“I thought the alarm system had a backup generator,” I said.
“He’d studied electronics at Brook House,” Bill reminded me, “and he’d brought a set of specialized tools with him. He would have disarmed the system without the storm’s help, but there’s no denying that the power outage took place at an opportune moment.”
“While we were saying good night to the elders,” Damian continued, “Abaddon let himself in through the side entrance and climbed the emergency stairs. No one can know for certain, but I believe he stopped first at the Cornflower Suite.”
“When he found it vacant,” said Bill, “he went on to the nursery.”
“Andrew was asleep when the mirror opened,” said Damian. “Abaddon brought a lamp down on the back of his head and grabbed the boys.”
The mental image of my little ones being snatched from their beds sent a wave of nausea through me, but I fought it off and said, “They must have taken their knights to bed with them. When Abaddon carried them past my room, they dropped one by the open mirror. I remember wondering what it was doing there. Then I heard Will cry out for help.”
“Why didn’t you call for Damian?” Bill asked. “Why did you go after Abaddon on your own?”
I expected Damian to chime in with a gentle reproof, but he just smiled.
“No one could have stopped her, Bill,” he said. “A wise woman once told me that there’s no fiercer creature on earth than a mother defending her young. When Lori heard her son’s voice, rational thought gave way to primal instinct.”
“Which is a nice way of saying that I lost my head,” I conceded. “I’m sorry, Damian. How long did it take you to realize that I was gone?”
“Too long.” He waved his hand in a gesture of self-reproach. “When Andrew failed to check in on schedule—ten minutes after you’d entered your suite—I knew something was amiss. I knocked on your door, and when you didn’t reply, I let myself into the suite. You weren’t there, the mirror was open. . . . I knew immediately that there’d been a security breach.”
“Damian roused the entire staff,” Bill said. “He directed Mrs. Gammidge to the nursery to check on Andrew. He dispatched Kate to the village to fetch Dr. Tighe. He ordered Elliot to meet him at the side entrance, but Percy got there first because he hadn’t gone to bed yet.”
“Elliot showed up a few minutes later,” said Damian. “I sent him around the headland while Sir Percy and I ran toward the overlook. We hadn’t gone far when Will and Rob came tearing up, shouting for help. Sir Percy carried them back to the castle. I pulled out my gun and went after you.” His gaze turned inward as the surreal scene unfolded before his mind’s eye. “I was no more than ten yards from the overlook when Abaddon shot you. I saw you fall, saw him get to his feet and walk toward you. I took aim, my finger was on the trigger, but I never pulled it because at that moment”—he caught his breath and his eyes narrowed—“a single, blinding bolt of lightning dropped from the sky, as if it had been hurled by an unseen hand. The overlook seemed to explode—there’s a crater there now, where the cliff blew apart. The concussion knocked me down, and when I looked again, Abaddon was gone. I suspect that he fell into the sea, but it was as if he’d simply vanished from the face of the earth.” He shook his head, bemused. “I don’t know why you hired me, Bill. Lori already has a bodyguard, and His aim is better than mine.”
“Don’t sell yourself short,” said Bill. “My wife would have bled to death if you hadn’t reached her in time.” He touched my foot. “Damian improvised a compression bandage and carried you back to the castle. He’s quite the hero.”
I shushed Bill frantically. “Don’t use the H word around Damian. He has a low opinion of heroes.”
“Most true heroes do,” Bill observed.
“If anyone’s a hero,” Damian said stolidly, “it’s Dr. Tighe. He saved you and Andrew, though the islanders helped as well. They lined up to donate blood.”
I peered up at the ceiling and said reflectively, “Normal tourists bring shortbread home with them from Scotland. I’m bringing fresh pints of B-positive blood.”
“B-positive?” Damian’s silvery eyes twinkled. “Is that your blood type? Of course it is. Be positive—what else could possibly flow through your veins?”
If Dr. Tighe had been listening at the door, he would have thought the three of us were drunk. Our laughter was the laughter of release—it was too loud, and it went on much too long, but every time we sobered up, we’d catch one another’s eyes and start again.We’d each endured a terrible ordeal, and though dark memories would haunt our dreams, the waking world was ours again, to do with as we liked.What better way to celebrate than with laughter?
Epilogue
Andrew, Reginald, and I moved back to the castle the next day and stayed there for another two weeks, recuperating. Rob and Will played on the battlements with their father, Damian overhauled the castle’s security system, and we invalids spent a lot of time lolling in the sunroom while Mrs. Gammidge waited on us hand and foot. Sir Percy spared us as much time as he could, but he was busy managing his island.
A flock of tabloid vultures roosted briefly at Dundrillin, but Sir Percy kept them so befuddled with effortless charm—and flowing whiskey—that Erinskil’s curious prosperity went unnoticed.
