Death on Lindisfarne (23 page)

Some of the shock began to fade from Aidan. It was not him she was afraid of. Was it?

But one way or another, fear stalked Lindisfarne now. Rachel's killer, probably still on the island. And now perhaps too the man Lucy had feared might kill her if she stayed with him.

He heard the church door close behind Simon.

Aidan was suddenly aware how vigilant he needed to be. This was more than an intellectual puzzle about who the murderer might be. He must make very sure that Rachel's was not the only death.

L
UCY LOOKED ROUND AT THE SMALL GROUP
gathered in the church with dismay. It was twenty to four. Aidan and Melangell were there, Melangell's face as eager as ever. Elspeth had stridden determinedly up the aisle, with Valerie in her wake.

Lucy fought to control a tremor of disquiet. Surely she should feel glad they were still on board enough to keep attending her course? But she sensed the undercurrent of resentment in the two women.

Peter had come last. Somehow he had prised himself out of his depression and managed the short distance from the guesthouse to the church. He sat now in a back pew, his shoulders still hunched. Peter, whom she had relied upon as her stay and support. Now she knew that he was wounded and needed her to support him.

Looking at his bowed head, she chided herself that she could ever have allowed herself to be possessed by Aidan's doubts that Peter might be responsible for Rachel's murder.

Murder. The word still shocked. How far had the police got with today's enquiries? Most murders had a pretty obvious suspect. An angry or desperate parent. A rejected partner.

She winced. That was too close. It was probably foolish to think that Bill would be on Lindisfarne this very moment. That she might meet him face to face for the first time since she fled their flat four years ago. But her head, as well as her heart, told her it was possible. The uniformed officers she had seen on the streets today would have come from a fairly local area. Ian had confirmed that Bill was still at the station where she and he had served together. And he knew she was here.

She tore her eyes away from the closed church door and her thoughts back to the task in front of her. It should have been easy. St Cuthbert, probably the most loved of all the Northumbrian saints. Behind her, the wood-carved monks carried his coffin on their shoulders.

But there were too many fears snatching at her thoughts. She scanned the few in front of her. Aidan, in his shorts, regarding her attentively. Melangell waiting, as if for a treat. Elspeth, in her tweeds. Valerie, her face inscrutable.

The Cavendishes weren't coming. Lucy felt a heavy sense of inevitability. They had never been wholeheartedly committed to the subject of this holiday. The seventh century, which for Lucy was a source of delight, was too far back for David and Frances to grasp with their imagination. Rachel's death had hit them hard. But now the shadow of murder lay over the island. They must have done what they had threatened so many times, and left Lindisfarne.

Sue and James were missing too. Had James decided not to waste any more of his valuable time on a woman minister too obsessed with the past to get to grips with the present-day need for a mission to the north? She had always meant to bring the story up to date in the last session of the week.

It seemed impossible to believe that it was only Tuesday.

She must make this afternoon count for those who had stayed with her. She cleared her throat and began.

“Today, we're standing in front of a statue which celebrates what happened to Cuthbert after his death. But it's his life I want to show you. Cuthbert was a well-built lad, the son of a family with horses and servants. He did his military service. He was Christian enough to berate the locals who failed to pray when they saw the monks of Wearmouth being swept out to sea on their rafts.

“But his life changed one night when he was out on the hills with the sheep. He saw angels carrying a brilliant soul up a ladder to heaven. Next day, he heard that the beloved Father Aidan had died on Lindisfarne. He left the sheep, took his horse and spear, and set out for Melrose to become a monk.”

For once, Lucy was struggling to remember what came next. Her eyes kept going to that closed door.

She took her hearers, as best she could, through Cuthbert's missionary rides to hill communities others were afraid to go near, to his appointment as guest-master at Ripon.

“One snowy day a young man appeared in the guesthouse. Cuthbert washed his feet and held them to his chest to thaw them. He asked the visitor to wait, while he went to the bakery for fresh bread. When he returned, he found only three new-baked loaves, smelling deliciously. There were no footprints in the snow outside.”

“Superstitious piffle!” Elspeth snorted to Valerie, none to quietly.

“A story doesn't have to be literally true for it to have meaning,” Lucy retorted, more sharply than she normally would.

