Death on Lindisfarne (2 page)

T
HEY WALKED UP THE ROAD
towards the village. Memories came rushing back to overwhelm Aidan. Here was the large sand-blown car park, where visitors driving across the causeway left their cars.

That was what Aidan and Jenny had done, until Jenny was seized with the idea that she wanted to walk across the sands to the island, as all those Anglo-Saxon and Irish pilgrims had done. She had cajoled Aidan into driving back across the causeway, against the flow of incoming traffic, and they had started again on foot. The same traverse along the line of poles that Aidan and Melangell had just completed. It had been rash, and they were breathless, hoping they hadn't left it too late, praying the tide would not come sweeping back before they arrived for the second time. They had collapsed laughing in the soft dry sand.

Where Melangell had tumbled onto the bank and found that earring.

He was not going to be able to push these raw memories away. Perhaps he should not have come back.

Almost immediately Lindisfarne Castle reared over the skyline on its thumb of rock.

“It's a real castle, isn't it?” Melangell exclaimed. “Even if it is a tiny one.”

The first houses were beginning to line the road. Daffodils shouted the triumph of Easter in their gardens. Near the top of the road, Aidan stopped in front of one.

“St Colman's House. This is it.”

Two palm trees rattled their leaves in the North Sea wind. Behind them rose a double-fronted house. It was painted pink, with the
woodwork picked out in white. Pointed eaves jutted above the upper windows and there were skylights in the roof.

“I thought it would be… older,” Melangell said.

“In the monks' time, you could have stayed in the guesthouse at the abbey, or later at the castle, if you were posh enough. Don't worry. There'll be plenty of history to see.”

He turned to smile encouragement at her. After the anxiety-tinged laughter of crossing the sands, her pointed freckled face looked wistful, tired. This was the end of a long journey. He hoped he had been right to bring her; that the Reverend Lucy Pargeter's talks about the saints of this historic island would not be over her head.

A little voice chided him. Melangell might still be only eight years old, but she could probably give a pretty good talk herself about St Aidan. He was a particular favourite, because he shared her father's name. And she had read all about him many times in the book Jenny had written about the saint.

That shock again. The knowledge that everywhere he went here, every story from Lindisfarne's history, would carry with it the memory of Jenny bringing him here to research her book.

Even the Nikon round his neck weighed heavier. Aidan's contribution had been to take the photographs for Jenny's books. A perfect partnership. Uncharacteristically, he slipped the strap over his head and stowed the camera away in the bag that hung from his shoulder.

“Shall we?”

He held the front gate open for her and they walked up to the door.

The expression on Mrs Batley's face held more challenge than welcome as she opened the door.

“Yes?” She was a middle-aged woman, with carefully waved hair and a discreetly made-up face.

A fraction too late, her landlady's professional instinct caught up with her. A smile flowered across her features.

“You'll have come for the course?”

“Aidan Davison, and Melangell.”

Mrs Batley threw a curious look at the child beside him, but made no comment.

“Two singles, wasn't it? I've got some lovely chalets in the garden, but they're family rooms or doubles. I've put you on the top floor.”

Up in the eaves. Servants' quarters,
Aidan thought to himself. He would have to get used to this new reality of single life.

“That'll be fine, I'm sure.”

The hall was more welcoming. A bronze plaque opposite the door bore the figure of Christ, not bowed in suffering but robed in glory. Aidan recognized it. He had seen the original on an ancient book cover in a museum in Dublin. A bowl of hyacinths and primroses stood beneath it.

Mrs Batley went to the small room behind the reception desk and reached down the keys.

“Eleven and twelve. I'll show you the way, shall I? I'm afraid we don't have a lift.”

“We're fit, aren't we, kid?”

Melangell was very still, thoughtful. He wondered if it was just because she was tired. She lifted her small rucksack, which she had slipped to the floor.

The front door behind them burst open. Two women swept across the hall towards them. Or rather the foremost forged ahead like a ship under full sail, while her companion glided obediently in her wake.

“Haccombe and Grayson.” The large woman in the brown tweed suit, with the brutally severe haircut, had a surprisingly musical voice. Grayson, behind her, favoured softer colours and fabrics. A violet jumper and heather-coloured skirt, and a sky-blue coat.

“I'll just check you in. Then I was going to show…”

“We've booked a double room.” The tweed-suited Haccombe seemed to fill the space before the reception desk. She cast a brief look at Aidan and Melangell, then turned back to Mrs Batley, as if they were of no importance.

“Is that Mrs or Miss Haccombe?” The landlady's pen was poised over her register.

