“Not one,” said Peter. “But since there doesn’t seem to be any crime—apart from the rather notable one of drug trafficking—there’s no pressing need for a police force.” He reared back as a flock of birds swung into view around the headland. “Look! Fulmars!”
I raised my binoculars and focused on a fulmar. It was indistinguishable from every other seagull I’d ever seen.
“Last but not least,” Peter continued, as if the passing flock of fulmars hadn’t interrupted his narrative, “we come to Erinskil’s tweed mill. The wool comes from the island’s own sheep. Most of the spinning is done by various islanders in their homes. A few have looms at home, too, but most of the weaving is done on the looms in the mill.”
“I hope you’re not going to disillusion me by saying that the looms are computerized,” I said, lowering the binoculars. “Sir Percy told us that the islanders use traditional tools and techniques to make the tweed.”
“They do,” said Peter. “They use hand looms and natural dyes and spinning wheels, which is why the tweed is so valuable and why it couldn’t possibly support the kinds of lives these people lead.” He raised his hands in a helpless gesture. “I don’t care if they’ve learned how to spin wool into gold, Lori. They’d have to produce miles of the stuff each year to pay for their hobbies and their houses, not to mention the school, the surgery, the windmill farm, and the custom-built shipping containers. It isn’t physically possible to manufacture that much tweed using traditional tools and techniques. We think they’re using the tweed mill to launder the drug money.”
“Don’t you see, Lori?” asked Cassie. “There’s no tourist trade, no fishing fleet, no research center, like our observatory, and the tweed mill can’t produce an adequate amount of tweed—there’s nothing tangible to explain the island’s prosperity. How, then, do the residents supplement their incomes?”
My mind was reeling with the information the two young friends had collected since they’d come to Erinskil. They had, it seemed, subjected the island’s residents to the same intense scrutiny they were accustomed to using on migrating seals. I couldn’t, of course, dispute any of their observations.
The island’s houses were in pristine condition—Sir Percy himself had told me that he hadn’t had to repair so much as a dripping tap since he’d become laird—and the amenities were plentiful. There did seem to be a concerted effort by the islanders to repel rather than attract tourists. Every investment they’d made—in the windmill farm, the reservoir, the shipping containers, the modern surgery—had been made with their own comfort and well-being in mind, not the comfort and well-being of visitors. Why?
Because, according to Peter and Cassie, visitors might turn into unwanted witnesses. Even if they didn’t see mysterious lights on Cieran’s Chapel, they’d see the wines in the shop and the brioches in the bakery. If they were curious and intelligent, they might ask the same questions Peter and Cassie were asking—and draw the same conclusion.
No matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t bring myself to agree with the conclusion. The drug trade was a filthy business. I hated to think that the islanders’ rich, fulfilling lives were financed by filth, so I searched for an alternate explanation.
“Maybe they all inherited money,” I proposed, “and maybe they invested it wisely, as a group. And maybe they don’t want tourists to come to the island because some of the tourists would want to stay. Housing prices would skyrocket, the place would become overcrowded, and their way of life would be ruined.”
Peter stared at me openmouthed for a long moment, then leaned over and flung an arm around me, chuckling. “You see why I love her, Cassie? She refuses to think ill of anyone.”
“He’s lying,” I said darkly, squirming out of Peter’s hold. “I think ill of lots of people. I just don’t believe in conspiracies.They ask too much of human nature. I mean, think about it. Everyone on the island would have to agree to participate in a major criminal activity and then keep mum about it for decades, because none of the stuff you’ve pointed out happened overnight.” I folded my arms and regarded Peter stubbornly. “You know as well as I do, Peter, that no one in Finch can keep a secret for more than ten seconds. I don’t believe the islanders could keep one for ten years or more.”
“All right, Lori,” Peter said, smiling indulgently, “have it your way. The islanders aren’t buying comfort with tainted cash. They’re the innocent beneficiaries of a massive inheritance and wise financial planning.”
Cassie leaned her chin on her hand and sighed. “You make me feel quite jaded, Lori. Since we can’t prove anything one way or the other, I choose to believe your story. It’s much nicer than ours.”
“I’d rather you believe it because of its impeccable logic,” I said, “but I won’t ask for the moon. What do you think, Damian?”