Death on Lindisfarne (25 page)

“Great. Melangell will enjoy that, won't you?”

“Yes, please.”

Lucy moved a teaspoon in a slow circle. “I've been worrying about something else. Karen was trying to tell me something yesterday. Something important enough to make her slip away from Gerald and find me. She knew he didn't want her to talk to me. I hate to think what she's suffered for that.”

“It was someone she recognized, wasn't it? Someone here.”

Aidan glanced along the table. Elspeth was engaged in a booming conversation with Valerie. The Cavendishes were pushing back their chairs.

Lucy's voice came low. “I need to know who that was. It may very well have been Rachel's murderer.”

There was a sudden silence. Elspeth had finished what she was saying and turned to them, her dark eyes suddenly sharp. Valerie stared inscrutably. The Cavendishes halted on their way to the door. All eyes were on Lucy.

“Sorry,” she said huskily. “It's not a nice thought.”

A
IDAN LOOKED ROUND THE SITTING ROOM
with a feeling of satisfaction. He had got through the story of the Lindisfarne Gospels creditably. The details of the vellum, the inks, the precious cover of gold and jewels. The single scribe, Bishop Eadfrith of Lindisfarne. The craftsmen who bound and ornamented it. The scholar who added an Anglo-Saxon translation.

“I could take you to the ruins of the farm where they raised the calves for the vellum. It's on the other side of the island.”

Not far from where Rachel met her death, he reminded himself.

The monks had left Lindisfarne to escape the marauding Vikings. The precious manuscript had been swept overboard and miraculously found. Seven years they wandered through Northumbria, until they found a resting place at Chester-le-Street. And then the final translation of Cuthbert's body to lie before the high altar in Durham Cathedral.

“That stone in the floor bears a single word: CUTHBERTUS. If you're a Northumbrian, you don't need to be told anything else about Northumbria's favourite saint. The Lindisfarne Gospels themselves are in the British Museum.”

He had distributed Lucy's photocopied sheets, showing the outline of the initial page of St Luke's Gospel. The curious bird which poked its beak from the finial of the great capital letter reminded him of Rachel's earring, which Melangell had found in the sand.

He showed them how the scribe had ruled faint lines and pricked the vellum to guide the flowing interlace in a series of red dots. But the overall impression of the great illuminated page was not only of mathematical order but of riotous spontaneity.

He had a feeling of self-consciousness as he handed out the felt-tip pens.

The morning's group was startlingly depleted. Rachel was heartbreakingly dead. James and Sue had driven off the island. Lucy was recovering from the shock of being nearly murdered. Peter was nowhere to be seen.

Only Elspeth and Valerie and the Cavendishes were here. And Melangell, of course. She grabbed a fistful of pens with enthusiasm and set to work in the position she liked best, flat on her stomach on the floor.

Elspeth inspected the choice of colours. “Haven't done this since I was in kindergarten.” She sounded oddly uninsulted for an Oxford don. She seized on the scarlet.

Valerie chose more delicate colours, mauve and pale green.

Only David Cavendish looked as though he might be going to protest that this was beneath his dignity. But Frances held out the packet of pens to him with an encouraging smile.

“We used to do this with the kiddies, didn't we?”

The room fell silent, except for the whisper of felt pens across the paper. Aidan looked out of the sitting room window behind him. The air was grey. Fingers of mist were beginning to creep under the trees that lined the road.

He saw a figure in a navy-blue tracksuit striding across the car park, almost at a run. Lucy turned to the left, towards the village centre. He went to stand in the bay window and watched her lope away up the road.

She was probably going to the Fellowship of St Ebba and St Oswald, to Brother Simon. No doubt she would pour her heart out to him about what had happened and seek his consolation.

Spiritual comfort, or something more?

Aidan felt something sharp twist inside him. He remembered the shudder of Lucy's body against his own last night.

Don't be ridiculous. They're old friends. It was here that Lucy fled when she ran away from Bill. What possible reason could you have to feel jealous of Simon?