“Doctor.”

“Oh, and your friend?”

“Miss Valerie Grayson, if you must know.” Dr Haccombe answered for both of them.

“I've actually given you a family room in the garden. That's a double and single bed, instead of a twin. En-suite, of course. If you'd like to wait here while I show Mr Davison and his daughter upstairs…”

Dr Haccombe's large hand descended over the key in Mrs Batley's grasp. “If we can navigate from Oxford to Lindisfarne, I'm sure we can find your garden chalet on our own. Which way?”

“Round to the left, past the dining room. There's a glass door.”

‘Valerie. Get the luggage. No, belay that. I'd better help you.”

“Thank you, Elspeth.”

It was the first time Valerie Grayson had spoken. She spoke firmly, with a smile. Her eyes flicked across to Aidan's, almost with apology. Just for moment, she winked at a startled Melangell.

Then they were gone, out to the small car park, like an eddying gust of wind. It left the entrance hall suddenly still.

Aidan was just picking up his rucksack to follow Mrs Batley upstairs when someone came almost running from the glass door the landlady had indicated, which led to the garden. A voice called with an edge of anxiety.

“Rachel?”

A woman of about thirty came bounding into the hall and pulled up short. She wore navy-blue lycra jogging pants and a grey sweatshirt. A crop of corn-gold curls topped a healthily tanned face. She poised, balanced on the balls of her feet, in trainers. Her eyes went swiftly over the three of them, then to the open front door. She was clearly searching for someone else. There was no mistaking the concern in her expression.

“Have you seen Rachel?” she asked Mrs Batley.

“That'll be that young one that looks as if she could do with a good tonic? No, I haven't.”

Blue eyes swung back to steady on Aidan. He watched the effort it took her to switch her mind from the missing girl. But the smile she gave them was genuine.

“Hey, I'm sorry! I should have said hello.”

“These'll be another two of yours, Reverend,” Mrs Batley said. “Mr Davison and… Mel… Melly…”

“Melangell,” Melangell said. “You don't
look
like a Reverend.”

L
UCY
P
ARGETER FOUND HERSELF
staring down into the grey-blue eyes of a freckled face, surmounted by a mop of light-brown curls more unruly than her own. The child looked tall but thin, as though a gust of wind might blow her away.

Lucy cast startled eyes at the girl's father. When Aidan Davison had signed up for himself and his daughter, it had not occurred to Lucy that Melangell would be so young.

“How old…?”

Her first thought was that Aidan Davison looked like a red-haired gnome. He was barely as tall as she was, with hair that tended to stand up as though he had just run his hand through it, and a pointed beard. He wore khaki shorts and his legs were smeared with mud.

Grey-blue eyes, like his daughter's, were looking back at her challengingly.

“Why don't you ask her?”

Lucy felt herself blushing. Of course. It was the “Does he take sugar?” syndrome: assuming that only able-bodied adults could speak for themselves. She should have known better.

She pushed aside her alarm for the vanished Rachel and made her eyes warm for the child.

“Hello, Melangell. I'm sorry. When your father booked for you to come on my Mission to Northumbria holiday, he didn't tell me how old you were.”

“Eight.”

Her eyes had a very direct stare. Despite the childishness of her other features, those eyes looked… old.

“I hope you enjoy it, and that it won't be too difficult for you.”

“Melangell probably knows more about Northumbrian saints than half the people here.” In spite of his earlier reproof, Melangell's father was speaking for his daughter now.

“I know about St Aidan,” Melangell said. “That's Daddy's name. That's partly why we've come.”

Lucy looked across at Aidan, considering. Separated from his wife, probably. Access rights. Bringing the child here for a holiday. It happened all the time nowadays. Fractured families.

Next moment, the hall was suddenly full of people as the front door swung violently open. Belatedly, Lucy realized there were only two of them. A large, brown-suited woman towing an oversize case on wheels, and a thinner one with soft grey hair almost blocked from view behind her.

For the second time, Lucy geared herself up to play the part of the welcoming host. She had never run a course like this before. She knew how much its success depended on the quality of her leadership.

“Welcome! You must be…”

“Haccombe and Grayson. Never mind about that.” The larger woman forged past her, brushing her welcome aside. “Let's get these things stowed in our cabin. We can do the formalities later.”

As they swept in the direction of the garden door, Valerie Grayson threw Lucy a secret smile of resignation.

Mrs Batley was making for the staircase with Aidan Davison and Melangell. Lucy was left standing in the hall. Four more additions to her party, and already she was feeling her quiet assumption of authority as leader slipping away from her.

