“It’s all right,” said Peter, his fury fading as quickly as it had flared. “You’re here to protect Lori and the boys. I do understand.”
Damian took a pen and a small pad of paper from his breast pocket, jotted a note, and passed it to Peter. “Here’s the number for my mobile. Please ring me if you notice anything out of the ordinary.”
“Here’s mine,” said Peter, tearing the paper in half and scribbling his number on the slip. “In case you need an extra hand. I’d do anything for Lori.”
“We already have, by the way,” Cassie said casually. “Noticed something out of the ordinary, I mean.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed. “What have you noticed?”
“There’s a little island off to the west of Erinskil,” said Cassie. “It’s called Cieran’s Chapel.”
“We know it,” I said, nodding.
Cassie leaned forward. “We were up on the coastal path the night before last, looking at the stars, when we saw a light out there—several lights, in fact. They were no more than faint flickers, but we thought it odd.”
I shot a triumphant glance at Damian. “I told you there was a light.”
“You saw one, too?” said Cassie.
“Yes,” I said, “but I only saw one brief flash.”
“What time did you see your lights, Cassie?” Damian asked.
“Between eleven-thirty and midnight,” Cassie informed him. “That’s why it struck us as odd. On our first night here, Mrs. Muggoch had told us an absurd tale about a monk’s ghost haunting the Chapel. She seemed to believe it, but we didn’t. Still, we couldn’t imagine why anyone would be out there at such a late hour.”
Damian peered at Cassie with a curious intensity. “Did you mention the lights to Mrs. Muggoch?”
“Certainly not,” she said. “Peter and I don’t want to draw attention to ourselves. And after a good night’s sleep, it dawned on us that the same might be true for whoever was on Cieran’s Chapel.”
“Cassie thinks it must have been drug smugglers,” said Peter, “dropping off a load or picking one up. And I agree with her.”
“Drug smugglers!” I exclaimed. “You can’t be serious.”
“We’re perfectly serious,” said Peter. “The Western Isles are a hotbed for drug smuggling. I’ve read stories about it in all the newspapers. Dealers drop shipments off in remote locations, and locals take the shipments to the mainland for distribution. You have to admit that Cieran’s Chapel would be a useful transit point.”
“Quite useful,” Damian murmured.
I looked from one face to another in disbelief. “You think the locals are involved?”
“I’m afraid we do,” said Cassie. “No outsider could use the Chapel without their full knowledge and cooperation.”
I opened my mouth to protest but closed it again. I didn’t want to believe that the illicit drug trade had sullied Sir Percy’s little corner of paradise, but it might be true. I recalled the revelation I’d had the night before and realized with a sinking heart that my newborn suspicions dovetailed rather neatly with Cassie’s.
Aunt Dimity’s words came back to me so clearly that I could almost see them written in the air: If you want to keep people from visiting a place, you scare them off. Erinskil was all but inaccessible to casual visitors, and the few tourists who found their way to the island could theoretically be kept away from Cieran’s Chapel by the spooky mythology the islanders had built up around Brother Cieran. It was entirely possible that the islanders’ antitourism campaign had been designed to protect their drug-trafficking operation.
“You needn’t look so shocked, Lori,” said Peter. “Smuggling is a traditional source of revenue in the islands. Drugs are simply the latest—and most lucrative—cargo.”
“But they don’t need drug money,” I said feebly. “Percy told us that the islanders are part of a tweed-making cooperative.They make a good living selling high-quality tweed.”
“Tweed?” Peter said incredulously. He and Cassie exchanged glances, got to their feet, and slung their day packs over their shoulders. “Come with us, Lori. There are a few things we’d like to show you.”
Twelve
Damian and I scrambled after Peter and Cassie as they climbed the boulder-strewn hill above the overlook. It wasn’t a long climb, but the hill was steep, and I was overheated by the time we reached the crest. I paused to unsnap and unzip my rain jacket, then jogged to catch up with the others. They’d made their way across the rounded summit and stood just below the hilltop, looking east.
The hill’s inland slope didn’t end in precipitous cliffs but fell gently to the wide valley below in a series of broad, deep terraces. On the highest terrace, commanding a sweeping view of Erinskil’s sheep-dotted fields, lay the monastery’s skeletal remains.