. As I jogged along behind Damian, clammy droplets gathered on my hands and face, clung to my trousers, and trickled like icy fingers down the back of my neck, until I thought to pull my jacket’s hood over my stocking cap. I quickly yanked it down again when I heard Damian muttering to himself up ahead.

  “Fool,” he said under his breath. “Thoughtless, stupid, selfish young fool.”

  “I hope you’re referring to Peter,” I murmured, catching up with him.

  “Why did he go off on his own?” he demanded, keeping his voice low. “The boy’s convinced that Erinskil’s riddled with murderous thugs, but he goes off on his own regardless. When I think of the state Cassie’s in . . . of the danger Peter may be in . . . of the rules I’ve broken by allowing you to come with me . . .” Damian ground his teeth. “If the islanders haven’t wrung his neck already, I may do it for them.”

  “I know you’re worried about him, Damian,” I said. “I am, too, but I’m not really sure why we should be. Peter shared his suspicions with us, but I’m certain he didn’t share them with anyone else on Erinskil. How do you think the islanders found out?”

  “Mrs. Muggoch,” Damian replied shortly. “She’s his landlady, and it’s a landlady’s duty to listen at keyholes. If she overheard his conversations with Cassie, you can be sure that she wouldn’t keep the information to herself.”

  “She could have heard them talking about the monastery, too,” I said anxiously. “She must have told someone he was going to the ruins.”

  “I suspect she alerted more than one someone.” Damian consulted his wristwatch and began to jog faster. “They may simply want to chat with him, Lori, to get him in a corner and frighten him into keeping his mouth shut. Threatening to harm Cassie would do the trick, and he’s certainly made it easy for them, going off by himself and leaving her with no protection. How could he be so stupid?”