And Rachel was missing.

She stepped out into the refreshing breeze of the front garden. At the gate, between the palm trees, she looked up and down the road. No sign of Rachel.

It was early to be worried. She had known she was taking a risk bringing the troubled teenager with her. But this had seemed a healing
place to bring her. Away from the pull of drugs and drink. Rachel had been clean for several months. Yet she would always live on a knife-edge. There were pushers only too keen to get her back. Or the pressures of her difficult life could tip her over the edge.

Lindisfarne. Holy Island. It had offered the promise of sanctuary. How many pilgrims had come this way across the sands to find the meeting place with God St Aidan had created here? She had fled here herself, at the lowest point of her life. Would it work for Rachel? She must pray that it would.

But where was she? She ran her fingers through her tangled hair.

Lucy told herself it was not unusual for the girl to take off on her own.

Maybe it hadn't been such a good idea to combine taking Rachel away for a holiday with running a course for a group of strangers. Could she really do her best for both?

Should she call Peter to look for Rachel?

Peter might be only twenty, but he was a tower of strength.

Lucy's feet shifted restlessly. She longed to be active, to launch into a loping run, covering the ground effortlessly to search around St Colman's House. But she had other duties. Mrs Batley would soon be serving tea to the new arrivals. She ought to be there.

The procession of visitors making their way from the main car park up to the village had thinned. But the flow of people leaving was growing. Her mind ran down the list of names. Just the Cavendishes to come.

She looked once more for any sign of Rachel. With a sigh of frustration she turned back to the house.

The hall was empty now. She made for the garden door and the chalet she was sharing with Rachel. Would it have been better to book two singles upstairs, like Aidan Davison and Melangell? A haven of quiet for herself. Privacy for Rachel.

She pulled a face. It had been enough expense to pay for Rachel to
share a double with her. The church had helped. The rest had come out of her modest salary as a probationary Methodist minister. The numbers who had signed up for her course were not going to bring her a great deal more than her expenses.

But still. A week on Lindisfarne. It had to be worth it.

She hurried on. The glass door opened on to the back garden of the house. Mrs Batley had made it a welcoming area. Flowering bushes surrounded the lawn. Tables and seats were set out invitingly. Tulips and forget-me-nots made colourful borders. Along one side a row of chalet bedrooms gave on to a covered passageway to the house.

Someone sprang up from one of the garden seats.

“Lucy! Have you been outside? You haven't seen James, have you?”

Sue English: a rather pallid and plump young woman with worried brown eyes behind her glasses. Lucy had met her only briefly this afternoon, and then she had hardly spoken. Not that she had had a chance. Sue had simply watched with a mixture of awe and admiration as her companion – partner? Lucy struggled to define their relationship – had strode into the guesthouse as though he owned it. There was something unbalanced here. James was occupying a chalet room that would probably sleep three. Sue was in the singles under the eaves.

He had accosted Lucy as if he were the course leader rather than she.

Now, without James, Lucy felt as though she was seeing Sue for the first time.

“Has he gone out?”

“I don't know. He didn't tell me. But he's not in his room. I last saw him from my window upstairs. He was down here talking to that girl with the spotty face.”

“Rachel?” Lucy asked sharply. She was suddenly defensive. Yes, Rachel was a teenager with unhealthy skin. Drugs had taken their toll. But that shouldn't be the first thing anyone noticed about her. Her defining feature.

“Yes. But she's not here either.”

Lucy stared at her with dawning understanding. Sue had come all this way with James Denholme from – where was it? – Huddersfield.
She must have been looking forward to a week with the man she so obviously adored. And now, they had hardly got through the door before James had taken an interest in a younger girl.

Rachel. Was that where she was? The unease that had gripped Lucy when she found the teenager was missing so soon after their arrival took on a more solid edge. What sort of man was James Denholme?

She remembered an enthusiastic handclasp. A man about her own age, well built and good looking, with the self-confidence of one who knew it; his cry of, “We've come for mutual inspiration, haven't we? ‘Mission to Northumbria.' That's what this country needs.”

Yet behind his wide smile and hearty words she had felt his blue eyes assessing her shrewdly. His bearing exuded authority. She had an uncomfortable feeling that he was sizing her up and finding her inadequate.

If Rachel
was
with him, was she in a fit state to stand up against that male authority? And what might James want from a vulnerable eighteen-year-old girl?

New anxieties came crowding in.

Behind her, Mrs Batley called from the door, “Tea's ready in the lounge, Reverend.”

She threw what she hoped was an encouraging smile at Sue. “I'm sure they'll be back soon.”