Then memory overwhelmed him. Jenny was only six months dead. The pain hit him again, and swept away all thought of Lucy.

It was minutes before he turned back to the room and today's reality. There was a low buzz of chatter in the room. Lucy had guessed right. Adults four of them might be, but three of them seemed to be enjoying themselves as much as Melangell. David alone had done very little of his. He had filled in a few of the spaces a dull brown. Melangell's was already a riot of colour. David seemed to be watching her work more than his own.

“That's great,” Aidan told her. “We'll show Lucy at lunchtime.”

Something stirred at the back of his mind. That memory of Lucy's loping figure. Like someone running for a purpose. In haste.

Suddenly he knew this was not the gait of someone on her way to her spiritual counsellor. Something had overridden the shock of Bill's attack which had made her so subdued at breakfast time. Something had galvanized her into action.

In a flash of revelation, Aidan knew now where she was going. The last thing she had said to him at the table.

“I need to know who that was. It may very well have been Rachel's murderer.”

Lucy must be making a last attempt to contact Karen, before Rachel's mother left the island.

What would the volatile Gerald do if he found them together?

Another thought came thundering in behind that.

Had Lucy guessed what Karen knew?

A hand seemed to grip his heart. If Lucy, or Karen, knew who the murderer was… If the murderer realized that… Lucy's life might be in danger twice over.

He threw a swift glance around the five absorbed in their tasks.

“Excuse me, folks. I'll be back.”

He made for the door. Melangell scrambled to her feet.

“I'm coming too.”

“No, love. Not this time. You'll be fine. Go on with your colouring.” He was striding across the hall as he spoke.

“I don't
want
to stay.”

Frances appeared in the doorway behind her. She put a capable hand on Melangell's shoulder.

“Don't you worry about her. She'll be safe with me. Won't you, Mel?”

Melangell's panicked eyes cut Aidan to the quick. But he couldn't waste time talking sense to her.

“Do what she says, love.”

He had a last glimpse of her stricken face as he shot out of the front door.

Lucy reached the small hotel on the corner and swung into its car park at a run. She was desperately afraid she had come too late. After yesterday's encounter, when Gerald had ordered Karen away, he might have swept her straight off the island. What would there have been to keep him another night?

It was both a relief and a shock when the first thing she saw was Gerald loading a suitcase into the boot of his car. No, not
his.
Lucy recognized one of a fleet of local hire cars. A man like Gerald Morrison could have given a false identity to the company to hide his tracks. His own car would be something more flashy than this. Too easily recognized and remembered.

When had he really come to Holy Island?

Yesterday, she had feared his violence. But nothing could compare with the terror of the man who had loomed over her last night.

It was on the tip of her tongue to say, “Where's Karen?” But she checked herself. For reasons she dared not explore too deeply, Gerald had not wanted her to talk to Rachel's mother.

Cold fear of another sort was beginning to crawl through her stomach. The doubts were coming back. She looked at the clean-cut face, the handsomely trimmed fair hair, as his gaze swung round to meet hers.

That cricket sweater. Hadn't the police been asking about someone wearing white wool?

Fool! She should never have dashed off like this without telling someone where she was going.

“Can I help you?” The words were icy. The last thing in the world Gerald Morrison wanted to do was help a friend of Karen's.

Where
was
she?

“You're checking out?”

“I can't think how I let Karen persuade me to stay another night in this God-forsaken spot. If you'll pardon the phrase. Nothing here but sand. And not even a golf links. Just a religious tourist trap. Not my scene. There isn't a decent cocktail bar in sight.”

He slammed the boot and opened the driver's door.

Lucy could restrain herself no longer. “Where's Karen? Isn't she coming with you?”

“I have not the faintest idea where she is. And frankly, my dear, I don't care.”

His hand reached out to shut the door.

“Just a minute.” A wiry figure shot past Lucy and grabbed the door before it fully closed. Aidan was suddenly between them. He was panting from the run. “You can't just drive off like that. There's a murder investigation. Karen's daughter is dead. Was Karen in the hotel last night? When did you last see her?”

