Mick’s voice broke into my reveries.
“It’s said that Brother Cieran never left the Chapel,” he murmured hoarsely. “It’s said that his ghost wanders here still, suffering the torments of the damned.There’re those who wouldn’t come out here for love or money.”
Mick spoke with such conviction that I wondered if Aunt Dimity had been mistaken when she’d told me that Brother Cieran had left the islet long ago.
“Have you seen his ghost?” I asked.
“That’s none of your business,” Mick said gruffly, leaving me with the clear impression that he had and that it hadn’t been an experience he cherished. He cast a glance skyward, then stumped off toward the cleft, saying, “It’s time we were going. I’ll have to take you to the harbor, Mr. Hunter. Sea’s too rough to drop you at the cove.”
“That’ll be fine, Mick,” said Damian. “We can walk up to the castle from the village.”
While the two men were talking, I noticed a band of high, white clouds sailing across the blue sky. When I looked toward the northern horizon, I saw a line of much darker clouds that seemed to be moving rapidly in our direction. Damian, too, took note of the oncoming storm. Alarmed, we hastened back to the dinghy, with Mick urging us on, and braced ourselves as he gunned the motor and went full bore around the headland to Stoneywell’s tiny harbor.
We almost made it. We were thirty yards from the L-shaped jetty when the heavens opened. Mick steered the boat through curtains of driving rain onto the slipway, and Damian and I helped him pull it clear of the high-water mark.
“Can I buy you a drink, Mick?” Damian offered, shouting this time to be heard above the pounding rain.
“Thanks, no,” said Mick. “I’d best be off home. Wife’ll be worried about me. She doesn’t like me going out to the Chapel.” He gave me a surly glance, turned on his heel, and strode up the cobbled street.
“Thanks again, Mr. Ferguson,” I called to his retreating back, but he didn’t respond.
I pushed my sodden curls back from my forehead and sighed. The only good thing about the rain was that it was washing some of the salt out of my jeans. The thought of slogging up the long, muddy track to the castle did not fill me with glee.
Damian had no trouble interpreting my mood.
“I’ll ring for a car,” he said. “We can wait for it in the pub.”
He took me by the elbow and steered me over the slick cobbles past several rain-blurred buildings and into the dimly lit and wonderfully warm pub. It was a fairly spacious one-room establishment, with a low ceiling, whitewashed walls, and a floor of wide planks. The bar was to our left, the open hearth to our right, and assorted tables and chairs had been placed between them. We hung our streaming jackets on hooks just inside the door and claimed the table closest to the fire.
Two men sat at the bar, nursing whiskeys, and two others shared a table near the back wall. They all stopped talking and turned to stare at us as we took our seats, then turned back to their drinks and their low-voiced conversations. A moment later a motherly, middle-aged barmaid came bustling up to us, wiping her plump hands on a white apron.
“Mrs. Muggoch,” said Damian, “may I introduce Ms. Lori Shepherd?”
“Call me Lori,” I said, smiling up at the barmaid.
She smiled back. “You’ll be staying with Sir Percy, you and those adorable wee lads of yours. Will and Rob they’re called, is that right?”
“That’s right,” I said. I doubted that there was a soul on Erinskil who didn’t know my sons’ names, heights, weights, and date of birth.
“Ach, Sir Percy’s wonderful with children,” said Mrs. Muggoch. “Well, he’s never really grown up himself, has he? I don’t mean to criticize,” she added hastily. “You’d be hard-pressed to find anyone on the island who’d criticize Sir Percy. He’s a good man. We all think so.”
“I think so, too,” I said. “And I couldn’t agree with you more. Sir Percy will never grow old—or up. I wouldn’t change him for the world.”
“Nor would we,” said Mrs. Muggoch.
“Are your guests keeping you busy, Mrs. Muggoch?” Damian turned to me and explained, “A young couple—a pair of bird-watchers—arrived on the last ferry.They’re staying here at the pub.”
“Ach, they’re nice kids, and considerate, too.” She bent low and murmured mischievously, “Took the room with separate beds. Who’s to know if they stay in them all night long, but it’s thoughtful of them to spare my tender feelings, don’t you think?” She straightened and looked us over from head to toe. “How on earth did you get so wet?”
“Mick Ferguson took us out to Cieran’s Chapel,” said Damian.
Mrs. Muggoch gave a startled gasp. “Did he? You wouldn’t catch me out there. It’s terrible bad luck to set foot on the Chapel.”