She led them on, through Cuthbert's eviction by Wilfrid from Ripon, with the other Celtic monks. His patient work on Lindisfarne in the wake of the Synod of Whitby. The Irish monks had gone off, broken-hearted, to Ireland, and the English monks who remained bitterly resented the changes. Cuthbert would leave them quarrelling in the chapter house, and take long walks around the island, talking to farmers, returning only when they were ready to conform. But increasingly he was drawn to his hermitage on the distant island of Inner Farne.

“You forgot the otters,” came an accusing voice.

Lucy blinked. Melangell's pointed face was staring up at her, demanding a favourite story. Suddenly it hit Lucy. The eight-year-old was like a younger child who wants the same bedtime story over and over again. And not a word must be out of place in the telling. She knew, piercingly, that Jenny Davison must have told these stories to her daughter, time after time. And now she never would again.

Lucy's eyes strayed to Aidan. He was sitting in the pew, looking down at his feet. Months had passed but the hurt was still raw. Could either she or Peter feel that deeply about Rachel?

“Why don't you tell us about them, Melangell?”

Delight shone in Melangell's face. She stood up and turned to face the others.

“Cuthbert was visiting another monastery. St Ebba was in charge. But the nuns and monks hadn't been behaving themselves and Cuthbert was upset. He went out onto the beach to pray. He used to do that standing up to his waist in the water, in the middle of the night. And when he paddled back to the shore, he was cold and wet. But the otters came frolicking along the beach. And they wrapped their furry bodies all round his feet and legs, and they dried him and warmed him up.”

This time, Elspeth led the group in a round of applause.

“You should take my job,” Lucy smiled.

Somehow she managed to get to the end. The hermit happy on his windswept island, with a wind-eye in his cell looking up to the sky. Growing crops in the crevices of the rock. Scolding the ravens who stole the corn from him. “The king himself had to row out to Inner Farne and drag him away to become bishop of Northumbria. But the bishop of Lindisfarne took pity on his unhappiness and changed places with him, so that he could stay.

“The old hermit fell sick on Inner Farne. At first he struggled on alone, eating only onions. At the end, he was nursed by monks in his cell. One night, a flame across the water told the monks of Lindisfarne St Cuthbert had died. They buried him in the abbey, perhaps right where we stand. They left him for years, for the flesh to fall from his bones. But when they dug him up to reinter the bones before the altar, they found the body miraculously undecayed. They dressed this humble man in Byzantine silk, with a precious cross on his breast and his episcopal ring on his finger. A gifted scribe penned the Lindisfarne Gospels in his honour. A labour of love.”

She let the church fall silent. Let there be one happy story in the midst of this gloom. Time enough later for the Viking massacres and the restless journey of Cuthbert's coffin from place to place.

There were few questions. They were not in the mood.

Lucy stood up with a sense of unfinished business. “There'll be tea back at the guesthouse.”

It took courage to step out into the open. It was only four o'clock. If Bill was really here, the meeting she dreaded was still possible. She welcomed the closeness of the little group around her.

They reached the corner of the road to St Colman's. There was the usual procession of visitors beginning to head back to the main car park.

But other vehicles were coming round the corner from the school. Police cars. A black van. Lucy stood back against the wall, hoping Aidan's lean figure would shield her. She lowered her head, so that any curious faces looking out would not see her face.

It was nerve-wracking moments before the last car passed.

Yet now her heart was lifting. Whatever information DSI Barry had hoped to get from the people on the island, he must have gathered it. The police were leaving. She watched the convoy of vehicles dwindling down the road. The causeway would still be open this evening, but the police would be across it long before it closed.

She took a deep breath. She had got away with it. If Bill had been drafted over here today, he had gone.

A
CLATTER OF RUNNING FOOTSTEPS
startled Lucy. Someone clutched her arm from behind.

Still tense, Lucy turned swiftly.

Karen Ince's pinched face was staring up at her. Her eyes were scared.

“Lucy! Thank God I've found you. I had to tell you.” Her eyes swept round the small group listening. Then she seemed to decide. “They're here. On the island. I thought there was something familiar about their faces. And then I heard that policewoman call their names.”

“Who, Karen?”

An angry shout rang down the street. “Karen! You come back here at once!”

