“Alasdair Murdoch’s catch of the day doesn’t end up in an Edinburgh restaurant,” Peter added, driving the point home. “It ends up on the islanders’ plates or in Alasdair’s cold-storage locker for future use—by the locals.”
“Lucky locals,” I murmured.
“Stunningly lucky,” said Peter. His eyes roved over the village. “We come at last to Stoneywell. I won’t ask you to examine it through your binoculars, because we’re supposed to be studying birds, not buildings. In fact, it would be a good idea for you to point your binoculars toward the sky occasionally, in case a villager happens to see us up here.”
“In keeping with our cover story,” Damian put in. He picked up a field guide and thumbed through it.
“I wish our expedition could include a stroll through the village.” Faint worry lines furrowed Peter’s smooth brow. “But I think we should continue to maintain a low profile there. We want the islanders to go on believing that we’re harmless bird-watchers. It’s a matter of personal safety as much as anything else.”
“Are you afraid of the paparazzi?” I asked.
“Not particularly,” Peter answered, “but I have a healthy fear of drug dealers. They’re not known for their gentle ways. If they suspect us of prying into their business, they might turn ugly.” He lifted a hand to the sky. “So please raise your binoculars while I point to the flock of kittiwakes that happens to be flying by.”
Apprehension made my hands tremble as I followed the flock.
“Peter,” I said from the corner of my mouth, “maybe you and Cassie should move into the castle with me and the boys. Sir Percy won’t mind, and if you’re right about the islanders, you may already be in danger.You’ve been awfully inquisitive.”
“We’ve also been endearingly naive,” Peter said with a lighthearted laugh. “No one suspects us of anything but youthful curiosity—yet. We don’t intend to push it any further.”
“A wise plan,” Damian said quietly. “But keep Lori’s invitation in mind. If you feel threatened in any way, come to Dundrillin.”
“Thanks,” said Cassie.
“Now, about Stoneywell . . .” Peter bent over his map, as though he were consulting it. “Did you notice anything about the village when you were there yesterday, Lori?”
“I noticed that it was wet,” I replied. “Very, very wet.”
“It wasn’t the best day for sightseeing,” Peter conceded. “If it had been, you might have seen some rather unusual sights. . . .”
If I hadn’t lived in Finch for seven years, Peter’s “unusual” sights might not have struck me as unusual. But the longer he talked, the clearer it became to me that Stoneywell was not an ordinary village.
Finch’s village shop was well stocked by small-town standards, but its gourmet-food department was limited to a few dusty tins of fish paste. Stoneywell’s shop, by contrast, supplied the islanders with basic staples as well as freshly ground coffees, a broad range of cheeses and patés, and an interesting selection of foreign and domestic wines. Mr. Muggoch, who with his wife ran the small bakery as well as the pub, produced croissants and brioches along with traditional Scottish breads and pastries.
“Finch doesn’t even have a bakery,” I grumbled.
“No, it doesn’t,” said Peter. “Nor does it have a resident doctor with a fully equipped, modern surgery. But Stoneywell does. Dr. Gordon Tighe was born and raised in Stoneywell. He opened his practice here as soon as he’d qualified.”
“The other islands we’ve visited have nothing like Stoneywell’s surgery,” said Cassie. “Dr. Tighe can take care of almost any medical emergency. Only the most desperate cases have to be evacuated to the mainland.”
Peter passed the map to me and picked up a field guide. “Then there’s the school. . . .”
Finch’s two-room village school had been shut down in the 1950s, but according to Peter, Stoneywell’s was still alive and kicking. It had a staff of one full-time teacher, aided, it seemed, by the entire adult population of Erinskil.
“They give talks on sheep rearing, dye making, fishing, baking, brewing, medicine—whatever profession or trade they know best,” Peter informed us. “The children go to a boarding school on the mainland when they’ve finished here, and most of them go on to university. A staggeringly high percentage return to Erinskil after earning their degrees.”
“I don’t blame them for coming back,” I said, shaking my head. “The outside world must seem pretty shabby compared to Erinskil. Is there a church?”
“Church of Scotland,” Peter answered. “There’s nothing remarkable about it, except that the pastor is yet another Erinskil native. Reverend Lachlan Ferguson is Mick Ferguson’s brother.”
“What about law and order?” I asked. “Are there policemen on Erinskil?”