Peter and Cassie contributed greatly to the press-distraction project by announcing their engagement. Since a wedding at Dundrillin would have drawn even more unwanted attention to the island, they regretfully rejected Will’s sage advice and decided to be wed in the family chapel at Cassie’s ancestral home in Kent.
Dr. Tighe declared Andrew and me medically unfit to comment on our experiences with Abaddon, and Bill referred all questions to Chief Superintendent Yarborough, whose answers were so blandly uninformative that the press had to resort to hounding Sir Rodney Spofford and laying siege to Brook House.
Jack Nunen’s brutal concussion robbed him of all memories of his encounter with Abaddon, but it didn’t stop him from writing an exclusive exposé about Sir Rodney’s psychotic son. The story ran for two consecutive Sundays in the Morning Mirror, until yet another sex scandal took its place.
Chief Superintendent Yarborough wrapped up the investigation quietly and efficiently. No charges could be brought against the late Alfred Spofford, but Harold served time for supplying Alfred with a gun, and Sir Rodney was held to account for destroying the scrap of paper he’d found in the charred ruins of the summerhouse.
“Scotland Yard doesn’t look kindly upon those who cover up cold-blooded murder,” I commented to Aunt Dimity when I finally had a chance to speak with her.
I should think not. If Sir Rodney hadn’t been so intent on protecting his family’s reputation, much travail would have been avoided. And it was all for naught.The sad truth was revealed despite his ill-conceived efforts at concealment.
“I almost—almost—feel sorry for him,” I said. “I don’t know what I’d do if one of the twins went mad. Mental illness is a horrible thing.”
You might call it mental illness. I call it evil. Alfred Spofford tortured animals and small children. He murdered his mother. He would have murdered your five-year-old sons if you hadn’t stopped him, and he most certainly tried to murder you. After twenty years of the most intensive therapy, he crept back into the world craving blood, and he used sacred texts to justify his lust.When Damian ascribed Abaddon’s death to the wrath of God, he was not being entirely facetious. I do not mourn the loss of Alfred Spofford. If ever anyone was evil, it was he.
I reflected that Alfred Spofford’s timely demise had less to do with the wrath of God than with his unwise decision to stand in an exposed spot during a lightning storm while holding a hunk of metal at arm’s length, but I had no doubt that he was evil. Something not quite human had peered back at me from the chilling emptiness of those coal-black eyes.
“Do you think he’s . . . tainted the cottage?” I asked. “Bill wants to cut down the old hedge, Dimity. He says it’ll always remind hi
m of how close Abaddon came to killing us.”
It’s pointless to fight evil by destroying life.
“How do we fight it, then?” I demanded.
We kiss our children.We make sticky lemon cake for our husband.We cherish our friends.We leave the great hedge standing tall, to serve as a haven for birds and mice and spiders.We defeat evil every time we commit an act of kindness.When necessary, we hit it with a rock.
“I get it.” I nodded slowly. “Fill each day with acts of grace, but keep a rock handy, just in case.”
I couldn’t have put it better myself.You must do it in needlepoint, my dear, as a reminder of a valuable lesson learned.
I’m still digesting the lessons I learned during my time on Erinskil, but the nightmares have grown fewer and I’ve almost lost my fear of thunder-storms. The twins, thankfully, have shown no ill effects from their ordeal. They expected me to rescue them from the bad man, and I did. End of story.
Much to their delight, I’ve taken a serious interest in cricket over the past few months. My batting still leaves much to be desired, but I can bowl a wicket clean nine times out of ten. I never miss a chance to strengthen my throwing arm.
Just in case.
Sir Percy’s Favorite Sticky Lemon Cake
Lemon Syrup
½ cup sugar
¼ cup fresh lemon juice
Combine the sugar and lemon juice in a small bowl. Whisk until the sugar dissolves.
Lemon Cake
¾ cup unsalted butter, at room temperature
1 cup sugar
1½ teaspoons grated lemon peel
2 large eggs
1¼ cups self-rising flour
optional toppings: whipped cream, clotted cream,
lemon curd, or confectioner’s sugar
Preheat the oven to 350 degrees Fahrenheit. Butter an 8-inch-square metal baking pan.
Use an electric mixer to cream the butter in a large mixing bowl until smooth. Add the sugar and lemon peel and beat until fluffy. Beat in 1 egg, then half of the flour; repeat. Pour the batter into the buttered baking pan. Bake about 25 minutes, or until a toothpick inserted in the cake’s center comes out clean. Place the pan on a rack. Use a toothpick to poke holes all over the top of the cake. Spoon the lemon syrup slowly over the cake, allowing it to soak in. Cool the cake completely.
Sprinkle with confectioner’s sugar or cut into squares and serve with whipped cream, clotted cream, or lemon curd.
Aunt Dimity and the Deep Blue Sea Page 23