Fear twisted Karen's features. Lucy felt the grip of the woman's fingers fall away from her arm. Karen turned towards Gerald's commanding approach, then back to Lucy. There was a desperate look on her face.

“I've told you though, haven't I? I never trusted them. But nobody would believe me.”

She was gone, half-running up the street on her high heels towards the man advancing upon her. He caught hold of her arm, twisted her round, then shouted back at Lucy.

“You leave her alone, do you hear me? If it wasn't for you, we'd never have got mixed up with the police.”

He started to haul Rachel's mother away.

“Mr Morrison.” Lucy strode after them. “If Karen has any information about Rachel's death…”

“There's nothing that concerns
you.
You leave her alone. You've done enough damage already.”

“If you assault Karen, you'll be in worse trouble.”

He whirled around, his face scarlet. “Oh, so you're threatening me, are you? Two can play at that game. I'm warning you, back off.”

Lucy heard Aidan's quiet voice at her elbow. “Go easy, Lucy. He may be threatening you, but he'll take it out on Karen.”

She pulled herself to a halt, trembling with frustrated anger. She knew he was right. What could she do? Suddenly she regretted her first reaction of joy that the police were leaving the island. Was it too late to dash for the school and see if any officers were still there? She could only watch helplessly as Gerald took the stumbling Karen back to their hotel.

“I didn't handle that very well, did I?” she said, as she and Aidan walked back down the street.

The others were waiting for them in a silent group: Melangell, looking worried, Elspeth and Valerie, Peter.

“I don't think there
is
a good way to handle bullies like that,” Aidan comforted her.

“I should have known. More than anybody. It's my fault. There was something she wanted to tell me.”

“About Rachel's death? Someone she'd met. Somebody she already knew?”

Lucy shook her head and sighed. “I can't think what she was talking about. And to be honest, she's always been a bit muddle-headed. If it's not drink, it's drugs. Sometimes both. You can't always believe what she says.”

Lucy entered the sitting room at St Colman's and checked in surprise. David and Frances Cavendish were sitting on one of the sofas, drinking tea and eating Mrs Batley's fruit cake.

“Hello! I was beginning to think you'd left us, when you didn't show up at the church.”

“I'm ever so sorry.” Frances put down her teacup and licked the cake crumbs from her fingers. “But we found this marvellous shop. It was
full of all sorts of lovely things. Jewellery and food and tee-shirts for the kiddies. And they make their own wine.”

“Mead,” her husband corrected her.

“I said to David, we could do half our Christmas shopping here. And the time just flew. By the time we finished, it was nearly four o'clock. But we got some beautiful things, didn't we, David?”

“Quality stuff,” he agreed. “Not just your tourist tat.”

Lucy poured herself a cup of tea and sank down in a chair. The tension of the day was ebbing out of her, leaving a deep exhaustion. She drank in silence, no longer trying to play the leader's part of chatting to the members of her group.

Still, she was counting them over. Everyone was here now, except Sue and James. Should she ask Mrs Batley if they had left? She glanced out of the window at the guesthouse car park. Their car was not there. There were very few roads on the island. Not many places where you could park a car. The Cavendishes had stayed today, but if James and Sue had left, would the older couple follow?

She got up and found Mrs Batley in the kitchen, preparing supper.

“James and Sue aren't in for tea, and they weren't in the church with me this afternoon. They haven't left, have they?”

Mrs Batley sniffed. “If they have, they haven't returned their keys to me.” Then she managed a warmer smile. “You're having a bad week of it, love.”

“I know. I don't know what the police found out today, but I hope they get to the bottom of it soon.”

Her mind was still moving over the faces in the sitting room. Was it really possible that one of them was guilty of Rachel's death? Or James and Sue? And now Karen and Gerald had suddenly been thrown into the mix. Had Rachel's dysfunctional parents really only arrived for the first time yesterday? It might be none of these. Just the tabloid stereotype of a psychopathic stranger who had found Rachel alone on the beach.

“Am I supposed to keep supper for them?” Mrs Batley wanted to know.

Sue and James had still not returned.

“No. Go ahead. It's their responsibility if they want to stay out,” Lucy said.

She looked down the depleted table. She felt more keenly than ever that she was losing her grip on this course.

The pair arrived as Mrs Batley was serving the main course. James strode into the room unapologetically and took his seat. Sue sidled in after him.