Gerald kept his supercilious smile with difficulty. He looked around him with exaggerated care. “I see no police. They seem to have finished their enquiries here. I gave them my contact details. I'm free to go. If you wouldn't mind removing your hand, before we have a regrettable accident with your fingers. Don't forget, I'm a grieving father. Don't I deserve some sympathy?” He got into the car.

Lucy stepped up beside Aidan and put her own restraining hand on the door. “You haven't answered Aidan's questions.”

The terror of last night was receding a little. It felt better to have the fiery-bearded photographer at her side.

Next moment, the car shot backwards, almost flinging Lucy and Aidan to the ground. It swung in a vicious turn. Then it headed straight towards them, door swinging wide. Aidan grabbed her arm and hurled her sideways. Grit showered her as the car slewed out of
the gate and accelerated down the road towards the causeway.

“Are you OK?” Aidan asked. He was breathing hard himself.

She rubbed the flaming marks on her arm where he had grabbed her. “Yes, thank you… But Aidan, I'm scared. What has he done with Karen?”

“When I caught you up, he was sounding as though he had no idea where she was.”

“That could be a bluff.” She set off for the hotel entrance.

A couple was checking out at the reception desk.

“You'll want to be quick,” the receptionist was saying. “The causeway closes in fifteen minutes. Don't try and cross after then.”

Lucy could barely contain her impatience until the visitors had settled their bill.

“Please! Can you tell me if Karen Ince has checked out?”

“Ince?” The girl seemed not to recognize the name. She thumbed down the register.

“She was with Gerald Morrison. I've just seen him leaving.”

“Yes… yes, he's settled his bill. Bit of a looker, isn't he?”

“Mrs Ince wasn't with him. Did you see her leaving? Blonde, middle-aged.” It was on the tip of her tongue to say, “
And usually stoned.”
'

“Not while I've been on duty this morning.”

Lucy turned away in frustration.

Aidan drew her aside. “What is it you're frightened of, Lucy?”

“That he knows more about Rachel's death than he's saying. And if he does, then he might want to silence Karen.”

“But that's not what Karen was saying yesterday. She'd met somebody else… Hang on! No. Didn't she say
them
?”

Lucy stepped out into the gathering mist. She looked slowly round at the half-familiar landmarks of the village, now blurred and indistinct.

“You're right. That's why I came here. I had to talk to Karen before she left. Meeting Gerald drove it out of my mind.” She shivered.

Something plucked at the edges of her memory.

“I've been trying to think – once I got over last night. Who could there possibly be on Lindisfarne that Karen would remember?”

“Has she been here before?”

“I've no idea. But I shouldn't think so. It's hardly her sort of place.”

“A visitor, then. Or visitors, rather.”

Lucy's memory strayed over the only visitors whose names she knew. Peter was too well known to Karen to make meeting him a surprise. Elspeth and Valerie had been with Lucy when Karen overtook her. But she had shown no reluctance to speak in front of them. James and Sue? James had had an unhealthy influence over Rachel, and his head wound was still unexplained. The pallid figures of David and Frances Cavendish, more banal than sinister?…

“Aidan!” She spun round and clutched his arm. “I know who Karen recognized! I could kick myself! Even when they told me they'd run a children's home, it never occurred to me…”

It was a moment before Aidan's mind connected.

“The Cavendishes? But surely…?”

“Karen told me once that when Rachel was a child she'd complained about something that happened in the children's home she was sent to. Karen told Rachel's social worker, but no one would take her seriously. I mean, you can understand why. Drink, drugs. She's hardly in her right mind most of the time. But what if, all along, she was right? What if Rachel did suffer abuse from the very people who were supposed to be protecting her? And what if she met them again here?”

She could see Aidan thinking furiously. “When we met Rachel on the stairs that first day, she was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Then she came into that meeting where we introduced ourselves, and she was a different girl. Eyes down. Hiding behind a curtain of hair. As if someone had switched off the light inside her.”