“Why?” I asked.
“Brother Cieran killed himself,” said Mrs. Muggoch. “It may have happened a long time ago, but suicide’s a mortal sin, and Brother Cieran left the stain of it on those rocks. Ask anyone on Erinskil. They’ll tell you that bad things happen to people who go out there. I could tell you tales that would keep you awake nights, and they’re all of them true. If I were you, I’d be careful for the next little while.” She shook her head. “It’s cursed, that place.”
Mick Ferguson’s strange outburst suddenly made sense to me. He’d considered my trip to Cieran’s Chapel risky, not because of the wind and waves but because of the curse that hung over the islet.
“The tenth earl didn’t think Cieran’s Chapel was cursed,” I pointed out to Mrs. Muggoch.
“Ach, no, but James Robert was a saint, and there’re special rules for saints,” she said. Her smile returned. “Now, what can I get for you?”
Damian ordered a large pot of tea and a plate of Mrs. Muggoch’s homemade shortbread. She bustled off to the kitchen, and he pulled out his cell phone.
“Wait,” I said, and nodded toward the rain-dashed windows. “I’d like to warm up a bit before we step outside again.”
“Mrs. Gammidge will expect us in the dining room at one o’clock,” he said. “I’ll ask her to send a car in”—he consulted his watch—“half an hour. We’ll be back in time to shower and change before lunch.”
I nodded happily, and Damian made the call.
When the tea and the shortbread arrived, we sipped and nibbled in silence, staring fixedly into the fire. I didn’t know what was on Damian’s mind, but I knew what was on mine: Our trip to Cieran’s Chapel had been a colossal waste of time. I’d searched the stupid rock from end to end, but I still couldn’t explain the mysterious golden glow. To make matters worse, Damian had been wonderful from start to finish. He’d organized the pointless expedition at the drop of a hat, even though he hadn’t believed a word I’d said about the light. He’d allowed himself to be drenched, chilled, and buffeted without complaint, and when my search had proven fruitless, he’d gallantly refrained from crowing. I had to give credit where credit was due.
“Damian,” I said, leaning forward, “you were right. About the light, I mean. I must have imagined it.”
“Do you think so?” Damian raised an eyebrow enigmatically but said nothing more.
The fire guttered as the front door opened, admitting a gust of wind and a bedraggled young couple dressed in the traditional garb of bird-watchers: well-worn day packs, bobble caps, bulky anoraks, sturdy walking shoes, and wool trousers tucked into woolly knee socks.
The young woman had cameras and binoculars slung on straps around her neck, and the young man held in one hand a clear plastic bag filled with field guides, notebooks, and maps. Both were tall, slender, dark-haired, and good-looking, though the young man’s good looks were diminished slightly by a pair of severe-looking black-rimmed glasses that were far too large for his fine-featured face.
They called hello to Mrs. Muggoch, left their packs, caps, and anoraks at the door, and made a bee-line for the fire. The young man was two steps away from me when I blinked in amazement. I saw a flicker of recognition in his eyes and felt my own widen, but before I could speak, he stumbled, lost his grip on the clear plastic bag, and sent an avalanche of field guides tumbling onto our table. My teacup toppled into my lap and the saucer went skittering off into space, but before it hit the hearthstone there was a blur of movement and Damian was standing in front of me, his arm outstretched, his palm planted firmly on the young man’s chest.
“Back off,” he said quietly.
“Gosh, yes, of course,” the young man said, backpedaling a step or two. “I’m so sorry. It’s these frightful boots. They’re splendid in the wild, but they trip me up the moment I return to civilization.” He peered through his rain-blurred lenses at me. “I really am most awfully sorry.”
“You might try cleaning your specs, Harry,” muttered the young woman, who was clearly mortified.
Mrs. Muggoch hurried over with a towel, and while I blotted the spilled tea from my jeans, the embarrassed young woman asked Damian if she might retrieve the items Harry had dumped on the table. Damian studied her briefly, then stepped aside and allowed her to gather up the notebooks.
Harry, in the meantime, had dried his glasses and put them on again. He peered at me anxiously.
“I haven’t scalded you, have I?” he asked. “I really am the most appalling klutz. Shall I fetch the doctor?”
“No, don’t,” I told him. “The tea wasn’t hot. I’m fine.”
“I’ll pay for the saucer, of course,” he said, turning to Mrs. Muggoch.