“I've cleared the soup,” Mrs Batley told them pointedly.

“That's OK,” said Sue hastily. “The liver and bacon looks lovely.”

James's voice overrode hers. “I'm sure you still have some in the kitchen.”

There was a clatter of plates, louder than necessary, as Mrs Batley stalked off to get it.

“Some people have the manners of a pig.”

“Did you have a nice afternoon?” Valerie asked politely.

“We've been doing the work of God. Which is clearly not what's been happening here.”

“We went to Alnwick Castle,” Sue said enthusiastically. She turned to Frances. “You'd love it. The gardens are gorgeous.”

“Sue!” James thundered.

A painful blush mottled Sue's cheeks.

“I'm sorry, James,” she whispered.

“Work of God be blowed,” Elspeth snorted. “You missed some excitement here. Karen Ince, Rachel's mother. Stoned, by the look of her. But grabbing Lucy's arm like there was no tomorrow and telling her she'd recognized somebody from her past.”

The cutlery stilled. All eyes were on Elspeth. Those who had not been there when it happened stared at her avidly. The Cavendishes, James and Sue, Mrs Batley in the doorway.

“Go on, then,” Frances urged. “Who was it?”

“Search me.”

Lucy saw their eyes turn to her. She shook her head. “She didn't manage to tell me before Rachel's father hauled her away.”

Elspeth's bark of laughter held no real amusement. “He certainly put a stop to it. That cad in his cricket togs. By the way he dragged her off, I'd say we'll have another murder on our hands.”

Lucy felt the weight of the silence around the table.

She had her own reasons to know how dangerously close to the truth Elspeth might be.

Aidan woke in darkness. He was not sure what had disturbed him. Had Melangell cried out? He listened, but there was nothing now. His hand reached for the familiar bedside lamp switch, and found only the wall.

Memory came belatedly. He was not at home, but in St Colman's guesthouse. Ought he to check whether Melangell was all right?

He swung his feet out of bed, and stood at the window in his shorts and singlet. Cool air flowed over him. Starlight bathed the garden. The lights along the verandah were out.

Then he heard it again. The sound that must have woken him. The crash of broken glass.

A faint light sprang to life in one of the chalet bedrooms. Lucy's.

Without stopping to think, he went running down the stairs. The garden door resisted him, but he found a bolt. Past the Cavendishes' room, then Elspeth and Valerie's.

The lamplight from the curtained bedroom showed him the jagged hole in the glass pane. His heart lurched as he saw the door stood open. Then he heard Lucy's smothered cry from within.

There was a crash as the lamp went over onto the floor. Aidan hurled himself into the room.

Shadows of two figures struggling were thrown grotesquely over the walls and ceiling by the fallen lamp. Lucy was almost lost to sight beneath a huge Batman-like figure clad entirely in black. There was a muffled cry, but for the most part she was fighting in silence for her life.

Aidan cast around frantically for a weapon. He seized the dressing-table stool and threw it with all his strength at the black shape grappling with Lucy on the bed. It caught the middle of his spine.

There was a dreadful groan. The wildly wrestling shadows on the ceiling collapsed. For a terrible moment, Aidan could not tell where Lucy was. Then he saw the edge of a white nightdress beneath the sprawled weight of her attacker.

As he dashed forward, the inert form over her began to shift. There was a snarl of rage. At any moment he would turn his wrath on Aidan. He knew his slight figure would be no match for the giant who had loomed supernaturally tall. There was a flash of memory. He darted out onto the verandah and slammed his fist against the glass of the fire alarm. Then he was back inside, scared to death, but knowing that he had to defend Lucy.

As he flung himself at the bed, a clanging of bells shattered the night air. The black-clad stranger reared in shock. The shaded light showed the balaclava that hid his face. Through holes, eyes glared fury at Aidan. Long legs crossed the room in two strides. Aidan braced himself, desperate to know how to defend himself against such an opponent.

Lights snapped on from the verandah outside. Elspeth's deep voice rang out. “What's going on?”

Aidan saw the panicked eyes in those slits. They flicked sideways. Then long arms reached out and seized him. He was hurled across the room. He landed jarringly against a coffee table. He heard the television set smash beneath him.

The door flew wide as the dark giant fled into the night.